Despite this precaution, they drew a crowd. The kids were rushed past onlookers and ushered to a spot that was terrifyingly quiet. The kids’ captors tore their costumes away. They were standing in a long courtyard flanked by protective walls made of ivory-white waves. At their end, a series of graceful towers swooped up, emitting an angelic radiance. The ground was inlaid with smooth gold flagstones and pebbles groomed into curved lines and concentric circles, reminding Phoebe of serenity gardens from the Kijyo Republic. A fountain trickled from the wall, liquid silver pooling to form the insignia that she and Micah were beginning to loathe—a curved line arching over three dots. An oval gate whispered shut behind them, and the kids were urged forward, past dozens of stoic guards. Ahead, a group of silhouetted figures emerged from one of the luminous towers. As they stepped into the light, Micah gasped. “You little tub o’ lard!” he screamed, lunging. “I’m gonna—” A guard wrapped Micah’s face in metal fibers, gagging him.
