Joy stumbled into Ink, solid as stone, holding her steady as she raked earth from her eyes, her hair, her clothes, coughing and sputtering. Coral wiped at her face and sneezed, gills blasting, eyes tearing under the dirt. Joy had a sudden jolt of panic. She’d been submerged under the earth—dirt caked her face, her arms, her skin. She braced herself to fight the craving, the rush of heat, the thunderous voices, the fury—but there was nothing. No feeling of power or pain. She was simply dirty, tumbled and tired. They were in a bare circle of earth, the center of the court clearing, surrounded by tall soldiers in banded armor, crosshatched like layers of leaves. They had long beards of grass and stippled helmets like corn, their limbs ending in knotty clubs of wicked, hooked thorns. They’d emerged fully formed from beneath the ground, staring down at the three prisoners. Their eyes were single seeds with flower bud lids, surprisingly delicate in their stern, old-man faces.
