“Up, Mare!” she snaps, almost wrenching my arm out of my socket to get me on my feet. Her brain works faster than mine and she reaches the window first, her arms outstretched. I mirror her in a daze, my head spinning.

Above us, on the bridge, guards and officers flood from both ends. In the center, an inferno blazes. For a moment it seems still; then I realize. It’s coming at us, leaping, lunging, falling.

Cal’s flames extinguish a moment before he hits the wall—and misses the window ledge.

“Cal!” I scream, almost diving out myself.

His hand brushes through my own. For a heart-stopping second, I think I’m about to watch him die. Instead, he dangles, his other wrist firm in Farley’s grip. She roars, her muscles flexing beneath her sleeves, somehow keeping two hundred pounds of prince from falling.

“Grab him!” she screams. Her knuckles are bone white.

I send a thunderbolt skyward, to the bridge. To guards and guns all trained on Cal’s form splayed out like an easy target. They cower, and pieces of the stone crack. Another, and it will collapse.

I want it to collapse.

“MARE!” Farley shrieks.

I have to reach, I have to pull. His hand finds mine, almost breaking my wrist with the effort. But we get him up as quickly as we can, dragging him over the ledge, and backward. Into disarming silence and a room full of harmless books.

Even Cal seems shocked by the ordeal. He lies for a second, eyes wide, breath heavy. “Thanks,” he finally grinds out.

“Later!” Farley snarls. Like with me, she hoists him up. “Get us out.”

“Right.”

But instead of heading to the ornate library entrance, he sprints across the room, to a wall of bookshelves. He searches for a moment, looking for something. Trying to remember. Then with a grunt, he shoulders a section of shelving until it slides sideways, opening onto a narrow, sloping passage.

“In!” he shouts, shoving me through.

My feet fly over the steps, worn by a hundred years of feet. We move in a gentle spiral, angling downward through dim light choked with dust. The walls are thick, old stone, and if anyone’s following us, I certainly can’t hear them. I try to gauge where we are, but my inner compass spins too quickly. I don’t know this place, I don’t know where we’re going. I can only follow.

The passage seems to dead-end at a stone wall, but before I can attempt to shock my way through, Cal pushes me back. “Easy,” he says, laying one hand against a stone a bit more worn than the others. Slowly, he puts an ear to the wall, and listens.

I hear nothing but the blood pounding in my ears and our harried breathing. Cal hears more or, rather, less. His face falls, drawn into a somber expression I can’t place. It’s not fear, though he has every right to be afraid. If anything, he’s oddly calm. He blinks a few times, straining to hear anything beyond the wall. I wonder how many times he’s done this, how many times he snuck out of this very palace.

Back then, the guards were there to protect. To serve. Now they want to kill him.

“Stay on my heels,” he finally whispers. “Two rights, then left to the gate yard.”

Farley grits her teeth. “The gate yard?” She seethes. “You want to make this easy for them?”

“The yard is the only way out,” he replies. “Ocean Hill’s tunnels are closed.”

She grimaces, clenching a fist. Her hands are starkly empty, her knife long gone. “Any chance there’s an armory between here and there?”

“I wish,” Cal hisses. Then he glances at me, at my hands. “We’ll have to be enough.”

I can only nod. We’ve faced worse, I tell myself.

“Ready?” he whispers.

My jaw tightens. “Ready.”

The wall moves on a central axis, revolving smoothly. We press through together, trying to keep our footsteps from echoing in the passage beyond. Like the library, this place is empty and well furnished, dripping in lush, yellow-colored decor. All of it has an air of disuse and neglect, down to the faded golden tapestries. Cal almost lingers, staring at the color, but urges us on.

Two rights. Through another passage and an odd, double-ended closet. Heat radiates off Cal in waves, preparing for the firestorm he must become. I feel the same, the hairs on my arms rising with electricity. It almost crackles on the air.

Voices echo on the other side of the approaching door. Voices and footsteps.

“Immediate left,” Cal murmurs. He starts to reach for my hand, but thinks better of it. We can’t risk touching each other, not now, when our touch is deadly. “You run.”

Cal goes first, and the world beyond pulses with an expulsion of fire. It spreads across the massive entrance hall, over marble and rich carpet, until it crawls up the gilt walls. A tongue of flame licks up to a painting overlooking the hall. A giant portrait, newly made. The new king—Maven. He smirks like a gargoyle until the fire takes hold, burning at the canvas. The heat is too much, and his carefully drawn lips begin to melt, twisting into a snarl that suits his monstrous soul. The only thing untouched by the flames are two gold banners, dusty silk, hanging from the opposite wall. Who they belong to, I don’t know.

The guards waiting for us flee, shouting, their flesh smoking. They’re trying not to burn alive. Cal cuts through the fire, his footsteps leaving a safe path for us to follow, and Farley keeps close, sandwiched between us. She covers her mouth, trying not to breath in the smoke.

The officers who remain, nymphs or stoneskins, impervious to flame, are not so immune to me. This time, lightning races, splaying from me in a too-bright webwork of living electricity. I only have enough focus to keep Cal and Farley from the storm. The rest are not so lucky.