heavy dread settle in her stomach. Beyond those stairs was the answer to the question she had been asking herself since that day in Kyrov. Beyond those stairs was the answer she was simultaneously awaiting and dreading.
Was May alive?
Her hands darted to her chest in an instinctive sign of prayer. She had been so certain, back in the Temple of Deities, that she would be able to save May herself. Yet now she would give anything to have the Deities answer her prayers.
“Ana.” Ramson had paused on the steps. For a moment, he looked as though he was struggling to find words. And then he said, “We’re late.”
They were, and May could be down there. She had to be.
Ana drew a deep breath and squared her shoulders. She gave a curt nod and followed Ramson down the steps, into the darkness.
The descent seemed to last an eternity. Torches blazed from sconces in the walls, and the stairway was silent but for the swish of Ana’s skirts and the clack of Ramson’s boots.
Gradually, she began to hear a faint sound: At first, it was no louder than a buzz, yet it grew in volume until it became a rhythmic, pulsing beat.
The spiraling stairs gave way to a long, dark corridor that stretched before them, where the steady pounding noise emanated like a living thing. Ramson’s dark mask glittered in the torchlight. Clad in his black peacoat and hidden behind his jeweled mask, he looked like a phantasmal creature of the night.
Ana found his eyes—sharp and intelligent. Their gazes locked, a ghost of a smile flitted across his face, and he gave an almost imperceptible nod. After you.
Ana lifted her chin. After me.
The corridor turned and opened up. Beyond an arched stone doorway was a vast auditorium with a sprawling stage, lit by flickering torches. Four tall stone pillars punctured each corner of the stage, with faux-marble renditions of the Deities atop each one. Higher up, empty balcony seats encircled the auditorium.
A strange feeling—of cold, of hollowness—wrapped around her like a nearly imperceptible cloak. For some reason, this place brought back memories of darkness, of helplessness.
The drums continued to pound from somewhere behind the stage. People milled about, torchlight lancing off the precious stones on their masks. Their expensive furs rustled as they clinked glasses of wine, the gold jewelry on their arms flashing as they tipped drinks back in laughter.
“What does this show entail?” Ana whispered to Ramson as they squeezed past a tiger-masked couple. The stage, she saw as they drew closer, was built of blue-veined marble, its edges gilded. The pillars were festooned with expensive silks and silver ribbons, the sapphire curtains made of rich, heavy velvet. The stage itself seemed to have a strange, almost surreal quality to it—something Ana couldn’t quite put her finger on, no matter how hard she looked at it.
“They make Affinites perform using their abilities,” Ramson replied, gently cleaving apart two drunk noblewomen. His hand slipped back, locking around hers, and she nearly jumped. Her heart skittered in an unfamiliar beat. “The nobles pay for good entertainment. And it’s a cover. Some never know about the contract dealings in the back.”
Ana shuddered. “The Affinites, don’t they ever try to run? Even the weakest could put up a good fight against a non-Affinite.”
Ramson tilted his head and pointed, drawing her attention to the viewing alcoves several levels up. “In a few minutes, a marksman is going to appear in every single one of those. They have Deys’voshk-tinged arrows, and they shoot to kill.” He nodded at the stage. “Look closely there.”
Ana squinted and suddenly realized what had made the stage seem so strange. Behind the four pillars, walls of blackstone-infused glass almost as high as the viewing alcoves encircled the entire stage, leaving an area in the front center for a host.
Blackstone. The cold, the feeling of emptiness she’d felt as she’d stepped into this room made more sense now. The same she’d felt each time Sadov took her to that room in the dungeons.
Ramson’s tone was grim when he said, “If any Affinite tries anything, they’ll be shot before they can even crack the glass.”
The design was cruel but efficient; no Affinity could reach past the blackstone-infused glass, which meant the Affinites were limited to the resources they were given for their performances. No wonder none of them had tried to escape.
Ana remembered pushing against the Salskoff dungeons’ blackstone doors, reaching out with her Affinity and only sensing cold black nothingness. When her