I pluck at my crimson tunic, tenting the lightweight
linen away from my sticky skin. The southern Sintan
climate isn’t my worst nightmare, but it sometimes ranks
pretty high, right along with the stifling layers of
cosmetics masking my face, my leather pants, and my knee-
high boots.

Heat and leather and heels don’t mix, but at least
looking like a brigand means blending into the circus.
Here, discreet only gets you noticed.

Craning my neck for a breath of fresh air, I navigate my
way through the beehive of tables already set up for the
circus fair. The performers on the center stage are the
main attraction. The rest of us surround them, carving
out places for ourselves amid the crowd. Tonight, hemmed
in on all sides in an amphitheater lit by hundreds of
torches and filled to capacity, I feel like a Cyclops is
sitting on my chest—suffocated.
Damp curls cling to my neck. I peel them off and tuck
them back into my braid, scanning the crowd as I walk. I
recognize some of the regulars. Others I don’t know. My
eyes trip over a man and get stuck. He’s looking at me,
and it’s hard not to look back. He’s striking in a dark,
magnetic way, his size, weapons, and bearing all telling
me he’s a tribal warlord. His build is strong and
masculine, his gait perfectly balanced and fluid. He
walks with predatory confidence, unhurried, and yet
there’s no mistaking his potential for swift, explosive
violence. It’s not latent or hidden, just leashed.

Watchful, alert, he’s aware of everything in his
vicinity. Especially me.

Our gazes collide, and something in me freezes. His eyes
remind me of Poseidon’s wrath—stormy, gray, intense—the
kind of eyes that draw you in, hold you there, and might
not let you go.

Adrenaline surges through me, ratcheting up my pulse. My
heart thumping, I blink and take in the rest of him.
Intelligent brow. Strong jaw. Wide mouth. Hawkish nose.
Black hair brushes a corded neck atop broad shoulders
that have no doubt been swinging a sword since before he
could walk. Body toned to perfection, skin darkened by a
lifetime in the sun, he’s battle-chiseled and hard, the
type of man who can cleave an enemy in two with little
effort and even less consequence to his conscience.

He keeps staring at me, and a shiver prickles my spine.
Is this man my enemy?

There’s no reason to think so, but I didn’t stay alive
this long without the help of a healthy dose of paranoia.

Wary, I sit at my table, keeping an eye on him as he
weaves a bold path through an array of potions, trinkets,
and charms. He’s flanked by four similar men. Their
coloring varies, but they all have the same sure look
about them, although they pale in comparison to the
warlord in both authority and allure. The man with the
gray eyes is a born leader, and only an idiot would
mistake him for anything else.

He stares for so long that I start to wonder if he can
somehow bore through my layers of face paint and unmask
me, but I’ve never seen him before, and he can’t possibly
know the person underneath. I’m from the north of Fisa,
where magic is might. He’s from the south of Sinta, where
muscle and cunning decide who lives or dies. Our paths
would never have crossed in the past, and warlords don’t
usually frequent the circus.

I look away, hoping he’ll do the same. There are plenty
of reasons a man stares at a woman. An exotic face and
generous figure attract as much attention as a good
mystery, if not more, and the warlord’s intense scrutiny
feels more appreciative than alarming.

Ignoring the flush now creeping into my cheeks, I smooth
the wrinkles from the coarse wool blanket covering my
table and arrange my paraphernalia like usual. My
glittering, gold-lettered sign advertises Cat the
Magnificent—Soothsayer Extraordinaire, even though
flashes of the future only come here and there, usually
in dreams. Luckily, it only takes a few questions for
truths to reveal themselves like flowers opening for the
sun. I read people’s body language and glean who they
are, what they want, and maybe even what they’re capable
of. It’s about knowledge and illusion. I get a copper for
it, which is more than a fair deal for me. I won’t peddle
futures. I have an idea of my own, and that’s more than
enough.

My leg starts a nervous bounce. Prophecies can be
interpreted loosely, right?

The audience gasps, and I turn to see what’s happening on
the stage. Vasili is throwing knives at his wife. She’s
strapped to the flat side of a vertical, rotating wheel,
and he’s blindfolded. He’s never hit her, but my heart
still comes to a complete standstill every time they
perform. Tonight is no exception, and I hold my breath,
both riveted and terrified, until he runs out of knives.

The crowd is too caught up in the circus to take
advantage of the fair, so I get up again and head to the
performers’ gate to watch the end of the show and put
some distance between the warlord and me. He’s still
looking when he shouldn’t be.

The air coming through the gate is fresher, bringing with
it the sound of Cerberus’s chuffing breaths and the scent
of sweaty dog. He’s Hades’s pet, so I doubt the heat
bothers him. I toss him a wave, and two of his three
upper lips curl in a snarl of acknowledgment. One of
these days, I’ll get all three, although in eight years I
never have. I think his middle head just doesn’t like me.

Finished with his performance, Vasili unstraps his wife
while Aetos launches himself onto the stage with a triple
flip and lands in a fighter’s crouch that shakes the
platform. The solid wood creaks under his colossal
weight, and the rapt crowd murmurs in awe. Aetos
straightens, pounds his chest, tears the horse pelt off
his giant back, and catches fire. His roar shakes the
amphitheater. No one can roar like Aetos. I’ve seen him
perform hundreds of times, and I still get chills.

Seven and a half feet tall, muscle-bound, and tattooed
blue from head to toe with Tarvan tribal swirls, he moves
his hands in an impossibly fast dance, weaving fire until
he’s encased in a sphere of living flame. He bursts
through the crackling barrier with another roar. The
explosion blasts the hair away from my face and dries out
the inside of my nose. I’m forty feet away but feel like
I’m in the furnaces of the Underworld. Fanning myself is
useless. I’ll never get used to the southern heat, and
with Aetos performing, it’s even worse.

The Sintan Hoi Polloi can barely contain themselves. It’s
like doing tricks for children—everything enchants. For
them, the circus is a whirlwind of power and impossible
magical delights. Everywhere from the hard-packed dirt
floor surrounding the fair tables and stage to the high,
far reaches of the circular stone seating, people jump up
and down, hooting and stomping their feet.

My feet tap along with the crowd’s, my eyes following
Aetos around the stage. What a relief to be back in
Sinta, even with all the dust and heat. I do whatever I
can to stay on the west side of Thalyria. Our recent
sojourn in the middle realm of Tarva made my lungs tight
and my fingers itch for a knife. I’d probably start
jumping at shadows if the circus ever went all the way
east to Fisa. Just the thought of my home realm makes my
sweat turn cold.

Sinta. Tarva. Fisa. West to east. Here to… Nothing I’m
going to think about.

The audience whoops in approval of Aetos’s fiery moves.
Hoi Polloi in the amphitheater are ecstatic—and not only
with the show. They’ve been celebrating ever since a
warlord from the tribal south hacked his way north to
Castle Sinta to put his own sister on the throne. You’d
think Dionysus had dumped a three-month supply of wine
over the entire realm. Temples are overflowing with
Sintans offering prayers of gratitude, their holy men
overcome with gifts to help clothe and feed the poor.
Statues of Athena, who is apparently well loved by the
conquering warlord, have been spontaneously erected in
towns and villages from here to the Ice Plains in Sinta’s
north. Happiness and generosity abound, and I don’t even
want to think about how many sheep have been slaughtered
for celebratory feasts.

For the first time ever, the magicless majority is in
charge, and Hoi Polloi are literally dancing in the
streets—but only when they’re not throwing themselves in
abject loyalty at the feet of the new royal family. Or so
I’ve heard. I haven’t actually seen the new royals, but
news spreads fast when there’s something to say. After
the warlord and his southern army secured the Sintan
throne last spring, his family took weeks just to move
north. Not because they’re slow, but because of the sheer
number of adoring people in their way.

It’s no secret the northern-born Magoi royals here in
Sinta were despots, just like everywhere else in
Thalyria. Hoi Polloi know they’re better off with one of
their own in charge.

But royals without magic? My cynical snort is lost in the
boisterousness of the crowd. It’ll never last.