gesture to comfort me—but something about her tug feels like a threat, a reminder to me that she is now more powerful than I am. She gets up and walks out of the room.
“Tell me what?” Enzo asks quietly.
He looks so natural, as if he had never died at all. Perhaps the ominous things we overheard from Gemma about the dangers of bringing him back were unfounded. His energy is darker, true, a strange and tumultuous mix, but there is life under his brown skin, a glow to the bright slashes of scarlet in his eyes.
“Teren stabbed you at the arena,” I say. “When you dueled with him.”
Enzo waits patiently for me to continue.
I take a deep breath, knowing what to tell him next. “There is an Elite who has the ability to bring us back from the dead. To pull us straight from the Underworld. That Elite is the Queen of Beldain.”
The scarlet lines in his eyes glow brighter. He hesitates, then says, “You are telling me that I died. And that I was revived by an Elite.”
Here is the moment I’ve been dreading. I made a promise to myself that if Enzo came back from the Underworld, I would have to set things right between us. And to do that, I must tell him the truth. I lower my gaze. “Yes,” I reply. Then, in the silence, I add, “It is my fault that you died.”
Suddenly, the weight of the air in the room feels unbearable. Enzo frowns at me. “No, it’s not,” he replies.
I shake my head and reach out to brush his hand. “It is,” I say, more firmly this time. The confession pours out of me. “In the chaos of that final battle, I mistook you for Teren. I had disguised you as him and I couldn’t tell the difference. I lashed out at you with my powers, and I brought you to your knees, thinking you were him.” My voice turns soft, meek. “I am the reason Teren was able to deliver a killing blow, Enzo. It is my fault.”
Telling the story makes me revisit it, and revisiting it stirs my energy enough that I start to unconsciously paint the arena around us—the blood under our feet, the image of Teren standing over Enzo, his sword dripping scarlet.
Enzo straightens. He leans forward. I forget to catch my breath as he touches my hand, returning my gesture. I search his eyes for anger and betrayal, but instead find only sadness. “I remember,” he finally says. “But our powers are dangerous, as is what we do.” He gives me a grave look, one I know well. The same look that cuts through every shield I can put up, that weakens me at the knees. Immediately I am reminded of our old training sessions together, when he surrounded me with walls of fire and then stood over me as I cried. Broken so easily, he’d said. That was the push I’d needed to keep going. “Do not blame yourself.”
The complete lack of doubt in his voice makes my heart beat faster. Before I can respond, he looks around the room and settles on the door. “Where are the others?”
This is the second piece of what I must tell him—the harder piece. The one that cannot be all truth. If I tell him what I did to Raffaele at the arena, if I reveal to Enzo that I had twisted an illusion of pain around Raffaele that left him unconscious on the ground, I will never be forgiven. He’ll never understand that. So instead, I tell him this. “The Daggers aren’t here. It is only me, my sister, and several Elites you may have heard of.”
Enzo narrows his eyes. For the first time, he looks wary. “Why are the Daggers not here? Where am I?”
“Everyone thought you were dead,” I say softly. This, at least, is the truth. “The entire country mourned you, while the Inquisition rounded up all malfettos and began a massive hunt for the Daggers.” I pause again. “Raffaele and the Daggers blamed me for your death. They cast me out,” I say. The memory of my last real conversation with Raffaele haunts me. “Raffaele thinks I helped Teren and the Inquisitors, and that I betrayed the Daggers.”
“And did you?” Enzo’s voice is quiet, the calm before a predator’s strike. His trust in Raffaele runs so deep that he knows there must be a good reason why Raffaele cast me out. I think of the