“Ready when you are,” I say to S?ren.

S?ren doesn’t reply, his brow furrowed in concentration as he slowly starts to pull the sword from Heron’s flesh. As soon as he does, I lower the flames at my fingers so they touch Heron’s skin.

He cries out in pain, gripping Artemisia’s hand so tightly in his that I see his knuckles turn white in my peripheral vision, but I keep my focus on the wound, on S?ren slowly pulling the sword out inch by inch. The smell of burning flesh permeates the air, making me dizzy and nauseous, but I keep my hands still, my flames steady, until the tip of the sword pulls out of Heron’s stomach and I burn the skin closed behind it.

I drop my hands and sway on my feet, but S?ren’s hand comes down on my shoulder to steady me.

Heron’s eyes slit open and he looks down at the burnt skin where his wound used to be. He nods once, a thin sheen of sweat covering his face. His breathing is ragged as he brings a hand to rest over it. A few seconds pass in tense, still silence before Heron’s body sags in exhaustion, his hand falling away from his stomach. Where there was a circle of burned flesh a moment ago, there is now only a pale scar.

His breath turns steady again and he looks up at me. “Thank you,” he says.

I nod, unable to speak. The world is still spinning around me, blurry at the edges.

“She’s overexerted herself,” Artemisia says.

“I’m fine,” I say, but it doesn’t sound convincing even to my own ears.

Artemisia opens her mouth to protest, but she’s interrupted by an uproar of shouting down the hallway. She turns to the other warriors. “Go,” she tells them. “We’ll be along soon.”

As they rush to follow her order, Heron hauls himself to his feet, barely wincing. “What’s behind that door?” he asks, nodding down the dimly lit hall.

I follow his gaze, though it’s hard to make out anything in particular. I struggle to remember where we are, where this hall leads, what’s behind that door.

When I realize, a laugh bubbles up in my throat, uncontrollable and unhinged.

“Theo?” Heron asks, voice wary.

“It’s my room,” I say between laughs. “It’s my old room. See? The shadow room doors?”

Artemisia exhales. “She’s right,” she says before shaking her head. “It’s as good a place as any for the two of you to rest.”

“I don’t need rest,” Heron says. “Honestly. Good as new.”

“Me too,” I add, though even as I say it, I’m not sure I’ll be able to remain standing if S?ren takes his hand off my shoulder.

“Just for a few minutes,” Artemisia says. “We’re going to clear the rest of this wing, and then we’ll come back for you. Heron, get a fire started for her—it’ll help her get her strength back.”

Heron looks like he wants to argue, but before he can, Artemisia continues.

“She can’t stay alone,” she points out.

At that, Heron nods, putting an arm around my waist to support me.

“Hurry back,” he says, his voice grave. He doesn’t say to be safe or to stay alive, and for that, I’m grateful.

MY ROOM IS EXACTLY THE same as it was the night I left. Even the bed is still rumpled and unmade. The towel I used to clean my face is still draped over the basin, smeared with the red lip lacquer and tan powder I wore to the banquet earlier in the evening. I know, even without opening the wardrobe, that my dresses still hang inside—the gaudy ones from the Kaiser and the prettier ones Cress gave me.

It’s my room, my home for ten years, and yet as I stand here again, it feels so much smaller.

Heron helps me into my old bed, propping me up with pillows, before going to the fireplace and getting to work starting a fire with the tinder and flint.

“What happened, before you helped heal me,” Heron says, without looking at me. “Are we going to talk about that? How you turned those warriors to ash with just a touch.”

“Yes, we are,” I say, tilting my head back and closing my eyes. “But not right now.”

“What else are we going to do? Worry helplessly?” he asks, which I have to admit is a fair point.

I sigh. “I don’t know what it was, what came over me. It just happened. I saw that you were hurt, and instinct took over. My blood felt like it was literally boiling.”

“Could you do it again?” he asks, more curious than conniving.

“I don’t know,” I admit. “But no, I don’t think so. I wouldn’t know where to even begin.”

“And besides,” Heron says, “if you’re left incapacitated after you wield that kind of power, it might be more trouble than it’s worth.”

“I’m not incapacitated,” I tell him, though again I can feel the lie as clearly as I can feel the instant he strikes the flint and a small flame sparks to life in the fireplace. It sings through my body like I’m slipping into a hot bath. Without meaning to, I let out a sigh of relief.

“There’s no shame in reaching your limits, Theo,” he says, using a small gust of air to invigorate the weak fire into a full blaze. “It means you’ve given something your all.”

I snort. “That’s easy for you to say,” I point out. “When you need to replenish your gifts, you only have to breathe.”

He laughs softly but doesn’t deny it.

“I can’t believe you were stabbed,” I say.

“I can,” he says. “Mostly because I can still feel it.”

I prop myself up on my elbows to look at him. “You said you were fine,” I point out.

He shrugs. “So did you,” he replies.

I can’t argue with that, so I lie back down and let the energy of the fire wash over me. I want to ask him if he’s all right. If he’s in pain. If he needs to rest. But we both know there’s no time for rest, no time for him to be anything less than fine. So I don’t say anything at all and we fall into a heavy silence as we both try to recover as much as possible, as quickly as we can.

My eyes close and I let my mind wander—not to what’s happening outside my door, but to what tomorrow might bring. And the day after that. And the day after that. I remind myself what we’re fighting for, what our future holds if we just push through the pain and grab it.

A hot hand comes to rest on my shoulder, and I bolt upright, eyes flying open.

I’m not asleep—I know I’m not—but Cress is standing before me all the same, dressed in a silver chiton with an ornate gold-and-Fire-Gem pin securing it in place at her shoulder. A collar necklace of Fire Gems rests against her clavicles, glinting in the firelight.

“Theo?” Heron asks, looking at me with alarm. “Are you all right?”

He doesn’t see her, even though she’s as real as I am.

Cress lifts a black-tipped finger to her lips.

“Fine,” I manage with a smile. “I just dozed off for a second,” I lie.

He nods and turns away from me again, focusing on the fire and his own thoughts.

I shouldn’t be able to see Cress—I’m not asleep, after all—but here she is. Perhaps the power I used earlier drained me even more than I expected, leaving my mind open and vulnerable. Perhaps it’s the fact that Cress and I are so close now, the lack of distance blurring the edges of our minds. Perhaps whatever this connection is, it’s deepening.

But the why doesn’t matter. Not now, at least. What matters is that she’s in the room with me, as clearly as Heron is, but he can’t see her.

“This battle is boring me, Thora,” she says with a sigh. “Meet me in the throne room. Let’s see if we can’t settle this like ladies instead of barbarians, shall we? No warriors, no guards, just us.”

The air around us fizzles and I see her in the throne room, sitting proudly on my mother’s throne, eyes closed. Her pale hand rests lazily on the shoulder of a young Astrean girl with hair such a dark shade of brown, it’s nearly black. Her eyes are locked on Cress, wide and frightened. She can’t be more than eight years old. Cress opens her eyes and looks at the guards stationed around her throne.

“Go, join the fight,” she tells them, her voice ringing with authority.

The girl whimpers, flinching away from Cress.

“Your Highness,” one guard says, but she doesn’t let him get further than that.

“It’s an order,” she says. “I won’t have a single guard in this room, or in the hall outside. It is a waste when there are Astrean rebels storming my palace. Am I understood?”

The guards nod and disappear. When the door closes behind them, Cress looks at me once more. She lifts her other hand and there, twirling idly between her fingers, is the same kind of vial she used to drug Laius—full, I imagine, of the same gas that made a puppet of him.

“I’m bored,” she tells me, bringing the vial close to the young girl’s face. The girl eyes it with wide, fearful eyes, trying to pull away, but Cress holds her firm at the collar of her homespun dress. “Don’t make me find other ways of entertaining myself.”

Before I can answer, she’s gone, fading into the air like smoke. I let out a breath, thinking only for a second before climbing out of bed.

“What are you doing?” Heron asks.

“Cress is in the throne room,” I tell him. “She wants a meeting.”