Chapter 11

CHAPTER 11

Yilas Nuwa has been to the Hollow Temple enough times that she can find her way in without trouble. Its entrance is artfully hidden, tucked inside what might have once been a courtyard, enclosed by four buildings pressed edge to edge. Yilas goes into one of the buildings, climbs up to a market level, then walks through another door and down a hidden set of stairs around the back, turning and turning at the stairwell’s landings.

She passes a window on the second floor, where there is no daylight to be seen, despite the morning hour. The temple’s green roof tiles are only illuminated by the few sparse rays that seep in through the trash and miscellaneous buildup collected on the metal grille above. The peak-shaped roofing with its stone edges and circular tiling was designed to keep rain and wind away from the temple walls, but urban conditions in San-Er have recast such desires. It is not rain that the temple has to worry about, but debris: broken photo frames, used shampoo bottles, and spoiled baby diapers that fall from windowsills and come tumbling down fourteen stories of apartments on all four sides. When Yilas hugs her bag to her chest and pokes her head through the window—though it is less a window than a rectangular shape cut into the stairwell’s outward facing wall—she might be convinced that this solid blot of color is not a metallic mesh grille above the temple but only a poorly installed ceiling.

Yilas hurries down the last set of stairs, exits the building, and walks toward the entrance of the Hollow Temple. She tries not to make eye contact with those outside doing breathing exercises. In her periphery, she catches sight of brass knuckles and chains, curved shapes inked on their necks—some in bloodred, some in regular black.

“I’m only dropping something off,” Yilas says to the woman at the door. She doesn’t bother with a greeting. The Crescent Societies would mark unnecessary politeness as a sign of weakness and terrorize her before she can scramble out of here.

The woman waves her onward. Yilas enters the temple, gritting her teeth. Matiyu couldn’t have chosen a nice job in the financial district. He had to go joining the Crescent Societies.

“Hey,” she barks, spotting her little brother at one of the tables. “Here’s your stupid lunch.”

She thumps the bag in front of Matiyu. He looks up with a start, blinking at her with the same pale-green eyes that she has and pushing his thick-rimmed glasses up his flat nose.

“Oh, good, you’re here,” Matiyu says. Without waiting for her response, he grabs her wrist and starts to pull her toward the back of the temple. “I need you to come see this.”

“Your food—”

“It’s okay, no one will take it.” Matiyu tugs on her wrist again, hurrying her along. “Quick, quick, come on.”

“What’s the rush?” Yilas asks, but she quickens her pace anyway. “And since when did you need me for your little scholarly work?”

Yilas was always awful at school. She dropped out early to become a palace attendant, and then she hated attending too, even though Calla was the easiest person in the palace to wait on. After she met Chami, she didn’t care for climbing to high places or achieving grand things. She only wanted to water her plants every day in their apartment above the diner, to live quietly and softly.

Matiyu is not the same. He graduated top of his class last year, on a trajectory toward making something of himself. Then, to their parents’ horror, he took an accounting position for the Crescent Societies instead of a well-to-do bank.

It’s not like I’m actually buying into their religious cult, he had said. But they’re where the fast money is. I’ll work two years underground, then leave and take up something more comfortable.

People call them a cult for a reason, Yilas had leveled. What are you going to do when they start brainwashing you?

But Matiyu had only waved her off, unworried.

They’re coming around to the back of the temple. Matiyu leads them through without a second glance at the people nearby, but Yilas can’t help staring a little. One cluster is off in the corner doing qi exercises in synchrony. Another group prays with their foreheads pressed to the ground. When they straighten up again, there’s a strangeness seeped into their manner.

Yilas turns away, holding in a grimace. Magic , some call it. If that were the case, then jumping would be magic too. But jumping comes from qi, and the gods forged their qi. Everything about San-Er is merely the work of its gods—the true gods in the ether and the false gods ruling from the palace.

“I’ve been trying to organize the stock numbers coming in,” Matiyu explains, opening the door into a storage room. He blows at the thin layer of dust on the boxes stacked near the door, then removes one of them for access to the light switch. The thin bulb doesn’t do much for illumination. Yilas struggles to see what her brother is rummaging for when he pulls out a drawer of a filing cabinet and retrieves a thick stack of folders. “But some of these receipts don’t look right.”

“How am I supposed to help?” Yilas takes the folder offered to her. When she opens it, the papers look to be written logs—an export of heroin here, an import of opium there, some random sales of ephedra from smaller shops instead of the larger underground factories.

“Tell me if anything looks strange to you,” Matiyu says. “Run through the incoming numbers, then see what our outgoing prices are… it doesn’t fit, does it? I can’t see—”

The door slams open.

“Why is she in here?” Before Yilas can react, someone has hauled her out by the arm, their grip like iron. She barely has time to look up and see who is dragging her away—by the time she has glimpsed the crescent moon at their neck, she’s already been pushed through the temple’s doors, Matiyu’s footsteps plodding after them.

“Wait, wait, wait, that’s my sister—”

Yilas stumbles off the steps of the temple, finally getting a proper look at the Crescent Society member who had pushed her out. They’re old and wrinkled, exuding seniority.

“Crescent Society business stays within the Crescent Societies.”

Then the temple doors slam, and Yilas is left blinking.

“Well,” she says to no one, “at least it wasn’t a knife in the gut.”

Blood is hard to wipe off once it dries, which Anton knows because he’s only getting flakes from his neck despite his vigorous rubbing. He thought maybe mixing new blood with the dried blood would help it all come off at once, but alas. It only becomes a smear of red.

Anton gives up. As he walks, he wipes one of his blades clean on his shirt, deciding that he’s already a bloodied mess anyway, so what’s a few extra stains? He glances over his shoulder at the alley corner, waiting a beat before wiping his second blade. He left a dead body behind on the third floor of a building in the financial district, and although he checked for a pulse and even waved up at the surveillance cameras to make sure they knew the fight had finished, there’s a part of him convinced he’s still being tailed by an opponent. He cannot let his guard down—not now, not ever.

They’re a week into the games. The kills slowed tremendously after the first battle, and they’ll only occur further apart the longer the games proceed when there are fewer and fewer players. They crossed the halfway mark for eliminations after the first day of the pings, but they have not moved past ten more deaths since then.

With a grimace, Anton slides his blades back into his sleeve. The whisper of metal echoes in the alley. Then: the ghost of a footstep, from the other end. Before he can be sighted, Anton ducks behind a stack of woven baskets. His breath remains shallow from the last fight. If someone really has been tailing him…

“You can come out, Makusa. I know you’re here.”

The voice is familiar. Anton pokes his head out from the baskets just enough to see Princess Calla Tuoleimi stride into the alley, holding some sort of device in her hands. She looks up, then at the device again, squinting and pivoting around. Typical. August probably gave it to her to track fellow contestants.

Anton stands up. “That doesn’t seem to be working very well, does it?”

With dizzying speed, Calla kicks a pebble, launching it in Anton’s direction. He barely darts out of the way before the rock strikes the wall, leaving a visible white dent.

“Oops,” the princess says, and she doesn’t sound the slightest bit apologetic. “You scared me.”

“I don’t think you’ve ever been scared in your life,” Anton mutters. He rubs his jaw out of phantom pain; that strike could have done some damage if he hadn’t moved in time. “I urge you to be careful—the face is pretty, but it is borrowed.”

Calla puts the device away. She keeps her hands in the pockets of her long coat. “Like I said, you startled me. Sneak up on me in a new face and it’s only fair my sword flies at your neck next time.”

Sneak up on her? She’s the one who snuck up on him .

“Convenient excuse to slaughter an ally,” he says.

Calla steps forward and starts to circle him. Though she makes the action appear casual, the hairs at the back of Anton’s neck are standing straight up under her scrutiny.

“When did we become allies?”

“Was it not agreed?”

She is silent, continuing to appraise him like he’s an object of curiosity at the market.

“Why are you here otherwise?” he asks.

“Why are you here?”

“I’m playing the games.”

“As am I.”

Anton grasps for another retort, but finds none. They’re talking in circles while she walks, and he is willing to bet that Calla Tuoleimi could keep going until she’s eaten him whole. He switches tactics.

“What will it take to be careful with my life?” Anton eyes her pocketed hands. Who knows what other weapons she keeps hidden in her clothes. “Shall we come up with a code word? Something only I know to say to identify myself?”

Calla stops in front of him. When she lifts her brow, her yellow eyes are so bright that he can hardly believe he did not recognize her instantly on first contact.

“That’s unnecessary, given—”

“ What fine daylight we have today ,” he interrupts, inspiration striking. “That’s what I’ll say.”

“We never have fine daylight.” Calla looks up briefly, her bangs sliding away from her face. “San is a city of darkness.”

Anton winks. “Exactly. No one can say it accidentally.”

Calla sighs, though she hardly has time to shoot him down before both their wristbands are trembling. She doesn’t look bothered, pressing the buttons at the top. Anton, on the other hand, blinks in confusion.

“I just came from a ping. It’s too soon.”

“It’s mine,” Calla says. “I haven’t had one all day. You’ve only been triggered by proximity.”

Anton slides his knives back out. He should have caught his breath by now, but his throat still feels tight. Calla glances at him, smiling with menace when their eyes meet, and his throat closes up even more.

“So,” he says. “Are we allies, then?”

“I suppose we are.” Calla pulls her wristband up as she starts to walk, tilting her head for the text sliding across the screen. Anton doesn’t bother glancing at his wristband at all. If someone is heading toward Calla, then they are heading toward him too.

“Watch the puddle, Fifty-Seven.”

Calla glances back. She skirts the puddle, an ear tipped to the city as she listens. They walk past a pharmacy, where two elderly men sit in the corner playing cards. “Must you call me something as crude as my number?”

“My apologies. Would you prefer Calla? Or perhaps Her Highness, Princess Calla?”

“I,” Calla says sweetly, “am going to kill you.”

“I was expecting it eventually, but not this soon— to your left! ”

Calla reacts immediately, hearing the change in Anton’s tone as if a switch was flipped. She ducks without looking, narrowly avoiding the arc of a heavy pole-like weapon, which strikes the side of the pharmacy entrance instead.

The player lunges out from the pharmacy, rearing the pole back for another swing. His motions are heavy, powerful. His path through the shop is marked with a trail of fallen bags he’s collided with, the back door he surged through still swinging from the vigor of his entrance.

While the pole swings in Anton’s direction, Calla twists up and kicks the player in the back, sending him off-balance before the pole can land and crush Anton like a paper doll. One end of his weapon drops onto the alley ground with a clangorous thud . Taking the opening, Anton lunges forward, slashing the player’s legs and rolling out of the way just as fast. San-Er is too narrow for fights. It is not fit for puzzling, nor for careful navigation and calculated strikes. It is speed and strength in a quick grapple, and when it comes down to it, two people working in close tandem will always overpower one opponent.

Calla shoves her sword through the player’s stomach. He freezes, losing grip on the pole entirely while he attempts to claw the blade out of him. If only he would glance inside the pharmacy again, he might be able to jump. He might see the two elderly bodies, ready for the taking. Instead, he panics, tries to move away, and Anton has already taken advantage of the pause to reach over and slash the player’s throat.

Anton feels the hot gush of blood on his hand. Feels it creep into every line of his palm, coat his skin as another stain impossible to clean off. He has ended so many lives, put on and washed off layer after layer of red. But these are not his hands, and this is not his body. Maybe there is no need to stop until he is reunited with his birth body, and only then will he start to count the infractions.

The player falls. By the time he hits the ground, he is already taking on the appearance of rot. Anton breathes a long exhale, the alley now quiet. It was a quick battle. He watches Calla shake her sword, getting most of the blood off before leaning down to tap the player’s wristband screen.

“This was Thirteen,” she reports. She wipes her chin as she straightens up again, cleaning the red smeared there. When she sheathes her sword, she looks away too fast for Anton to determine whether he was imagining her odd expression.

“Who are they going to log for this hit?” he asks curiously. “You or me?”

“Probably you,” Calla answers, striding away. “I have too many already.”

Anton hurries after her. “Show-off.”

San-Er is already inventing narratives. The reels play them on repeat: blurry footage of Anton and Calla outside that tiny pharmacy, fighting together like such a well-oiled machine that even August can’t believe they didn’t know each other prior to the games.

He picks up a teacup, his grip tightening. Any other person might have thrown it against the wall. He almost wants to. But he keeps his composure, taking a sip and setting down the teacup afterward, lest the porcelain shatter in his fingers and bring Galipei inside to investigate.

The television screen fuzzes and glitches, the citywide signal hitting trouble. When the large screen in August’s bedroom clears again, the newscaster is relaying the crowd-favorite theory on players Eighty-Six and Fifty-Seven. Through the afternoon and into the evening, they have run down the list of every possibility—from long-lost relatives to foreign agents—but the narrative that has caught the most interest is that of lovers, each of whom registered for the games because of depleting funds, not knowing the other had done the same.

August drops into a satin-lined chair. He props his arm on his knee, then lolls his head onto his fist, thinking. San-Er’s viewers are fascinated by the idea of an alliance, wildly entertained over how it might take shape. And first and foremost, that is what the games are. Entertainment. A distraction. Players in the past have never teamed up before, at least not long-term. Anton and Calla are delivering for the masses better than King Kasa ever could.

The reels give Calla ample screen time now that everyone has noticed her lack of jumping too. Enough time has passed since the Daqun for every other player to switch bodies, but Calla’s remains the same. Though her face is always covered by a breathing mask, the newscasters are quick to recognize that same long curtain of hair and red leather coat billowing with her movements. They suspect that she doesn’t have the jumping gene, which is a fair assumption when rarely anyone risks the games without that fail-safe. Calla likely didn’t intend this as a part of her strategy, but the assumption will work in her favor. When King Kasa looks upon the scoreboard and sees that it is headed by someone who can’t jump, he’ll chuckle to himself about this soon-to-be victor with weak qi, unthreatened by the thought of letting them into the guarded palace.

If there is justice in their world, then that unmerited confidence is exactly what will bring him to his death. And if justice does not come, then August himself will hunt it down.

In a smooth motion, August stands and strides toward his door.

“Where are you going?” Galipei asks, looking up from his seat when August enters the anteroom. He puts his book down.

August waits a beat. His hand hovers over the gilded knob. Though he turns over his shoulder, he does not entirely meet his bodyguard’s eyes.

“Otta needs to die.”

A beat of silence. Galipei blinks once. He is well trained enough not to let a reaction enter his expression.

“She won’t wake up,” Galipei replies. “Is that not enough?”

“It’s not certain. We cannot take that chance.”

The palace seems to quiver under his tread. Every floor and wing, every corridor and lavishly bright room. They perk ears to the conversation, rising to attention. The walls remember the boy who would become their crown prince, who punched a fist into them seven years ago. The heavy, golden-threaded curtains, though they do not shimmer as brightly as they did back then, prickle at the memory of being thrown by Otta Avia, her voice tearing through August’s private wing, echoing and echoing, “I’ll tell! I’ll tell! I swear I will!”

“What do you want, Otta?” August had spat. He lunged forward, but Otta shrank farther behind the curtains, as if they would shield her from him. She was only feigning helplessness. Had he gotten closer, she would have drawn her claws.

“Look at you, pretending to be good,” Otta sneered in return. “You’re worse for San than Kasa ever could be. You’ll put us in cages and call us your loyal subjects.”

“People already live in cages. You have been brainwashed so thoroughly by the council—”

August made a grab, but Otta simply slipped out of range and strode away, throwing her chin high. In her hands: the smallest slip of paper. The only evidence she needed to prove that, for Leida and August, running from the twin cities was not a matter of safety, but a plan to find a forgotten palace out at the edges of Talin. A plan to mobilize and wage war on San-Er. If they could recruit Anton, who was San-Er’s best jumper, they would be unstoppable.

Then Otta threatened to tell Kasa before the roots were secure. Then Anton walked away too. Without him, August and Leida were thrown all the way back to the planning stage. Mobilizing war wasn’t realistic anymore. They needed to be smarter to get what they wanted.

“August,” Galipei prompts.

August steels himself to deliver his next words. “You weren’t assigned to me until after Otta was gone, so I don’t expect you to understand. Kill her.”

Galipei is the only one in the palace that knows of August’s treasonous plans to depose King Kasa, about the regicide that has been put in motion. There is no one whom August trusts more than Galipei, but sometimes he wishes Galipei weren’t so smart, that he wouldn’t fight so hard to know everything , because the mere act of knowing drags him down to the dirtiest corners of palace grappling. August is closer than ever to achieving his plans. He must eliminate any threat, and if there is the infinitesimal chance that Otta wakes…

August opens the door. Galipei, however, isn’t finished with the conversation and clearly isn’t deterred by the threat of someone overhearing.

“I’m your bodyguard, August,” he says, “not your servant.”

In the hallway, a maid glances over, right in the middle of making a food delivery. She’s so taken aback by August’s sudden appearance that the tray in her hand teeters to the side.

“Your Highness,” she greets, scrambling to right the plates atop the tray before they tip off. “I didn’t mean to disturb you—”

August opens his eyes, agilely balancing the tray in his hand, losing only a crumb that falls into the carpet. He bends to pick it up, small fingers closing around a thread, and two paces away, Galipei hurries to catch August’s body before he falls, his teeth gritted when he loops his arms around his prince’s middle.

Galipei glances over and waits. Under the bright lights, his silver eyes look almost molten, seeking… well, August doesn’t really know.

“Please,” August says simply. His voice sounds different, but that tone—that level tone without a hint of doubt—is always the same.

Those eyes turn dull. Molten silver to plain flatware.

“As you wish, Your Highness.”

Something has shifted between them. A hairline fracture, settling upon their fitted pieces. But August sets the tray down and walks off anyway, intent on finding out exactly how long these games must last, how long until San-Er—until Talin—is his.