stands selling caramel-spiced popcorn and hot butterscotch rum.
It was warm enough that he no longer shivered with each step, but a jitteriness ruled his movements as he craned his neck over the heads surrounding him.
You’ll know where to find me.
“Oy, judge. You lost?”
Daron turned. Aaros, leaning against the tent nearest to him, waggling his brows. “Or are you looking for somebody?”
“Liar.” He inspected his cuffed sleeve. “Kallia told me you’d be snooping around.”
That flicked at Daron’s temper. “Hold on, she invited me.”
“You won’t find her around here.”
“Then where?”
“Just watch.” The assistant supplied a sage smile, and waited a beat longer before abruptly knocking over the torch between the two tents beside them.
The crowd screamed and edged back as the fire met the fabric, consuming the tent from top to bottom. The flames reached the next tent, spreading until one by one, all of them were burning.
Daron cursed and moved to pull Aaros back, but the assistant stopped him with a calm hand. The air around them rapidly filled with smoke so thick, Daron could hardly see. Shrieks pierced the air—but no more than a blink later, the smoke cleared.
Silvery mist snaked around their ankles in a cold, frosty kiss. It rose around the burning tents before vanishing like a curtain drawn, nothing scorched or smoking.
In the tents’ places stood burnished, dark purple platforms, bearing each member of the Conquering Circus.
Drums started a wild beat at their appearance, and the streetwide panic from earlier dissolved into wondrous applause. Surprised laughter burst from the spectators, staring up in breathless amazement as the Conquering Circus held court from their stages. Girls in sleek, gold leotards posed in impossible angles, seamlessly stretching from one position to the next. One striking woman in nothing but a short-sleeved, high-waisted outfit stood proudly, flaunting glimmering tattoos that moved across her body at the snap of her fingers. Another juggled knives high in the air, letting them fall in a perfect ring around her. Others swam, trapped in wide, clear tanks. They wore gem-bright dresses that billowed and swayed against the water. The audience gasped, in fear of them drowning, but the ladies reassured them with the graceful waves they delivered behind the glass.
He held his breath alongside everyone packed in the street, witnessing each Conqueror perform a taste of their talents from where they stood, capturing everyone easily.
“If you think this is amazing.” Aaros laughed, nudging him by the elbow.
At the sudden burst of awe, Daron turned to the center platform, where a brush of magenta fire in the shape of a rose plumed overhead. Drawing closer to the stage, he caught sight of long, ruby hair—Canary, he remembered—in a leathery ringmaster’s getup wielding a lit torch like a baton. And beside her, a familiar cascade of dark hair.
Kallia.
She wore an outfit similar to her audition getup. Only this time, the glittery dress was sleek and black, jewels embedded along the bodice like the dark heart of a spider’s web. Her scarlet lips parted in a hoot as Canary poised the torch before her, blowing out another fierce wave of fire. The audience edged back with delighted gasps and claps, transfixed as Kallia reached out to still the fire. With a snap, the fire turned stormy gray. As she curled her fingers, its shape rounded into a cloud, raining sparks over eager hands reaching to touch.
From there, she transformed the fire into an endless reel of marvels: a green bottle of champagne popping open, a dark purple horse galloping into the distance, a grand golden chandelier dangling with fiery jewels. Onlookers began shouting requests—a deck of cards, a top hat, a water fountain—and she took on each challenge. Effortlessly.
“You’ve got a little bit of drool over there, judge.”
“Shut up.” He shoved Aaros in the shoulder, slowly clapping after Kallia’s last trick. She bowed before giving the floor over entirely to Canary, who bent her head under the wave of applause.
“Welcome, conquests, to the real show you’ve all been waiting for!” she shouted over the lively beat of the drums. “However, before we allow you entry into our menagerie of madness, we have one rule: respect the Conquerors, and we’ll all have ourselves a good time.” Her warm grin turned sharp as a nail. “However, if you touch, grab, hurt, offend, or commit any other despicable act against us or another unwilling person while in our domain, then you deserve every awful misfortune that awaits you. One such misfortune, for