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Calla Tuoleimi is Number Fifty-Seven, and very much alive. “Oh, Princess,” he says. “We’re about to make something very interesting of the games.”
“Otta needs to die.” A beat of silence. Galipei blinks once. He is well trained enough not to let a reaction enter his expression. “She won’t wake up,” Galipei replies. “Is that not enough?” “It’s not certain. We cannot take that chance.”
“August,” Galipei prompts. August steels himself to deliver his next words. “You weren’t assigned to me until after Otta was gone, so I don’t expect you to understand. Kill her.”
“This is Calla Tuoleimi’s body,” he whispers, “but you’re not Calla, are you?”
It would be easier if he had betrayed her. That’s familiar territory, something she knows how to navigate. Calla can handle pain. She can handle blood. But this—this is somehow all and none of that at once, a wrenching in her very soul. This is tenderness. And she is more afraid of it than anything else in their forsaken kingdom.
With a shudder and a wave of qi, Otta Avia opens her eyes to the world again.
“It will be remembered,” he goes on, like he doesn’t hear her. “And what fine daylight we have today to ensure its longevity in their memory.” Calla freezes.
