Power has a certain taste to it. A hot, golden tang slinking down the throat and trailing smoke in its wake, like seared meat or aged liquor. Something to settle the body, soothe the heart. It is the answer to every type of hunger, an addictive luxury that requires little else in accompaniment, some salve solely made to take up every bit of space it can find.

Power also has a certain taste coming back up. And Anton Makusa can’t say he finds it very pleasant at all.

He takes a shaky breath, fighting to keep his stomach under control. The guards inside the throne room peer through the gold-thread curtains, calling in concern, but Anton wipes his mouth and waves them off. His vision flickers and doubles. His skin screams with raw misery, his qi at once too big for his body and too ill-fitting in its mold. The last minute of his existence tries to escape from understanding. He’s struggling beyond belief to hold on to consciousness, to cling to life. Memories that are both his own and not flash before his eyes. He looks at his hands, and the image lurches. He’s washing blood off. Writing with old ink.

Then, in a snap, the pain eases. Though the nausea remains, his body stands intact. His surroundings register again. One guard steps onto the balcony to ask if he would like assistance to come inside now, and Anton throws his gaze out over the ledge in disbelief.

He doesn’t entirely know how he’s done it, but he has. The guard prompts him again, her eyes flickering to the sludge on the balcony floor where Anton emptied his stomach, and Anton raises a hand to stop her, barely holding down another shudder. Maybe he’s only squeamish over the gruesome image below. Princess Calla Tuoleimi—player Fifty-Seven—has just been declared the victor of the king’s annual games, having slaughtered her final opponent. The loudspeaker continues bellowing the results: A decisive battle . . . the Juedou draws to a close . . . the final challenger is dead . . . and even if Anton shuts his eyes, he can’t keep the images out. His last moments in the arena are trying to coalesce with August’s most recent memories: Calla, luring him close; the council, meeting late at night in the war room; Calla, her forehead resting upon his shoulder; a dove, pressed into the wax seal of an envelope before the paper is torn open; Calla, Calla, Calla—