But the laughter is spreading. Someone in the crowd of townspeople begins to chuckle, then another person. Snickers turn to guffaws, until half a dozen people are clutching their sides. It fills the square with an eerie cacophony as people stare at their neighbors, watching them apparently going mad.
Then, suddenly, everything is silent. The people are still laughing, but they’ve been muted. In fact, there’s no sound at all, not even the rustle of bodies brushing against each other in the crowd. It’s as if we’ve been covered by a huge bubble of silence.
When I look up at Sophos, I sense the fizz of powerful magic rolling off him. He’s doing this. He’s an aesteri like Hyllus.
“Those who disrespect the Temple defile the gods.” Sophos’s voice echoes across the soundless square. He doesn’t seem angry like Nunias, only utterly convinced of his authority. To me, that’s more terrifying.
“We are gathered here under the glory of Ethira to purge your village of blasphemy,” Sophos continues. “Today will be a blessed one, for it is the day you will be cleansed of evil.”
He’s right. Because Damia’s sensic magic has done just what we intended—created a distraction to allow the fae to get into position without the cleavers or clerics noticing. Today is indeed the day we will cleanse Otscold of evil—and we’re going to cut it down from behind.
Before Sophos can say another word, the fae leap up from behind the platform, each one immediately running a cleaver through with their blade. Seven bodies slump to the ground, and Sophos blinks in confusion. His bubble of silence evaporates, and the square immediately fills with screams as villagers begin to scatter. The remaining eleven cleavers spin around, leaping down from the platform to attack the fae, and my time has come.
I sprint through the crowd toward the prisoners.
They’re frantically eyeing Sophos and Nunias, wondering if they can make a run for it in the chaos, but Sophos is shouting to them—I suspect it’s orders not to move. Something explodes behind the platform, and there are more screams. Steam billows across the square in thick clouds.
As I run through the mist, I see something that makes my heart soar. Not all the villagers are runningawayfrom the square. Some have started clambering up the platform. I recognize Una’s curly hair and the back of Kit and Hale’s heads.
But Sophos is using his sound power to slow them down. Kit and his parents clutch their ears and jerk with pain. Meanwhile, Malick Rennet has reached his twins on the platform and is frantically cutting through their bindings with a kitchen knife.
“Purge them, before they get away!” I’m close enough to hear Sophos barking at Nunias now. The cleric draws his sword and, in a horrible echo of my fever dream, starts to execute the prisoners.
He starts with Freya.
She doesn’t get two steps before his sword connects with her neck. A raw scream of anguish rips from my throat as her body hits the ground. I can’t look at the spot where she lies, keeping my eyes averted from the tangle of pale limbs and the pool of blood.
I can hear the other fae fighting, cutting down the cleavers, but they’re too far away to save my friends. The noise around me shifts to a dull buzz. I watch in horror as Nunias lifts his sword again, aiming for the next prisoner, but the Rennet twins get to him first. Now free of their bindings, they combine their geostri magic, thick vines erupting over the platform and tangling around Nunias’s legs.
I’m two feet away now—then one—and then I throw myself toward Tira, my hood falling back from my face as I climb up onto the platform.
“Ana,” she gasps, and I waste no time slicing my knife through her dimane bindings.
“I had to come back for you,” I say. She doesn’t answer, her eyes going wide as she stares at something behind me. A moment later, Tira throws me to the platform floor. I look up and see Nunias swinging his blade where my head was a second ago. Scraps of vine still wrap around his feet, but the twins and their father are nowhere to be seen.
Remembering my combat lessons, I kick out at Nunias, hard. It’s enough to push him off balance. He steps back to catch himself, sword still swinging, and only now sees my face. His eyes widen.
“You,” he says.
The platform behind him explodes.
Tira’s geostri magic flies past me as she pulverizes the wood, forcing splinters the size of my arm into Nunias’ back. He gargles, blood sputtering from his mouth, and stumbles again. When he falls this time, he doesn’t get back up. Tira jerks her hand, and a jagged plank tilts upward, impaling him through the stomach.
“Tira!” Kit and his parents shout from the ground. I look down to see them reaching up to her, no longer clutching their heads in pain.
Where is Sophos?
I spin around, seeing him standing over the dead bodies of two more of the prisoners. He looks focused as he wipes the handle of his sword on one of their shirts, removing some blood spatter. I’m the only thing standing in between him and the Holms family, and any moment now, he’s going to turn his attention to us.
“Run,” I tell Tira, pushing her toward the edge of the platform and her family. This is what I came here to do—to protect her. But I’m too late. Sophos’s bright eyes take in Nunias’s corpse, then they land on Tira and me, the only two people left standing on the platform. He lifts his hand.
A shriek fills my head, piercing my eardrums and sending me to my knees.
I think I must be screaming in agony, but I can’t hear anything above the sound lancing my ears. I press my hands tight against my head, but the noise feels like it’s vibrating through my bones to the point where I can barely think, let alone concentrate enough to summon my magic. Instead, I desperately look around, searching for help.
My eyes fall on Leon. Dead cleavers litter the ground in front of him, and his gaze is locked on me, but he’s separated from me by the fight still raging between the fae and Temple soldiers. I can see him mouthing my name, but the sight is quickly blurred by the tears of pain springing to my eyes. I sense Sophos moving toward me, and I pull my gaze away, looking back to the bearer.
I want to face my death head-on.
