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THE MAIN DOORS ARE HANGING OFF THEIR HINGES, AS IF a stampede of people blasted through without bothering to open them first.

Olive’s group follows us inside, along with a crew of companions. Ash has his sword in hand again and Garnet keeps his pistol at the ready.

The main foyer is a mass of death and destruction. The fountain has broken in half, water spilling across the mosaic of tiles, carrying the blood of the fallen royals, Regimentals, and servants in delicate red swirls. We cross the foyer and I see the Electress is among them, still on the dais. She looks so young in death. There is a gaping wound across her chest.

But the Duchess and my sister are nowhere to be found. Neither is Raven.

Suddenly, there is a shriek from across the room.

“Mistress!” Olive cries. The Lady of the Stream is huddled behind the orchestra stand with a few other frightened royals. “Mistress, it’s me! Oh, I found you at last.”

“Get away from me!” the Lady screams, and just as Olive reaches her, arms outstretched, the Lady grabs a cornet off the platform and swings it hard. It connects with the side of Olive’s head and she drops like a stone. One of Olive’s friends wails. The next second, the water rises up, as her handpicked group of Paladin retaliates, blasting the royals while the companions surge forward to finish the job. Olive’s face still has the remnant of a smile, her joy at seeing her mistress one last time forever etched on it.

So much death. So many lives ended today.

I turn away to face Garnet and Ash. “Raven will try to get into the Countess’s safe room. And Hazel might be with the Duchess in her own safe room.”

“So they’ll be right next to each other,” Garnet says.

I close my eyes, picturing the dotted lines and patterns that I worked so hard to memorize.

“This way,” I say, and we take off, leaving the carnage behind us.

We barge through a door made of blackened wood, then down a hall lined with pretty sconces and papered in gold and white . . . when we come upon Raven, grappling with a Regimental.

Garnet lets out a strangled yell and barrels forward, knocking both Raven and her attacker to the ground. Raven rolls to one side and is on her feet as Garnet hits the Regimental in the temple with the butt of his gun. The man falls unconscious.

“What are you doing?” Garnet demands, standing up to face her. She stares him down.

“I have to,” she insists.

“I know,” he says. “I just don’t understand why you didn’t wait for us.”

Raven opens her mouth as another Regimental comes running down the hall. I slam him into a wall with Air.

“The safe rooms are up this way,” I say, opening a door to reveal a set of curving stone stairs. Two Regimentals are guarding it and I deflect their bullets, still connected with Air, as Ash takes them out with his sword.

As we climb, we pass other safe rooms, for lesser royals—the Founding House safe rooms are in the very top of this turret. Every room is sealed tight, keeping the royalty inside. Hopefully, these ones won’t trouble us any longer, won’t try to fight now that their precious Regimental force is being battered and their wall is destroyed.

We reach the top, where there are five doors, each with a crest. Scales, Royal Palace, Rose, Lake, Stone.

I focus on the House of the Lake first. Get Hazel, then help Raven.

“Stand back,” I say. I gather all the air here to me, then expel it like I did to open the door with the hot handle. The door bursts open, revealing a small, beautifully decorated room behind it.

It’s empty.

“She’s not here,” I gasp. “She’s not—”

“The Countess,” Raven begs. “Please.”

My head spinning, I focus Air on the door with the House of the Stone’s crest, a gray square crossed with two bronze hammers. The blast hits the door and rips it off its hinges. I send it flying across the room and there is a loud crash as it bursts through a window on the opposite wall.

Why do they even have windows in these safe rooms? I think, as the inhabitants inside cower and cough. Glass is littered around on the floor of a room as pretty as the one with the Duchess’s crest.

We charge inside. The frail man I saw briefly at that last royal dinner cowers behind the door.

“P-please,” he stammers, “d-don’t hurt me.”