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“Aye.”

The team’s conversations move on but the boy is frozen, his gaze stuck on Tally Mark.

“Ignore him.” I squeeze the boy’s shoulder. “Remind me of your name?”

“Stryker, sir. But my friends call me Stryk.”

“I’m not a sir.”

“You’re raid leader. Mother says we’re supposed to obey on raids without question. So nobody gets hurt.”

“Look at the young’un.” Charlie slugs him in the arm playfully. “Knows all the rules.”

“Well, your first order of business is to stop calling me sir,” I say.

Stryk nods, then bites his lip. I look to the rest and dole out assignments before turning to Tally Mark, who’s still fuming.

“What personas can you pull off today?” I ask.

“A restaurateur or a bum musician.”

“Use the musician, loiter near the door.”

“Do we have execution orders?” he asks, slipping on a hat to cover his tally-tattooed head.

“Today, your ears are your greatest weapon, Tally Mark.” I clap him on the back.

His jaw clenches at the nickname.

“Focus on what matters: the raid. Keep magic use discreet. This whole place will end up a bloody mess if we’re exposed. No one needs that kind of death on their conscience.”

Tally Mark motions for the others who also finished at House of Ambrose, and together they mutter in prayer. “The Sovereign, point out the darkness. The Sage, bless our hands with skill. The Wielder, blow the winds of fate our way.”

“You better hope those fake gods hear you, boys.” Charlie jostles Tally Mark by the neck before tossing his bag to Stryk to carry.

“Target is approaching the doors,” Yani says from the speakerphone. “Coming up the south side of the building. Repeat, Red Ball Cap is in play.”

I grab Charlie by the sleeve before turning to Stryk. “Your second order is to stick with this guy. And no magic, just watch.”

Stryk’s posture deflates.

“Mother says—”

“Stop worrying about everything Mother says.” Craters dent the boy’s cheeks. Charlie’s mouth hardens but he remains silent like a good Dragun. I tug my coat tighter around myself and push more insistently through the crowd of paying trespassers. My team disappears into the throng as well. The line at the entrance to Yaäuper is slow, but I spot the target stepping through its doors and follow at a distance. When we’re inside, I present the shifted tickets, and in minutes we’re past the entrance ropes.

“Garden courtyard tours this way,” someone yells, and I signal to Charlie. He and the boy head that way.

“History tour starting this way,” says another. Red Ball Cap moves toward the history guide and I do the same, careful to stick to the perimeter of people.

“Now, if you’ll stand in the center there and look straight up, you’ll notice a dome of colored glass.” Gasps erupt from the crowd as our tour guide pulls at his high-waisted khakis. “Most assume these are just random pictures. But these are stories, legends of magic that thirteenth-century artisans worked tirelessly to capture.”

I shift my feet in irritation and keep an eye on Red Ball Cap. He hangs back on the perimeter of the crowd, looking around more than he looks up. The tour guide calls our attention to a particular story: a window of flames surrounding a village.

“That one there is one of my favorite tales, about dragons roaming the earth, burning villages, determined to eradicate the human race and claim the planet for themselves.”

“Utterly ridiculous,” I huff, and heads swivel in my direction. I force my lips to smile.

“The legend goes that villagers could hear screams and smell burning flesh for miles,” the tour guide goes on. “Until Elopheus, a humble farmer of no special gift or talent, managed to slay one of these beasts. Then he dressed himself in the dragon’s skin and found he could suddenly breathe fire, too. He flew from village to village, protecting the people and chasing away the dragons forever.”