she stumbled, only to get knocked aside as another noble shoved past.
Hawk soldiers shouted orders, trying to calm the pandemonium, but even if they could be heard over the cacophony of shouts, cries, and tearing fabric, Fie doubted any Peacock would listen. Hysterical babble burst from the crowd—“The gods are angry!” “Ambra has turned her face—” “—false?”
Khoda had wanted a distraction. She reckoned this would do it … but it never hurt to make sure.
Fie ducked behind a now-cold column that broke the throng like a boulder in a river, trying not to laugh, then swung her phoenix about for one more swoop at the crowd. A fresh tide of screaming nobility fled for the exits as soldiers hustled Tavin and Rhusana off the dais. The monstrous phoenix soared so near to their heads, Rhusana flinched away.
The bird crashed into the wall of glassblack, and with a flash of inspiration, Fie smeared the fire over it like butter on panbread. The great gold disc, the bejeweled rays, they all sagged and wilted, bleeding scorched gemstones. Even the gilded edges of the thrones themselves seemed to dull.
Fie muffled a cold laugh in her sleeve and let the fire go, and darkness swallowed the Hall of the Dawn once again. But not perfect dark this time—a fading glow spread over the chaos, cast from the ruin of molten gold behind the dais.
And through it, Fie saw Hawk guards surrounding Tavin, hurrying him through the tumult of fleeing gentry and toward the nearest door.
She needed to get to Khoda and Jasimir, she needed to go back into hiding, she needed to get out—
Her Sparrow witch-tooth had barely been spent. Tavin’s tooth dug into her palm; his sword hung heavy at her side.
Return it, Lakima’s memory urged.
The embers of fire-song in Fie’s own bones did not argue. All through the dark she heard the shrieks of nobility crashing into one another, not caring who they trampled in their desperation to escape. The finest, stiffest, most high-bred Peacock families in Sabor had turned to little better than beasts trying to claw their way out.
She felt dangerous, she felt raw and undeniable, like vengeance made flesh, like a walking curse. And she was not done with any of them yet.
The Sparrow witch’s Birthright stole Fie from sight once more as she wove through the masses like an asp, her eyes fixed on Tavin’s charred silk crown.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
A SHOW OF STRENGTH
She clung to their trail like an ancient grudge, never too far from reach. Every time Tavin’s guards looked back, their gazes passed right through her as they hustled their makeshift prince down a walkway that hummed under Fie’s soles with the bones of dead gods. They’d chosen to leave through the other half of the Divine Gallery, where Fie had not yet tread.
The eyes of the statues seemed to burn on her, as if the Phoenix gods took issue with her mummery of fire. Fie refused to be sorry.
Tavin’s guards did not slow as they cleared the crowds. If anything, they quickened their pace, striding down the mostly empty lantern-lit colonnades and shoving aside the few servants who didn’t duck off the path in time. As Fie passed one fallen woman, she was tempted to begin snuffing out the lanterns ahead of Tavin’s guard, row by row, just to see them run.
But she’d learned long ago the hard difference between what she wanted and what must be done. If they ran, she would lose them in the dark long before the blade at her side could be returned.
“What do you think—” She heard one Hawk begin.
Another Hawk cut her off. “It was a threat, that’s all we need to know.”
At the rear of the squad, two guards traded looks. One cast an uncertain glance behind them, scouring every shadow for signs of an intruder. Fie knew they’d only find an empty walkway.
She gave in and blew out a lantern—just the one. The guards’ eyes widened. They hesitated a moment, then whipped back around to keep their eyes on Tavin.
The escort wound into the royal gardens, cutting through tunnels cleverly hidden between hedges and behind falls of vines. Fie kept at their heels with an Owl tooth burning in her bones, committing every step, every shadow, every mutter to memory.
Every drop of sweat or oil running down the back of Tavin’s neck.
The farther they went, the further a strange, dreadful feeling welled up in Fie’s bones. It wasn’t a sickness, no, nor a weakness she knew; it