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The last of the voices’ echoes die in the hall, leaving everything lethally quiet in their wake. I don’t speak. Neither does Lonan. The air feels charged, on the precipice of something.

The distant sound of screeching echoes from outside the archive—human voices. They sound . . . in pain. “What is that?” I ask.

“Destruction,” Lonan whispers.

Chapter Forty-Seven

We pass doors to other floors and peaked windows that reveal the spangle of stars and the glowing face of the clocktower. I can still hear the howls of pain. They’re distant, haunting. They don’t dim until we reach the ground floor.

“Whatever that was, I think we’re far away from it now,” Lonan says.

For now, I think. The destruction trial will find us. There’s no escaping the Ridding. But I’m more than relieved that the obfuscation trial is over. In three hours, the world I knew has been toppled. Of all the trials—chaos, obfuscation, destruction—I did not expect the obfuscation trial to be the one that took so much from me.

Hugo’s smiling face flashes in my mind, and I shut my eyes. Not now, I tell myself. Not yet. In the morning, if I am still I alive, I’ll grieve then—in the light of day when I can be sure the danger has passed.

I stop to rest, leaning against a wall with a thick oil painting, and sigh. Lonan grabs me by the arm and pulls me off the painting. “Stop that.”

“Stop what?”

“Getting your filth all over the art.”

“That’s what you’re worried about? Half the school is in ruins. It’s eating itself alive. You’re worried about the art?”

He’s looking over my head, as if inspecting the painting for damage. “In the morning, this will all be over and the art will still be here.”

“People have died tonight, Lonan. I’m more concerned about that.”

“Do you know how difficult it is to preserve art through war?” He offers me a sideways glare. “Everyone believes it doesn’t matter in light of current events. But then the dust settles. Decades and centuries pass. We don’t remember the names of the people who died in the war. But the art. Half our history can be wiped out by a moment’s idiotic decision.”

I look back over my shoulder at the painting. A male angel lies upon a seashore, wind sweeping through auburn hair as he hides his face and glares at the heavens. “All right, I won’t touch the art.”

“Don’t say it like that.”

“Like what?”

“I won’t touch the art,” he imitates. “I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

“You’re making fun of me.”

“I am not. I hear you. The art is very important.”

“It is important.”

“I’m agreeing with you.”

“You should be agreeing with me because it is very important.”

“Fine. Why are we arguing?”

“Because your tone lacks gravity.”

I scoff. “Oh, I’m sorry.” I bow to the painting. “Very important art, I swear never to lean upon your esteemed aspect ever again, and may I face the gallows if I do.”

Lonan’s glare deepens.

“What?”