“The trolls age in reverse,” Edaline whispered. “Their bodies shrink with time, rather than growing. And their features soften.”

“Does that mean the ancient trolls look like babies?” Sophie asked.

“Not quite that extreme. Sorry, I suppose I should’ve warned you.”

“Anything else I should be prepared for?” Sophie asked.

“I can’t think of anything. Actually, yes I can. King Enki is bald.”

She pointed across the room, and Sophie did a double take.

Dwarves normally had long, scraggly fur and squinty, pointed facial features that reminded Sophie of oversize talking moles. But the king looked like a plucked chicken, his textured skin a mottled pattern of peach, brown, and black—which looked extra strange considering his pants were made of soft white fur.

“Is that what happens when dwarves age?” Sophie asked.

“No, it’s a statement,” Edaline said. “The dwarves view it a sign of power and strength for their king to wax himself bare. I’ve never really wanted to know why.”

Sophie did her best not to stare, focusing instead on the king’s heavy crown—a thick ring of carved, opalescent shell. She’d gotten up close and personal once with the giant-sand-crab-like creatures the shell had come from, and still found it strange the king would want any part of its body curled around his head.

He caught her looking and tapped his feet as he offered a bow.

The rest of the introductions were more what Sophie had prepared for. Queen Hylda looked fierce and statuesque in her gleaming golden armor. And a gnome Sophie had seen around Havenfield—now wearing a suit woven from Panakes petals—had been selected to represent his kind, which had no ultimate leader.

“You’re handling yourself very well,” Mr. Forkle told her, emerging from the shadows he’d been lurking in. “Far better than I could’ve ever planned.”

“Is this what you designed me for?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.

Mr. Forkle smiled. “I designed you to be something new, Miss Foster. Something to get people’s attention. And above all else, to be you.”

The compliments weren’t particularly sappy—but the way he said them turned her throat thick.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

“For what?”

“For giving me this life—crazy and confusing as it always is.”

It was Mr. Forkle’s turn to look away, swiping at his eyes. When he turned back to say something else, the words were drowned out by loud fanfare.

All twelve Councillors gathered in the center of the room to announce that it was time for dinner, and Councillor Liora snapped her fingers and made a U-shaped table appear before them, covered in flowers and candles and dome-covered plates at every place setting. The Councillors took the seats in the center, while the other leaders were stationed along the sides. Sophie was relieved to be seated between her mom and Mr. Forkle.

They feasted on several kinds of gnomish fruit, thinly sliced and artfully arranged. Some tasted like steak and lobster and other fancy things. Others were richer and earthier. No one cleared their plate, but everyone found their favorites and seemed happy when Liora conjured the dishes away.

“It’s always refreshing to see our worlds gather in the pursuit of peace,” Councillor Emery said as he stood to address his guests. “And to have this rare opportunity for enlightened interchange and mutual benefit. The real work begins tomorrow, but we wanted to end this first night with something we hope you’ll find heartening. As many of you know, the complex problems of our modern world have led to the rise of certain groups within the Lost Cities. And while the Black Swan have proven themselves to be both resourceful and reasonable—which is why they’re represented here at this Summit—the Neverseen have unfortunately caused incredible chaos. Halting their efforts has proven a challenge, but we finally have proof of our inevitable victory.”

Three holograms flashed to the center of the U shape: Brant, Ruy, and Gethen—live projections of each of the prisoners in their blindingly bright cells. They sat in nearly identical poses—backs straight, legs crossed, eyes closed—looking more like meditating monks than warmongering villains.

And yet, as Sophie watched, the faintest whiff of a smile curled Gethen’s lips, reminding her how desperate he’d seemed for information about the summit.

They’re up to something, she thought, right as a pair of goblins burst into the room and whispered a breathless message to Councillor Emery.

“Is something wrong?” King Dimitar asked.

“ ‘Wrong’ is not the word I would use.” Councillor Emery glanced at the other Councillors, waiting for each to nod. “I’ve just received word that the current leader of the Neverseen—an elf named Fintan Pyren—is outside the gates of this castle demanding to be admitted to the proceedings.”

SEVENTY-SIX

WHY AREN’T THEY arresting him? Sophie transmitted to Mr. Forkle as the various leaders shouted questions at the Council. They should be dragging Fintan to one of those cells to join his co-conspirators!

Diplomacy is rarely as straightforward as it may seem, Mr. Forkle told her. Both Queen Hylda and Empress Pernille are requesting that Fintan be allowed to participate in the Summit’s proceedings. Haven’t you been listening?

She hadn’t. Her mind had been too busy piecing scarier things together.

Fintan’s arrival.

The fact that none of the prisoners had looked particularly upset about being in their cells.

Lady Gisela telling her “this is what they want.”

Even the plan Keefe had mentioned—the one he’d said Brant and Ruy were ordered to take part in, which Ruy had considered unnecessary and demeaning.

Could it have involved letting themselves get captured?

They’re up to something, she transmitted. Probably a jailbreak. It’s perfect. They’d get to humiliate the Council, impress or scare the world leaders, and get Gethen back, all in one go.

You may be right, Mr. Forkle said. And in case you are, I think it would be quite unwise to allow Fintan anywhere near those cells, don’t you?

He stood, clearing his throat as he waited for the room’s attention. “For the record, I think Fintan should be heard during the proceedings as well.”

At least half the room gasped—Sophie included—even though she knew what Mr. Forkle was trying to do.