“It doesn’t have as great a radius as I would like,” Cress tells me, turning her attention to me. “A person has to be close to the gas when it’s released before it dissipates into the air and weakens. And as I said, it doesn’t last. In a couple of hours, he will return to himself. This isn’t the first time we’ve tried it on him, you know. He makes an excellent test subject—so defiant, so rebellious, right until the second he inhales the velastra.”

She sounds so gleeful that I want nothing more than to strike her. To drive my dagger into her chest where her heart must be, though I’m not so sure she has one. Before, I wondered if I could do it. I didn’t think I had it in me. And maybe that was true a few moments ago, but now, seeing Laius with his dead eyes and his will taken away from him, I know without a doubt that I could. That I could take Cress’s life in my hands and shatter it. I know that death would be too good for her.

Before I can speak, she continues.

“I do think his usefulness has come to an end, though,” she says, turning back to Laius. Before I can make sense of the words, she reaches into the pocket of her gown and extracts her own dagger. My hands tighten around mine, ready for a fight, but she doesn’t turn its point to me. Instead pushes it through the bars, hilt first.

“Take it, Laius,” she tells him.

“No,” the word escapes me in a whisper, and I find myself frozen in place as Laius’s hand reaches out to take the dagger. “Cress, no. Don’t do it.”

She doesn’t seem to hear me, her placid eyes lingering on Laius. Though he holds the dagger firmly, his hands shake, and I know that somewhere, beneath the film the velastra has left on his mind, he knows what is happening; he is fighting it with everything he has. I know that it will not be enough.

“Now, Laius,” Cress says, her voice turning soft and syrupy. “You’re going to slit your own throat.”

I can’t form words. Can’t move. Can’t do anything but watch Laius do as he’s commanded, the silver blade leaving a red gash in his throat. Just as the Theyn’s knife cut my mother’s throat so long ago now. My fingers reach up to grab the iron bars of the cell, as if I can pull them apart and reach him, as if I can save him.

But I can’t. All I can do is watch as he falls to his knees, then to the ground, utterly still.

The next thing I know, I have Cress against the hallway wall, my dagger at her charred and flaking throat. I press it hard enough that blood bubbles to the surface, crimson red.

The action doesn’t seem to faze her. She eyes me, tilting her head to one side. “Are you going to kill me, then?” she asks, each word dripping in mockery.

I should. I want to. But that is not how this ends. If I kill Cress now, like this, it won’t solve anything. Someone else will take her place, someone worse, perhaps.

Who could possibly be worse? I think I might even take the Kaiser over her.

But I know Cress, I understand her, and we are too close now to change the rules of the game.

“No,” I tell her, the word wrenched from my chest. “Not here. Not like this. No, but I am coming for you. With all my might and my fury and my hate. I am coming for you with everything I have. And I want you to know that when the moment comes, when you realize that I’ve won—when you beg me for mercy—your pleas will fall on deaf ears.

“And when you are dead, when your people are defeated and Astrea is under my rule, no one will speak your name again. There will be no record of you, no stories to pass on to future generations, no songs played in your honor. History will forget you, Cress. And when I’m dead, no one will remember you at all. You will be nothing but a fistful of ashes scattered in the wind. Lost. Erased. Forgotten.”

Cress holds my gaze, and I’m pleased to see that she looks a little shaken.

“We were friends once, Cress. You were my heart’s sister, and my heart will always mourn you in a way. But the next time we meet, I will ensure that you pay for your crimes—each and every awful one of them. Including this.”

“Is this the part where I surrender?” Cress asks with a mocking smile.

I shake my head. “No. This is the part where you make peace with your gods and pray that they show you mercy. Because I won’t.”

Cress only stares at me, but I don’t need her to say anything more. I’m done here.

I take the tip of my dagger and press it to the pad of my thumb, using the sharp pain to draw me out of sleep and return me to the relative safety of my bed.

* * *

—

The scratch of the threadbare quilt is welcome, as is the sound of Heron’s baritone snores. I sit up slowly, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. The pastel light of the rising sun is just beginning to pierce through the cloth of the tent, and already I can hear people outside, talking in low, tired voices as they begin to pack up the camp.

I could sleep for another half hour—even that little bit of extra sleep will be of value in the face of the busy day ahead, but I know I won’t be able to close my eyes without seeing Laius’s face, without hearing his voice echoing in my mind, without being haunted by the empty look in his eyes in the instant the velastra took hold of him.

A breakthrough, she called it, but still too weak, too contained to do the damage she wanted it to. But what damage it did. Enough to destroy a person, to take their will away from them, to trap their very soul in a cage.

I bury my face in my hands, taking deep breaths and trying to focus, trying to keep my mind from circling around the horror of it, around the possibility of what kind of nightmare Cress hopes to unleash if she does manage to make the velastra stronger.

We won’t stand a chance against it—I know that as surely as I know my own name, and that knowledge burrows deep under my skin and lingers.

A sound pierces through all the spiraling thoughts that threaten to drown me, no stronger than the mewl of a newborn kitten.

“Theo?” Artemisia says.

AWAKE AS SHE MIGHT BE, Artemisia isn’t quite back to being herself. As the sun rises, we walk through the camp together, her leaning heavily on me because her legs are still too weak to hold her up on her own. We both pretend not to notice.

She’s awake, I tell myself. That’s enough.

Everyone in the camp has a job to do, a task to complete, to get us moving as quickly as possible—everyone except Art and me, that is. Heron advised her to stay in bed altogether, but she couldn’t bear to sit still and insisted on a walk while I catch her up on what she missed and my latest—and last, I think—dream about Cress.

Her jaw remains tightly clenched with each step she takes, and though I don’t suppose I’ll ever know for certain, I think she’s struggling to keep from crying out in pain. I distract her by going over our plan with her, telling her about the passageways and how we’re going to use them.

When I finish, she remains quiet, her brow furrowed deeply, though whether it’s in pain or worry, I can’t tell.

“It’s the best plan we could come up with,” I say. “We formulated it before my dream, before Laius…” I trail off, my stomach twisting, though I force myself forward. “But it’s still the most sound plan. It will get us to the palace, and that’s more pressing than ever now. Your mother already wrote back—she’ll be waiting for us on the river with a group of boats to shuttle about half of our troops to the harbor.”

“And the other half?”

“Will continue on foot and horseback from here to the entrances of the two passageways. I have scouts heading there now to ensure both tunnels are functional.”

“I suppose you know that you can’t fit many warriors into a kitchen cellar or wine cellar without someone noticing? Yes, anyone coming and going will likely be Astrean but…” She trails off, but she doesn’t have to finish the thought.

I remember Gazzi’s betrayal and how it cost Elpis her life. I remember Ion turning his back on his gods and using his gift to help his enemies and hurt me. I remember my old maid Felicie, betraying me to the Kaiser when I was only seven years old.

Just because someone is Astrean doesn’t mean they can be trusted. I can’t even blame them for it, really. They have been beaten down for so long that they might be content with safety over the risk in fighting for freedom.

“We have a few Air Guardians recovering after the fire,” I remind her. “A couple will go with each group, there to turn our warriors invisible anytime someone wanders into those rooms. And it will only be a day, maybe two, of waiting before we strike as one.”

“A lot can happen in a day, maybe two,” she points out.

“I know,” I say, my stomach uneasy. “But it’s the best plan we have.”

“I’m not saying it’s a bad one,” she says quickly. “But when so much is left up to chance, it helps to be prepared for everything.”

She looks down, her trouser legs rolled up above the knee to show thick bandages covering every inch of skin. I caught a glimpse of the burns when Heron reapplied ointment and fresh gauze this morning—angry red ropes of raw skin, twisted and gnarled. I can’t believe she’s standing now, let alone walking and talking, but then Artemisia has always been stronger than I could ever imagine being.

“I’m sorry,” I tell her.