“It’s not your fault,” a voice says. Erik, though he keeps his back to us. His voice is barely recognizable, full of anguish and raw from screaming or crying or perhaps both. “It was my foolish plan. I’m the one who put them in danger. I’m the one who killed them as sure as if I’d cut their throats myself.”

“Erik,” I say, reaching toward him. When my hand comes down on his shoulder, he draws away from me, curling in tighter on himself. “You made a judgment call. You thought it was the right one. You thought it was the only one.”

“I was wrong,” he bites out. “My mother told me I had to lead them, and I did—straight to their graves, one way or another.”

“There’s no changing that now,” I say. “But we can focus on saving those who were sent to the mine. Dragonsbane is on her way there—she’ll free them. All isn’t lost.”

Erik doesn’t reply but his shoulders shake with silent sobs.

Heron kneels down beside me, his own expression tight and unreadable.

“We’ll avenge them, Erik,” he says softly. “We’ll save the ones who can be saved, and we’ll make sure those bastards feel every ounce of pain and death they’ve inflicted tenfold. With the two of you leading our army, we’ll make them pay.”

“That’s just it,” Erik says, his voice hoarse. “I won’t be leading any armies.”

He rolls over to face us, and I can’t help but let out a cry. His hair isn’t the only thing the Kalovaxians took. One eye is swollen shut, red and ugly, but where the other should be, there is only a gaping hole of seared flesh, still raw and fresh. I know without asking how it happened. I can imagine Cress with her burning fingers, digging out Erik’s eye like a lychee from its rind, cauterizing the wound as she did.

“She was very angry,” S?ren said, but even then I never imagined this. I feel sick all over again.

“I’m sorry,” I say, bringing my hand over my mouth. “I’m so sorry, Erik.”

Erik shakes his head. “I’m useless to you now,” he says. “I have no army for you, Theo. I can’t lead a battalion. I’m not even sure I could lead the way out of this tent.”

“You’re blind,” Heron says, finding his voice again finally.

“Half,” Erik says, motioning to the swollen eye. “This one should heal, I think. But with no depth perception and a narrower field of vision—”

“No,” Heron says. “I mean you’re blind—you aren’t dead. You want to help, you want to save your people, then do it. You don’t have to lead an army to do that.”

I don’t think I’ve ever heard Heron speak to anyone so harshly, apart from S?ren. Even Erik seems taken aback.

“He’s right, Erik,” S?ren says. “What would Gormund say to see you giving up so easily?”

“Gormund?” Heron asks, frowning.

“A Kalovaxian warrior of legend,” I explain. “They said he was half god, that he could freeze a person where they stood with a single look. But his human brother grew jealous of him, and while the warrior slept, the brother cut out Gormund’s eye.”

“Gormund still had one magical eye,” says Erik. “I’m not even sure how well my nonmagical eye will heal. It isn’t the same thing.”

“It’s settled, then,” Heron says, his voice strangely cold. “When we leave here, you’ll bring up the rear with the other wounded, with the elderly and the children. And when we meet with Dragonsbane, you’ll join them on her ships and wait for the war to be over. And when we save your people, you can tell them how easily that witch managed to cow their Emperor by taking his eye. See how many of them will still call you Emperor after that.”

Erik flinches from the words, but his mouth tightens. “It isn’t that I don’t want to stay,” he says. “Of course I do. But I won’t be of any help to you now. It’s better for you to send me away.”

“If you want to stay, then I want you to stay,” I tell him. “You aren’t useless. You have your mind, you have your determination. You can still probably wield a sword better than half of Cress’s army, I’d bet, depth perception or no. Stay and fight and show her that she didn’t ruin you.”

Erik swallows. For a moment, he says nothing, but eventually he nods his head. “I don’t suppose you could heal me, Heron?” he asks, though he sounds like he already knows the answer.

“I can’t make you a new eye,” Heron says, his voice pained. “But I can try to help with healing your other one.”

“What about you, Artemisia?” Erik asks. “Any illusion you could cast to hide it?”

“Nothing permanent. I’m sorry,” she says. “And nothing that would give you back your vision.”

“Ah well,” Erik says, his voice still quavering. “I had a few good years of being handsome. It’s more than most get.”

It’s an attempt at a joke, but no one laughs.

“You’re still handsome,” Heron says quietly.

Erik laughs, the sound hard. “I’m monstrous,” he says.

“You’re brave,” Heron says, louder this time. “And steadfast. And you fight for your people—for what you know is right no matter what it costs you. You are, without a doubt, the handsomest man I’ve ever seen, and if you try to say otherwise one last time, I will break your nose as well, you vain ass.”

The proclamation is followed by silence. I don’t think I’ve ever heard Heron curse, let alone threaten violence, and the thought of it is so ridiculous that I can’t fight a smile, as small and frail as it feels on my lips. After a moment, Erik shakes his head and I see he has a smile of his own—not a full one. Not the one I’m used to from him. It is a fragile thing, likely to break if anyone breathes the wrong way. But it is a smile all the same.

It strikes me suddenly that we are all together again, in a way I never imagined we would be. We are here and we are alive against all odds. Cress has taken so much from us, and I know that this is war and she will likely take much more before all is said and done. But today, we are here and together and victorious, and that is enough.

I WAS RIGHT ABOUT S?REN’S WOUNDS—Heron can’t fix them with his magic. They’ll have to heal on their own, and even then, he’ll likely always carry the scars. Heron offers to heal them as best he can, but S?ren refuses.

“There are too many others here who need you more than I do,” he says. “This won’t kill me—it just hurts.”

“It will kill you if they get infected,” Heron says. “But you don’t need me to prevent that. The worst ones just need to be sterilized and bandaged. I can try to find someone who knows how, but it may be a while.”

“I’ll do it,” I say before I can stop myself.

Heron looks at me with raised eyebrows. “Do you know how?” he asks.

I shrug. “I was on the other side of it often enough after the Kaiser’s punishments. I’m sure I can figure it out.”

Heron nods. “All right, then. I’ll get you some supplies. Art, can you help Erik outside? Get him used to finding his way around?” He looks at Erik. “The last thing you’re going to do is wallow. You’re going to get back on your feet and figure out how to adjust. Trust me, you’ll thank me for it later.”

Erik grimaces but nods. “I’m sure I will,” he says, forcing himself to sit up, and groaning as he does. “But right now, I’d like to say some far less savory things to you.”

“Keep a list,” Heron says with a small smile. “You can tell them to me over dinner.”

For an instant, Erik is shocked and flustered—a look I’ve never seen on him before. He recovers his wits quickly enough. “It’s a deal,” he says.

Artemisia looks between the two of them, eyebrows raised so high they almost disappear entirely into her hair.

“We are at war,” she says with a sigh. “Surely there is a better time to flirt than when death is around every corner?”

“Truth be told, I’m hard-pressed to think of a better time to flirt,” Erik says, pushing himself to his feet. “You very well may never get another chance.”

Artemisia rolls her eyes.

“Just because I can’t see you doesn’t mean I don’t know you’re rolling your eyes, Art,” he says, holding an arm out to her, which she takes. She guides him a couple of hesitant steps. “Just because you don’t know how to flirt—”

“I know how,” she snaps indignantly as she leads him out of the tent, the two of them continuing to bicker as they go.

* * *

—

When Heron leaves us with the ointment and bandages, he takes all of the air in the room with him. Alone with S?ren, I’m aware of every breath he takes, standing on the opposite side of the tent—the rise and fall of his bare chest, marred with scars and wounds. I’m aware of him being aware of me, his gaze careful and wary, like he still doesn’t trust that I’m really here. I don’t blame him—some days I can’t quite believe it, either.

“I really thought that you were dead,” he says, breaking the silence. The words are a confession, whisper-quiet, as if saying them out loud might negate the miracle.

“I know. I thought you were as good as,” I reply. “I didn’t think I would see you again before she…I wanted to get you back, I swear I did. I would have done everything I could to rescue you, but…”

“But storming the capital before you had enough warriors would have been to doom your rebellion,” he says. “I know. You couldn’t do that. I never expected you to.”