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And then he scoops me up, one arm beneath my knees and the other under my shoulders. I fight him. I shout at him over the screaming. But he’s unmovable. When he finally lowers me to the ground and lets his shadows recede, we are no longer in the Founders Hall but in an abandoned hallway. The screams of the feast echo behind us.

I glance between Lonan and the Hall, where Prince Galvin is attacking students, and then I rush toward the screams.

“Oh, no you don’t,” Lonan says as he grabs me around the waist.

“Let me go, you overgrown tree,” I fume as I struggle against his hold.

There’s an irrational part of me that believes I can beat Lonan in a contest of strength if I’m just angry enough. But he proves me wrong as he wrenches me back and slams me against the wall. I try to knock the handle of my scythe against his skull but he whips it out of my hand using a disarming technique every first-year learns in dueling.

I go for his face with my other hand, thinking I can use my long nails to cause enough damage that he’ll let me go. But he grabs my wrist, quick as an adder. He drops my scythe, held in his other hand, and grabs my other wrist. In less than a blink, he has both of my hands pinned above my head, and he uses his hips to slam me firmly against the wall.

“Cursed Saints, Fontaine, stop fighting for one damned moment.”

Using the only weapon I have left, I bite the tip of his nose.

He yelps, and then his shadows return.

They fall on me like a thick fog, holding me still, curling around me like cool serpents. I have no defense against this—my Dark isn’t so quickly drawn, and my scythe, my Light, isn’t enough. Lonan is a creature of the Dark, its native son. And I’m defenseless.

This is the truth about him that I prefer not to face. I would be a hypocrite for hating him, given what I am. In a way, we are the same—both a vile union of Dark and Light. But I hate the Dark, the magic that took my father’s life in the war. I use it like I’m handling gunpowder, cautiously and reservedly and almost entirely against my will. It’s only my trust in my godfather that forces me to use it. But Lonan revels in it. He bathes in it. There’s no wrestle in him, no moral qualms.

We’re fighting Imaelhain, the Dark Kingdom. But here is Lonan, like an invasive weed planted in our garden of Light, an enemy in our ranks. And I think I’m the only one who sees it.

I’ve tried to warn my godfather about this, the way Lonan’s eyes gleam when he wields his shadows, the way he completely gives himself over to his raw emotions. Out of control. Unrestrained. Ruthless. Van Asten always dismisses me. He says he’s trained Lonan well, that he has control over him. When I look into Lonan’s eyes now, the way they bleed hunger, I know my godfather is wrong.

“I’m trying to help you, Vesper,” he says quietly.

I glare at him and spit. It turns out shadows do not block bodily fluids, and my saliva lands on the hollow at the base of his throat.

I expect him to rage back at me, but instead he sighs. “Listen, Fontaine. Adrenaline is coursing through your body. You’re fighting because you’re frightened, and I need you to take a breath and calm down. I’m not your enemy.”

“Everyone else is in that room. Hugo, Poppy—”

“I know. I need you to listen closely. What is about to happen, what is happening, is something you’re not prepared for. Not tonight. I need to help, and I need to stop my brother. Every moment spent here is lives lost, so listen quickly and closely. I’m going to take you somewhere safe, and I need you to not argue with me about it.”

Oh, fat chance.

“I’m going to release you. I beg you, just once, listen to me.”

Slowly, his shadows recede. He lowers his sword. And I stomp on his foot.

He gasps and curses. “Damn it, Fontaine.”

In the moment he steps away from me, I sprint down the hall—not away from the screams emanating from the Founders Hall, but toward them. I cannot get the sight of Galvin and that girl out of my mind—the blood and horror of it. And Poppy, Hugo . . . Saints, even Orla and Ollinde . . . They’re all in there with him.

I’m yanked backward by a hand around my forearm. Lonan’s face looms over mine, his eyes furious. “We do not have time for this,” he seethes.

“Exactly!” I bark.

Saints, there are kids in there—students as young as twelve. And though there are faculty and other meigas just as trained in the Light as Lonan or I am, there are only two people in this school who can match Dark with Dark.

“I am going to help. You are going to stay out of the way.”

“What? No—”I struggle against his hold, but his grip is impossible to break.

“Are you going to come quietly?”

I stare at him indignantly.