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Pausing in the silence, the actress stopped moving and slowly turned her lovely, angular face up to the royal box.

“For twenty turns, we have weakened and died. Slowly. In hushed whispers. In tears, our brothers and sisters in the countryside bury their younglings when Winter claims too much.

“Why do we stay quiet? Why not ask for what is promised to us?”She raised a hand, five fingers splayed.

“Protection.” Her hand closed into a fist, which she shook. “A tempering of the cold, of the death that only grows.”

“Why have we not demanded it of our leader?” A slender finger pointed at our box. “Is it because we know he cannot save us? Is it because he is not so unlike the one before?”

I stiffened, but Avalina plowed on, her voice strengthening with the words she sang. Her eyes shined with sorrow that burned from the flame of anger that even an actress as talented as Avalina could no longer hide.

“We must find the one to bring back the magic. To claim Winter. We, the fae, must stand behind the one who is true to the land. To us.”

She knelt, dipped her fingers in the false blood, and began to draw a symbol. “Long live the trueborn heir and wielder of Winter’s Touch.”

She ended her song, and, delayed, I gasped, my blood freezing in my veins. Beside me, Vale stiffened. The symbol Avalina had drawn was the one I’d seen painted on that dilapidated building in Rall Row. The symbol of the Falk loyalists.

Vale leaned forward. “Be ready for anything.”

“What in the stars?” Saga whispered, already hitching the skirt of her gown up, clearly ready to flee.

On the stage, the actress rose and stood resolutely, illuminated by a flood of faelights. In the crowd below, many tilted their heads, wondering what she’d said. Neighbors translated for others and when they were done, faces paled, and eyes drifted up to the royal box. One old fae stood and ran from the playhouse.

Avalina Truso brought a fist to her heart and the curtain fell.

A gasp ripped from me. Across the red curtain was the same treasonous symbol Avalina painted on the floor.

King Magnus shot from his seat and thrust a finger at the stage. “Bring her to me. I?—”

Fae soared from the rafters, from behind the curtain, from within the crowd of commoners now rising to exit as fast as they could. All of those in the crowd had been wearing cloaks, not unusual for a cold winter’s night. Now those in the air shucked off those same cloaks, revealing daggers at their sides and painted hawks on armbands wrapped around their biceps. Rebels—at least fifty of them.

“Neve, with me!” Vale pulled me up to stand with him. At his side, Rhistel rose too and lost no time in sprinting to the door.

“We should help others!” I looked at the many boxes, at the younglings filling them. “We can defend ourselves.”

“I’m not armed.” Vale yanked me into the aisle. “But the rebels are. We must get out of here.”

We made it up three steps before shattering glass froze Vale in his tracks. Unable to help ourselves, we turned.

From the center of the dome, now shattered, two dozen more fae dropped, starlight blazing at their backs. “The trueborn heir will stop Winter from killing us!” an older male faerie roared, but all my attention was on another faerie, one clad in black fighting leathers and flying on silver wings, her long black hair whipping behind her as she soared our way.

The black-haired female lifted her bow, arrow already nocked, and aimed for the king.

“Father!” Vale yelled, but the Clawsguards in the box were already there, ready. Sir Lars, the king’s most faithful, threw himself in front of King Magnus in time to take the arrow into his own heart. The other pulled the king from the box.

Rhistel was gone. Saga and the queen too. We should have already fled as well. Vale might not be the heir, but he was an Aaberg in line for the throne.

And yet, my feet were frozen to the floor.

The rebel aimed her arrow at the king . . . she looked like me.

Black-haired, yes. Glacier blue eyes, yes. But her wings were silver like mine. Her face was of a similar shape. Her eyes and lips too. We were about the same age, and we might be cousins.

And then there was the way her eyes narrowed on the king in hatred . . . I’d looked at him that way too.

“Move!” the king bellowed. He was racing from the royal box too, leaving his Clawsguards to fight.

Vale lifted me off my feet and swept me out of the room.