Chapter 30

CHAPTER 30

Everything happens as if she’s in a dream.

And she has dreamed about this, again and again. It proceeds just as she imagined it. The guards come into the arena, making a path for her up to the Palace of Union. They stretch their arms out, directing her forward, then through the doors, up the stairs of the main wing. The inside of the palace unfolds for her. Golden walls, gilded banisters. Whole rooms that are larger than some school buildings, turrets that climb up to the skies. Her shoes come down on the plush carpet. Her blood-matted hair curls around her shoulders. They always let the victors meet the king in their slovenly state immediately after the final match, as if to emphasize the brutality of the games. King Kasa wants to see how his people have bled for him in appreciation for his patronage.

They open the doors to a hall. A long table has been set out: a full banquet with people already milling about in the corners, some seated in their chairs.

Calla doesn’t see August anywhere. She does see Galipei, standing by the corner, eyeing her as she comes in. Her mask remains clasped around her nose and mouth, though the fabric is unsavory now, stained and dirtied. If she removes it, King Kasa might recognize her face, so she does not risk it. She stands in the room and waits.

Waits for the moment the other doors open and King Kasa sweeps in, his crown fixed atop his head.

Calla’s next breath stops in her nose, burning when she refuses to exhale it back out. He looks older than she remembers—sickly, unwell. She cannot believe that one person can represent so much: one man who looks like he could keel over at any moment stands as the source of this kingdom’s suffering.

“This year’s victor,” King Kasa declares, his voice echoing through the banquet hall and sending his other guests into a hush. “I looked at your file just now. Number Fifty-Seven, Chami Xikai. How does it feel to have made it so far?”

Calla needs a moment before she can think up a worthy response. “Like everything I’ve ever desired.”

King Kasa chuckles. He waves at the guards by the wall, and it is Galipei who comes forward, Galipei who is holding a clipboard, handing it to the king.

“Your prize,” King Kasa says. “Once you accept, the banquet may begin. All in celebration of you.”

“Thank you,” Calla says blankly.

King Kasa extends the clipboard. With his other hand, he reaches out to shake. Calla reaches forward to meet his hand, her grip firm and unyielding.

When King Kasa begins to pull away, she does not let go. When he tries again, her free hand reaches across her body and draws her sword from its sheath.

“Uncle,” she says. “You don’t recognize me?”

King Kasa’s eyes widen, but by then she has slashed: one solid arc, a hearty knock of metal meeting bone. His head falls, landing some distance away from his body, then rolling toward the banquet table, sending the elites screaming in absolute terror as they shoot to their feet.

His body slumps down. The neck continues to spurt blood like some decorative scarlet fountain.

Calla knows that she should feel more in this moment. Some sense of victory; everything that she has been working toward for years, fulfilled.

But she only feels empty.

Calla looks up. Galipei is still staring at her with no particular expression on his face, making no move to wipe at the blood splattered down his front. What is there to do now? She can only wait for his move, wait for him to put a stop to the screaming that echoes and echoes through the banquet hall.

“Seize her,” Galipei finally commands to the other guards in the room. There’s not a single note of conviction in the instruction, but the guards don’t particularly care. They are only relieved to have something to do while the banquet hall is in pandemonium, and the guards rush to flock her, to push her arms behind her back.

She doesn’t struggle as they take her away. She turns over her shoulder, watching the puddle of blood spread larger and larger. This is the last outward conquest King Kasa will ever make: the spirit of his life, soaking into the threads of his delicate carpeting.

If Calla had the capacity for it, she might laugh. One swing of her sword. One measly little swing.

She can hardly believe that regicide was the easiest part of all this.

Somewhere in San, there is a disturbance in the hospital morgue.

They put a flatlined patient in here earlier, shoved her with the rest of the dead until the bodies could be processed and incinerated. They thought nothing of it, didn’t assign a nurse to check why the body looked like it was still burning from the inside out, though it had been going through the yaisu sickness for seven years now—shouldn’t it have long finished? What had life support been doing?

With a shudder and a wave of qi, Otta Avia opens her eyes to the world again. All the glass in the morgue shatters; all the nearby bodies implode and splatter blackened guts on the wall. At the very center of the gory scene, Otta bolts upright on her gurney, heaving a desperate breath.

The nurses who run in almost drop into a faint. They look at Otta in shock. They hardly believe it when she opens her mouth to speak.

“The palace,” Otta croaks, trembling in her thin gown. “Take me to the Palace of Earth. Now. ”