The Temple of Light occupied its own space, a behemoth of a building with heavy columns spanning its front and a triangular roof plopped on top. The road split around it the way light broke around large objects, leaving everything behind in shadow. A giant, windowless building made of limestone, with a single glass dome cut into the central part of its roof. The streets were packed at this hour on Friday night, carriages coming and going. People came to the Temple no matter the time or day, to pay their respects, seek guidance, or simply to be alone.

Tabby sighed, studying the stairs that spanned the length of its front, riddled with occupants. Some simply sat and watched the foot traffic. She dodged them and climbed to the landing above, passing through the columns. Flames danced within braziers evenly spaced about the open expanse of floor, placed between columns that lined its cavernous interior.

Her eyes fixed upon the beauty at its center. A giant pyramid, a violet prism that loomed over everyone. Its glassy facets reflected shadows and flames and sent pricks of purple light dancing across the walls. Mesmerized, she gravitated towards it like everyone else.

To her, its call was ethereal, music singing through her skin, through her blood. She resisted the urge to touch it, to pull light from it. How much power was locked beneath its glassy surface? Enough to bring down this building? How long had it sat, fully charged and unused?

Simply staring at it, her mind betrayed her. She was no longer a grown woman, but a frightened child. Her hand flexed, suddenly recalling the feel of her father's warm skin before he dropped it...before he stepped away, promising to be right back. He'd always been Papa, and nothing else. She'd never known his real name. Maybe that was on purpose. Maybe he had always known he would give her up some day.

Her eyes jerked over her shoulder. Would she see him standing there, waiting for her? Perhaps this time? Her chest tightened. She hated that she couldn't remember his face or the build of his body. Those details, like all the others, had burned away long ago. Though, if she saw him today, surely she'd remember.

A breathy plea pulled her attention away. "Mama?!" The little girl wasn't much older than she'd been when she came here. Ragged clothing. Disheveled hair. A tattered teddy with an arm falling off and stuffing peaking out. The girl's wide eyes darted about, searching.

Tabby went to her and kneeled taking one of the child's hands, a sickly feeling already pooled in the pit of her stomach. "What's the matter, dearest?"

For all the tears welling in those dark pits, the child could still see her. "Me mam! Can ya help me find me mam?" Her mousy voice was choked. "She...she told me to wait here an be quiet. I been real quiet. But now I canna find 'er."

Tabby glanced about; her heart sank. There were no women nearby—none who might fit the identity to match this child's. The memory of her father's abandonment flashed hot and fresh through her mind.

"What's your name, little one?"

"Mina, miss. Meena."

A throat cleared behind them. "I'll take it from here, young lady."

An eerily familiar voice, sickly sweet, brought gooseflesh to her arms. He looked exactly the same as the day she'd been collected. She had seen his face plenty since then. The same urge always bubbled up to the surface—the urge to reach for her dagger and plunge it into his gut. To twist and twist until he screamed the way she had screamed in the box he'd locked her in. He had left her there. Stuck in that tiny dark cage for days as he broke her, covered in her own shit and piss. She had begged and begged. She'd cried and beat her fists against it. Scratched her nails bloody. She'd be a good girl, she promised. She'd behave. She wouldn't tell anyone that he'd tricked her. That he'd left her in the dark. If only he'd let her out.

Her gaze roved over his face. Did he recognize her? Did he know what she'd turned into?

"Can ya help me find me mam?" the child asked, looking up into his kind face with those wide, pitiful eyes.

"Yes, child. Come with me. I'll take you to her." He reached for the child's hand and she dropped Tabby's to take it.

Tabby's blood boiled, but she didn't stop him. She stepped away, watching them go. She could no more save this child than she could save the others. But you can, said a voice in the back of her mind. Eliminate the Spectrum and no child will ever succumb to its hand again.

That wouldn't help this little girl. Not now. After a warm meal and a hot bath, she would face the iron box, and no doubt turn up dead before the year was out. Sooner, if she was lucky.

The muttered syllables of prayer from a person on their knees dragged her from her dark thoughts. She hurried to the end of the cathedral where she passed into a side corridor and through a hidden door. Deep into the bowels of the Temple. She donned her half mask. Visitors were not permitted past the atrium. Those who strayed out of curiosity met a cold ending.

The air was frigid and stale. She moved through corridors set with stone and lined with torches. Whispers permeated the air, seeping into the foundations of the walls. It wasn't merely the dead within the temple crypts, but all those lives they'd taken. All that weight they brought with them to their graves. Those marks followed, as if tethered by chains. The thought made her shudder.

A band of adolescents appeared at the end of the hall. Acolites. They passed in two orderly lines. Still so young. She counted them. Few of their cohort had died yet. They weren't much older than six or seven.

"Respect, Masker," they fervently whispered, placing fingers against foreheads, gazing up at her with wide eyes beneath their quarter masks.

She bowed her head in acknowledgement, returning the two-finger salute, but said nothing. They hadn't earned her respect. Thus, it would be unusual to give it.

At her destination, she loitered in the corridor, checking her pocket watch every few minutes. It wasn't prism powered. She wouldn't be that careless—not here, in the belly of the beast.

Buried. That's what it felt like to be down here. Like she was already in a grave. Her skin crawled and turned clammy. She rolled her neck and stretched her muscles.

"Relax. This is no different than any other time you've reported in."

Her face remained set. "But it is," she countered. "They will sense my change, the way a beast smells fear."

It was her paranoia talking. Using a hand mirror, she checked her appearance once more, combing back the wisps of hair that had come untucked from her long braid. A set of violet prisms in a simple choker glittered about her neck. She didn't mind boasting down here. Flexing. Reminding them of her strength—why they should keep her around. Self-preservation at its finest. One thing she certainly had in common with the rest of them.

Movement made her stiffen. A three quarter masker swept past on his way out the door. The steward in his three quarter mask followed, emerging into the corridor. Like hers, his prisms were out in plain sight. A form of identity down here. He was merely a yellow—but he was old. His hair grayed, hands wrinkled. And yet, he still moved with the agility of a younger man.

She admired his ability to live so long. Spects were killed when they became obsolete. He'd found a way to remain relevant. "Respect," she said, lifting two fingers. In this instance, she truly meant it.

"Respect." He bowed his head, forgoing the salute. "They will see you now."

This room was perhaps most hated—even more than the torture chamber and confines they used to brainwash children. Like all the others, torches spanned its walls, offset by braziers in the floor. It was a throne room of sorts. She'd never seen the one in the palace to compare. The impressive feature was the ceiling. This room sat directly beneath the violet prism in the atrium. Its purple base was framed above her like a window to the outside world. No one upstairs could see through its cloudy depths. They could not see what took place below. If they had any idea of what truly transpired, they might never return to the Temple. They would be smarter for it.

Her eyes lingered over it before turning downward. The Council of Masks towered before her upon a raised dais. Seven on the lower level, their opulent stone chairs set in a row. Sitting on the platform above was the High Mask. The most powerful man in Candela. Ghost. Her eyes flicked over him, over his jester mask, over the cream and navy blue checkers that pattered it, over the five curling tassels that sprouted like demon's horns. Beside him on a pedestal was the book, open to its most current page.

The Council wore their full masks on proud display, a symbol of their power. Like Ghost's, these were guided and decorated to suit their tastes, but each was frightening in its own right, though none more frightening than Reaper's. He'd altered his three quarter goat mask to cover his entire face, giving it a sneer to match the one she was used to seeing in her younger years.

She pushed his haunting memory away and strode forward where she genuflected.

"Tempest, welcome. You may stand." Ghost's voice was sweet as honey. She kept her gaze fixed upon him, not daring to look at Reaper or any of the others. "Word spreads quickly through Chroma." Her skin prickled. "Lord Parlow will be sorely missed. You have done well. Give your report."

She exhaled soundlessly, nodding. Dutifully, she recounted the details of her mission at Norhaven Hall exactly as she had been trained. She was thorough, except for where Steiner was concerned, what he'd said during their dance. As she spoke, her eyes covertly flicked over the Council. She studied their bodies, their mannerisms. Little movements that betrayed them. Reminded her they were merely human, even if they did possess Lighter abilities. Beast bounced his foot from time to time. A subtle movement that she barely caught. Flint tilted his head during parts of her retelling, digesting her words differently than the others. Deadlock rubbed his finger along the smooth stone of his chair in a repetitive motion, like he was polishing the surface. Even Ghost didn't remain perfectly still. His thumb drummed against whatever surface it found—his leg, the armrest.

"You have the list, then?" he asked, almost bored. They'd already had a long night of this and it would continue several hours more, until every available Spect in the field reported. Ghost's only show of emotion was the pleasure that flashed across his hazel eyes when she nodded. Those eyes. Eyes she felt as if she'd known a lifetime—to many reports, too many nights in this chamber. A familiar hate welled up in her chest. She would relish in his death...if it ever came.

"It's here." She produced the parchment and handed it to the steward. She lingered over the steward's eyes and mouth as he snatched it, the only bits visible behind his mask. How much information might he hold, lurking in the shadows for each Spect's report?

Ghost unfurled the list. In the silence, the whispers from the walls heightened. "Hm...it is as we expected." He passed the list back to the steward, who passed it to Reaper first, who in turn passed it to the others.

"You have done well, Tempest." A hint of pleasure. Of pride. Her heart fluttered in relief. Thank Light, she'd live another day. "Payment for your success." Ghost waved a hand. The steward produced a pouch of coins. She didn't need to weigh it to know it was a large sum. Death always paid the highest. "Now, to our next matter of buisness."

"I—" She took a step and stopped.

"Yes?" Ghost sat straighter.

"A request."

"Speak, then."

"The list. I would like to toss my name in the hat."

He regarded her for longer than was comfortable. "I see." Drum. Drum. Drum. His thumb tapped the arm of his chair. Bellow him, his masks glanced at one another. "Which name?"

She exhaled, keeping her voice flat. "Lord Conrad Steiner. I have developed an...acquaintance with him that will give me an upper hand."

"Ahh. You presume we plan to kill him?"

She pulled her shoulders straighter. "Don't you?"

Silence. It made her uncomfortable. "Your request is declined. Your position with Lord Steiner is compromised." She bristled. "The Council will decide who is best suited for the task. It won't be you. We've got different plans for you."

Blood rushed to her ears. They knew—they'd discovered her. She resisted the hard urge to glance towards the exit, towards where the steward lurked. It would give her away.

"We are assigning you a new target. This one is...unusual. We debated giving it to you, but I think you are ready. You may decline to hear it, if you choose." He hesitated. "It is the highest profile case the Spectrum has ever encountered."

That gave her pause. She took a steadying breath. "How much?"

"Ten thousand pounds."

She blinked. And blinked again. Not quite comprehending. "Ten...thousand pounds."

"As I said."

It was an unheard of sum. They'd kill her before handing her that much money. "I haven't earned my three quarter mask. Midnight would be better—"

"We are aware of your status. Your kill count rivals that of our veterans, even Midnight's. Moreover, you are a heptachrome."

Ghost, sitting here before her in his proud guise, was the only other heptachrome in the Spectrum. She swallowed, deliberating. Once she accepted, she was obligated to see it through. That, or death. "I will hear it."

"Good." Drum. Drum. Drum. "A new name has been added to the book. A mark's been ordered for Albert Whitlock. This is to be completed in three weeks. Privately. No obvious cause of death. No suspects. No trace."

Her mind turned over like the gears of Nit's clockwork. "Whitlock...?" Everything clattered to a stop around her. She forgot herself in her surprise. "Prince Albert Whitlock? As in, King Alistar's nephew? But...he's third in line for the throne."

"That is correct."

Her legs weakened. Had she just signed her own death warrant? Black and white newspaper images of Prince Albert flashed through her mind. "May I ask who ordered the hit?" She had her suspicions—Prince Edwin, namely.

"Our client wishes to remain anonymous."

"Whitlock will be heavily protected," she said, willing her muscles to relax, turning her thoughts into the methodical workings of clockwork. "Three weeks is a big ask."

"That is the request."

"I want four." She swallowed. "Four weeks."

The Council deliberated, muttering among themselves, but Ghost didn't take his eyes from her. "Very well. Four weeks," he said at last. "You know the consequences if you fail."

She tightened her gloved hand into fist around the neck of the bag of coins. "I will not fail." She had no intention of dying. If they wanted Albert Whitlock dead—she'd deliver his head on a silver platter. But... perhaps she'd never have to. "May I confer with my master on this matter? Or is it to be kept fully secret?"

"You are an apprentice. You may, if you wish. But—" Ghost leaned forward. "This it is your task, not his."

"I understand."

"Good. That is all. You're excused."

She lifted two fingers to her brow in salute. "Respect."

They repeated the gesture, though they did not utter the word.

It took every ounce of courage she possessed to move. She walked from the room, keeping her breathing even and her pace regular until she was several corridors down. Then she fled.