Present Day.

Althea perched on the edge of her seat, overlooking the fighting ring. Her hands were clenched tightly in her lap as she watched the dreadful scene unfold.

Nathaniel was in the arena below, so exhausted that he was struggling to keep upright. His shade twitched around him, moving in hard, sudden movements. Across from them stood a line of heavily armed soldiers.

Another soldier stepped up, raised his rifle, and looked up at the president for the go-ahead. Althea's father was seated a few spots to her left, accompanied by his usual entourage. Their curl of conversations and titters of laughter as her brother suffered below made Althea grit her jaw until it ached.

The president gave a quick flick of his finger, and the soldier fired.

Nathaniel jerked up an arm just in time—and the bullet veered slightly off course. It struck the wall behind him, adding to the mosaic of puncture marks.

Hours ago, Nathaniel had pushed the bullets to the far edge. But now he was drained, and the bullets were getting dangerously close.

Althea watched, holding her breath, as her brother collapsed to one knee, the latest exertion having taken his last reserves...and all the while, their father sat, ordering the assault to continue with a casual flick of the wrist, like he was choosing an outfit for the day instead of deciding his son's fate.

The president chuckled. "The mages are finally coming out of the woodwork. First, a mage in Noxborough, and now a shade sighting in Carnivale. Believe me, they're rallying the troops now that they know we have a shade of our own.

"It's a waiting game...when the mages finally show themselves, we'll stamp them all out, once and for all." The president leaned back in his seat, pleased as punch.

Althea wanted to reach over, grab his shoulders, and shake him. Didn't he feel anything for Nathaniel?

Another soldier stepped into the ring, reluctance written all over his body. He brought up his rifle with trembling hands and looked to the president.

Althea knew two things for certain: Nathaniel wouldn't have the energy to push away the next bullet, and if their roles were reversed, Nathaniel would speak up for her.

Before their father could raise his hand to signal the soldier, she stood, snapping her boots to attention. The sound echoed around the arena, seeming to silence everything else in the room. The president turned to look at her, and it took all her willpower not to back down.

"Sir," she forced herself to say. "This can't continue. Nathaniel can't even stand."

"Mmm," the president began, his voice maddeningly at ease. "Do you know what would make this day even better, Althea?"

She was silent. He wasn't looking for an answer.

"A nice brisket. Yes, I think I'll have that for dinner..."

The president flicked his finger—how could such a simple motion feel like it was ripping open Althea's chest?

The soldier fired, but this time Nathaniel didn't react. The bullet hit his arm, sending him flying back. A spatter of blood painted the wall behind him.

"No!" Althea cried out. She leapt over the railing and raced down the stairs to get to his side. The Paragon medics, who had been standing by, were already hovering over her brother and attending to his arm, but Nathaniel barely seemed to notice. His eyes were closed, his breathing shallow. The shade was jerking about overhead, agitated.

"Is he all right?" she asked the medics.

"The bullet clipped his upper arm," said one of them. "It'll need some stitches, but he should be fine in a couple of days."

She rocked back on her heels. Only a couple of days? That wouldn't deter their father for long. Before they knew it, they would be back here in the ring, doing the same routine all over again...but next time, perhaps the bullet would leave more than just a scratch.

#

Later that evening, Althea stood by as the president ate.

He sat alone at the end of a long table, shovelling forkfuls of brisket into his mouth. Every so often, he took a sip of wine to wash it down. A server came in and set down a pudding beside him for dessert.

A runner came into the room and stood at attention. "Mr. President, sir. We have more information regarding the pirate vessel and its inhabitants."

What pirate vessel? Althea wondered.

The president, however, didn't need any explanation and waved for him to continue.

"The ship is apparently referred to as, err, 'The Dirty Countess.' A group of youths crew it."

"None particularly bright or skilled, obviously," the president said. He shoved his empty plate aside with a clatter.

"They're part of a pirating group called the Mothers, sir. We've tracked the ship to central Meraki and are ready to strike at your command."

"Good. Dismissed."

The runner bowed and exited.

"Althea," the president barked, making her jump.

She stood at attention, avoiding her father's eyes. "Sir."

He wiped his mouth with a white cloth napkin. "We've tracked down the vessel with the Carnivale mage. It's a sorry-looking thing...it's held together by rope and a wish. It won't take much to overtake them."

He tossed the napkin onto his plate, discarded.

"We have an informant. Someone on the inside, infiltrating this band of bottom feeders and reporting back."

This was news to her. "That's good, sir."

The president snapped his fingers at the server. "Get my daughter a plate," he ordered. He gestured to the empty chair beside him. "Come, sit. Eat."

She blinked, taken aback.

"Don't just stand there catching flies. Do as I say."

She chose the seat two down from the president—sitting directly beside him seemed too forward.

The server set a plate of brisket down in front of her, and the president watched her expectantly.

She raised a hesitant forkful to her mouth. She smiled uncomfortably. They hadn't eaten together for almost eight years.

"It's delicious," she said.

"It should be! The best livestock in Meraki is farmed just outside Kinvarra. It was slaughtered this morning."

Althea put down her fork, and hoped he wouldn't insist that she finish it. Her stomach was little more than a cold knot of worry for her brother, and she could barely manage swallowing her first bite.

"So, this informant," said the president, getting back to business. "I have high hopes for her. She's quick, strong. Very bright. She's prone to outbursts, but then again, aren't we all?" He flashed a brief smile at her. "So. You will leave first thing in the morning."

The brisket Althea had swallowed suddenly seemed to veer left, going down the wrong pipe. She coughed, beating her chest to dislodge it.

"Pa-a-ardon?" she finally managed.

The president continued as though he hadn't heard her. "You will learn their plans, discover the location of the other mages, and sound the alarm when the time is right. I had the weapons team design a small alarm beacon for you..."

He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a small hair pin, pressed it into her hand. It had delicate silver teeth and a decorative ship on its plate.

"Press the ship and it will call us. Isn't it pretty?"

Althea was silent. So this was her punishment for speaking back in the fighting ring. She could have readily accepted this mission if it risked only her own life...but there was more to it. There was always more to it.

If she left, he would push Nathaniel too far. Who knew if she would have a brother to come home to?

Althea chose her words carefully. "This pin is beautiful and expertly crafted, but it should be worn by someone more skilled. We have many talented spies, all of which would be well-suited—"

"Nonsense," her father, his voice curt. "You will go."

"Sir," she tried again. "I...I have many duties here, and I would be remiss if I—"

He slammed a fist on the table, making the cutlery jump. Althea went silent, her heart racing.

"You will go," he snapped. "And that's final."