Glass Sword

25

The Notch flickers behind me, and I watch in awe as my home of the last few months disappears with a single sweep of Harrick’s hand. The hill remains, as does the clearing, but any sign of our camp wipes away like sand from a flat stone. We can’t even hear the children who were standing there a moment ago, waving good-bye, their voices echoing in the night. Farrah muffles them all and, together with Harrick, drops a curtain of protection around the youngest newbloods. No one has ever come close to finding us, but the added defense gives me more comfort than I care to admit. Most of the others let out victorious whoops, as if the act of disguising the Notch alone is cause for celebration. To my annoyance, Kilorn leads the cheer, whistling hard. But I don’t scold him, not now when we’re finally back on speaking terms. Instead, I offer a forced smile, my teeth gritted painfully together. It keeps back the words I wish I could say—Save your energy.

Shade is just as quiet as I am, and falls in next to me. He doesn’t look back at the now empty clearing, and keeps his eyes forward, to the dark, cold woods and the task ahead of us. His limp is almost entirely gone and he sets a quick pace that I eagerly follow, drawing the rest along with us. The hike to the airjet is not long. I try to take in every second of it. The cold night air bites at my exposed face, but the sky is blissfully clear. No snow, no storms—yet. For a storm is certainly coming, whether by my hand or someone else’s. And I have no idea who will survive to see the dawn.

Shade murmurs something I don’t hear, putting one hand on my shoulder. Two of his fingers are crooked, still healing from when we recruited Nanny in Cancorda. A strongarm managed to get a grip on Shade, and crushed the first fingers on his left hand before he could jump away. Farley patched him up, of course, but the sight still makes me cringe. It reminds me of Gisa, another Barrow broken to pay for my deeds.

“This is worth the cost,” he says again, his voice louder than before. “We’re doing the right thing.”

I know that. As afraid as I am for myself and those closest to me, I know that Corros is the right choice. Even without Jon’s assurance, I believe in our path. How could we not? Newbloods cannot be left to Elara’s whispering, to be killed or made into hollow, soulless shells to follow her orders. This is what we must do to stop a more horrible world than the one we live in now.

Still, Shade’s assurance is a warm blanket of comfort. “Thank you,” I mutter back, putting a hand over his.

He smiles in reply, a crescent of white to reflect the waning moon. In the darkness, he looks so much like our father. Without age, without the wheelchair, without the burdens of a life come undone. But they share the same intelligence, the same slanting suspicion that kept them both alive on the war front, and now keeps Shade alive on a very different battlefield. He pats me on the cheek, a familiar gesture that makes me feel like a child, but I don’t dislike it. It’s a reminder of the blood we share. Not in mutation, but birth. Something deeper and stronger than any ability.

On my right, Cal marches on, and I pretend not to feel his gaze. I know he’s thinking about his own brother and his own bonds of blood now torn apart. And behind him is Kilorn, clutching his hunting rifle, scanning the woods for any and all shadows. For all their differences, the two boys share a startling connection. They are both orphans, both abandoned, with no one but me to anchor them.

Time passes too quickly for my taste. It seems like we’re on the Blackrun and soaring through the air in moments. Every second moves faster than the last as we hurtle toward the dark cliff before us all. This is worth the cost, I tell myself, repeating Shade’s words over and over. I must keep calm, for the jet. I must not look afraid, for the others. But my heart thrums in my chest, so loud I fear everyone can hear it.

To combat the harried beat, I press myself against the flight helmet in my lap, curling my arms around the smooth, cool shape. I stare at the polished metal, examining my reflection. The girl I see is both familiar and foreign, Mare, Mareena, the lightning girl, the Red Queen, and no one at all. She does not look afraid. She looks carved of stone, with severe features, hair braided tight to her head, and a tangle of scars on her neck. She is not seventeen, but ageless, Silver but not, Red but not, human—but not. A banner of the Scarlet Guard, a face on a wanted poster, a prince’s downfall, a thief … a killer. A doll who can take any form but her own.

The extra flight suits from the jet stores are black and silver, providing us with a ragtag kind of uniform that will also serve as our disguises. The others fuss over their suits, making adjustments where they must to fit into them. As always, Kilorn fiddles with his collar, trying to loosen the stiff fabric a little. Nix’s barely zips over his belly, and looks liable to rip open at any moment. In contrast, Nanny is practically swimming in hers but doesn’t bother to roll her sleeves or pant legs like I have to. She’ll take a different form when the jet lands, a form that turns my stomach and makes my heart race with too many emotions to count.

Luckily, the Blackrun was built for transport, and holds all eleven of us with room to spare. I expect the extra weight to slow us down, but judging by the control panel, we’re cruising along at the same speed as always. Maybe even a little faster. Cal pushes the craft as best as he can, keeping us out of the moonlight and safely hidden in the autumn clouds rolling along the Nortan coast.

He glares out the window, eyes flitting between the clouds and the many blinking instruments before him. I still don’t understand what any of them mean, despite my many weeks sitting next to him in the cockpit. I was a poor student in the Stilts and that has not changed. I simply don’t have a mind like he does. I know only shortcuts, how to cheat, how to lie, how to steal, and I know how to see what people hide. And right now, Cal is certainly hiding something. I would be afraid of anyone else’s secrets, but I know what Cal keeps close cannot hurt me. He’s trying to bury his own weakness, his own fear. He was raised to believe in strength and power and nothing else. To falter was the ultimate mistake. I told him before that I was afraid too, but a few whispered words are not enough to break years of belief. Just like me, Cal puts up a mask, and he won’t even let me see behind it.

It’s for the best, the practical side of me thinks. The other part, the one that cares too much for the exiled prince, worries terribly. I know the physical danger of this mission, but the emotional never crossed my mind until this afternoon. What will Cal become in Corros? Will he leave the same way he went in? Will he leave at all?

Farley checks our cache of weapons for the twelfth time. Shade tries to help and she bats him away, but there’s little force behind the action. Once, I catch a smirk pass between them, and she finally allows him to count out bullets from a packet marked Corvium. Another stolen shipment, Crance’s doing most likely. Together with Farley’s contacts, he managed to smuggle us more guns, blades, and various other weapons than I could have imagined possible. Everyone will be armed, with their ability and whatever else they choose. I myself want nothing but my lightning, but the others are more eager, claiming daggers or pistols or, in Nix’s case, the brutal, collapsible spear he’s favored these past few weeks. He hugs it close, running his fingers along the sharpened steel with abandon. Another would have cut himself open by now, but Nix’s flesh is tougher than most. The other invulnerable newblood, Darmian, follows his lead and lays a thick, cleaver-like blade across his knobbly knees. The edge gleams, begging to cut through bone.

As I watch, Cameron shakily takes a small knife, careful to keep it sheathed. She spent the last three days honing her ability, not her knife work, and the dagger is a last resort, one I hope she doesn’t have to utilize. She catches my eye, her expression pained, and for a moment I fear she might snap at me or, worse, see through my mask. Instead, she nods in grim acknowledgment.

I nod back, extending the invisible hand of friendship between us. But her gaze hardens and she looks away sharply. Her meaning is clear. We are allies but not friends.

“Not long now,” Cal says, nudging me on the arm so that I turn around. Too soon, my mind screams, though I know we’re right on schedule.

“This will work.” My voice shakes, and thankfully he’s the only one to hear it. He doesn’t poke at my weakness, letting it fester. “This will work.” Even weaker this time.

“Who has the advantage?” he asks.

The words shock, sting, and soothe in succession. Instructor Arven asked the same thing in Training, when he paired his students against each other in battles for blood and pride. He asked it again in the Bowl of Bones, before a Rhambos strongarm skewered him like a fat, foul pig. I hated the man, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t learn anything from him.

We have surprise; we have Cameron; we have Shade and Gareth and Nanny and five other newbloods no Silver could possibly plan for. We have Cal, a military genius.

And we have cause. We have the Red dawn at our backs, begging to rise.

“We have the advantage.”

Cal’s grin is just as forced as mine, but it warms me anyway. “That’s my girl.”

Again, his words bring forth roiling, conflicting emotion.

A click and a hiss of static from the radio wipe all thoughts of Cal from my mind. I turn my gaze on Nanny, who nods in reply. Before my eyes, her body changes, transforming from an old woman into a boy with ice-blue eyes, black hair, and no soul. Maven. Her clothes shift with her appearance, replacing the flight suit with a pristine, black dress uniform, complete with a row of gleaming medals and a bloodred cape. A crown nestles in the black curls, and I have to fight the urge to toss it from the jet.

The others watch in rapt attention, amazed by the sight of the false king, but I feel only hatred, and the smallest twinge of regret. Nanny’s kindness bleeds through the disguise, turning Maven’s lips into a soft smile I recognize far too well. For a single, painful moment, I’m looking at the boy I thought he was, and not the monster he turned out to be.

“Good,” I force out, my voice thick with emotion. Only Kilorn seems to notice, and wrenches his gaze away from Nanny. I barely shake my head at him, telling him not to worry. We have more important things to dwell on.

“Corros Air, this is Fleet Prime,” Cal says into the radio. On other flights, he did his best to sound bored, uninterested in the mandatory call-ins to different bases, but now he’s all business. After all, we’re pretending to be the king’s own transport, what is known as Fleet Prime, a craft above all scrutiny. And Cal knows firsthand what this particular call-in is supposed to sound like. “The Throne approaches.”

No complicated call sign, no requesting permission to land. Nothing but stern authority, and any operator on the other end would be hard-pressed to deny him. As expected, the responding voice stammers.

“R-r-r-received, Fleet Prime,” a man says. His deep, rasping voice does nothing to hide his unease. “Your pardon, but we were not expecting His Royal Highness until tomorrow afternoon?”

Tomorrow. The fourth day, when Jon said we would die—and he was right. Maven would bring an army of guards with him, from Sentinels to deadly warriors like Ptolemus and Evangeline. We would be no match for them.

I wave a hand behind me, gesturing, but Nanny’s already there. Her closeness in Maven’s form makes my skin prickle.

“The king follows no schedule but his own,” she says into the radio, her cheeks flushed silver. Her tone isn’t sharp enough, but the voice is unmistakable. “And I will not explain myself to a glorified doorman.”

A crash on the other end of the radio can only be the operator falling out of his seat. “Yes—yes, of course, Your Highness.”

Behind us, someone snorts into his sleeve. Probably Kilorn.

Cal offers Nanny a nod, before taking the radio mouthpiece back. I see the same pain in him, the one I feel too deeply. “We will be landing in ten minutes. Prepare Corros for the king’s arrival.”

“I’ll see to it personal—”

But Cal switches off the radio before the operator can finish, and allows himself a single, relieved smile. Again, the others cheer, celebrating a nonexistent victory. Yes, the obstacle is hurdled, but many more will follow. All of them are below us, on the gray-green fields that edge the Wash wastelands, hiding the prison that might be our doom.

A tinge of daylight bleeds on the eastern horizon, but the sky above is still a deep, drowning blue when the Blackrun lands on the smooth Corros runway. This is not a military base crowded with jet squadrons and hangars, but it’s still a Silver facility, and a palpable air of danger hangs over everything. I slide the flight helmet over my head, hiding my face. Cal and the others follow suit, donning their own helmets and slapping the face shields into place. To an outsider, we must look frightening. All in black, masked, accompanying the young, ruthless king to his prison. Hopefully the guards will look right past us, more concerned with the king’s presence than his companions’.

I can’t sit any longer, and get out of my chair as fast as I can. The safety belts dangle in my wake, jingling together. I do what I must, what I wish I didn’t have to, and take Nanny by the arm. She even feels like Maven.

“Look through people,” I tell her, my voice muffled by the helmet. “Smile without kindness. No small talk, no court talk. Act as if you have a million secrets, and you’re the only one important enough to know them all.”

She nods, taking this all in stride. After all, Cal and I have both instructed her on how to pass as Maven. This is merely a reminder, a last glance at the book before the test. “I’m not a fool,” she replies coldly, and I almost punch her in the jaw. She is not Maven rings in my head, louder than a bell.

“I think you’ve got it,” Kilorn says as he stands. He grabs my arm, pulling me slightly away. “Mare nearly killed you.”

“Everyone ready?” Farley shouts from the rear of the jet. Her hand hovers next to the ramp release, eager to press it.

“Form up!” Cal barks, sounding a bit too much like a drill sergeant. But we respond, falling into the ordered lines he taught us, with Nanny at the head. He takes her side, falling into the role of her most lethal bodyguard.

“Let’s make some bad decisions,” Farley says. I can almost hear her smiling as she pushes the release.

A hiss—then gears turn, wires pulse, and the back of the jet yawns open to greet the last morning some of us will ever see.

A dozen soldiers wait a respectable distance from the Blackrun, their formation tight and practiced. At the sight of the newblood masquerading as their king, they snap into stiff, perfect salutes. One hand to the heart, one knee to the ground. The world looks darker behind the shield of my flight helmet, but it doesn’t hide the clouded gray of their military uniforms, or the squat, unassuming compound behind them. No bronze gates, no diamondglass walls—there aren’t even windows. Just a single, flat brick of concrete stretching out into the abandoned fields of this wasteland. Corros Prison. I allow myself one glance back at the craft and the runway stretching into the distance where shadows and radiation dance. I can just see a pair of airjets idling in the gloom, their metal bellies full and round. Prison planes, used to transport the captured. And if all goes to plan, they’ll see action again soon.

We approach Corros in silence, trying to march in step. Cal flanks Nanny, one fist permanently clenched at his side, while I trail just behind, with Cameron on my left and Shade on the right. Farley and Kilorn keep to the center of the formation, never letting go of their guns. The air itself seems electrified, coursing with danger.

It is not death I fear, not anymore. I’ve faced dying too many times to be afraid of it. But the prison itself, the thought of being captured, forced into chains, turned into the Queen’s mindless puppet—that I cannot bear. I would rather die a hundred times than face such a fate. So would any of us.

“Your Highness,” one of the soldiers says, daring to look up at the person he believes to be king. The badge on his breast, three crossed swords in red metal, mark him as a captain. The bars on his shoulders, bright red and blue, can only be his house colors. House Iral. “Welcome to Corros Prison.”

As instructed, Nanny looks straight through him, waving one pale hand in dismissal. That should be enough to convince anyone of her supposed identity. But as the soldiers stand, the captain’s eyes flick over us, noting our own uniforms—and the lack of Sentinels accompanying the royal sovereign. He hesitates on Cal, one razored glance focusing on his helmet. He says nothing, however, and his soldiers fall into formation next to us, their footsteps echoing with ours. Haven, Osanos, Provos, Macanthos, Eagrie—I note the familiar colors on a few uniforms. The last, House Eagrie, the House of Eyes, is our first target. I tug on Cameron’s sleeve, nodding gently toward the bearded blond man with darting eyes and white-and-black stripes on his shoulder.

She inclines her head, and her fists ball at her sides in quiet concentration. The raid has begun.

The captain takes Nanny’s other side, stepping in front of me so smoothly I barely notice. A silk. He has the same tanned skin, gleaming black hair, and angled features of Sonya Iral and her grandmother, the sleekly dangerous Panther. I can only hope the captain is not so talented at intrigue as she is, or else this is going to be much more difficult than expected.

“Your specifications are nearly completed, Your Highness,” he says. There’s a prickling air to his words. “Every cell block is individually sealed, as instructed, and the next shipment of Silent Stone arrives tomorrow with the new unit of guards.”

“Good,” Nanny replies, sounding uninterested. Her pace quickens a little, and the captain adjusts in kind, keeping up with her. Cal does the same, and we follow. It looks like a chase.

While the Security Center of Harbor Bay was a beautiful structure, a vision of carved stone and sparkling glass, Corros is as gray and hopeless as the waste around it. Only the entrance, a single, black-iron door set flush against the wall, breaks the monotony of the prison. No hinges, no lock or handle—the door looks like an abyss, like a gaping mouth. But I feel electricity, bleeding around the edges, originating from a small square panel set next to it. The key switch. Just like Cameron said. The key itself dangles from a black chain at Iral’s neck, but he doesn’t pull it loose.

There are cameras too, beady little eyes trained on the door. They don’t bother me in the slightest. I care more about the silk captain and his soldiers, who have us surrounded, and keep us marching forward.

“I’m afraid I don’t know you, Pilot, or the rest of you for that matter,” the captain prods, leaning so he can see past Nanny and fix Cal with a flint-eyed stare. “Would you identify yourself?”

I clench my fist to keep my fingers from shaking. Cal does no such thing, and barely turns his head, reluctant to even acknowledge the prison captain. “Pilot suits me fine, Captain Iral.”

Iral bristles, as expected. “The Corros facility is under my command and my protection, Pilot. If you think I’m going to let you inside without—”

“Without what, Captain?” Every word out of Nanny’s mouth cuts like a knife, slicing through the deepest parts of me. The captain stops cold and flushes silver, swallowing an ill-advised retort. “Last I checked, Corros belongs to Norta. And who does Norta belong to?”

“I am only doing my job, Your Highness,” he sputters, but the battle is already lost. He puts a hand to his heart again, saluting. “The queen charged me with defense of this prison, and I only wish to obey her commands, as well as yours.”

Nanny nods. “Then I command you to open the door.”

He bows his head, giving way. One of his soldiers, an older woman with a severe, silver braid and square jaw, steps forward, laying one hand on the iron door. I don’t need the black-and-silver stripes on her shoulder to know she’s of House Samos. The iron shifts beneath her magnetron touch, splintering into jagged pieces that retract with sharp efficiency. A blast of cold air hits us head-on, smelling faintly of damp and something sour. Blood. But the entrance hall beyond is made of stark, blinding-white tiles, each one without a hint of stain. Nanny is the first to step inside, and we follow.

Next to me, Cameron trembles, and I nudge her softly. I would hold her hand if I could. I can only imagine how terrible this must be—I would tear myself apart before returning to Archeon. And yet, she returns to her own prison for me.

The entrance is strangely empty. No pictures of Maven, no banners. This place has no one to impress, and needs no decoration. There are only whirring cameras. Captain Iral’s soldiers quickly retake their posts, flanking each of the four doors around us. The one behind, the black, shuts with the earsplitting screech of metal sliding against metal. The doors to the left and right are painted silver, and gleam in the harsh prison light. The one ahead, the one we must pass through, is a sickening bloodred.

But Iral stops short, gesturing to one of the silver doors. “I assume you’d like to see Her Highness, the queen?”

I am very glad for our helmets, or else the captain would see horror on every single face. Elara is here. My stomach flips at the thought of facing her, and I’m almost sick inside my helmet. Even Nanny pales and her voice sticks, despite her best efforts. I feel Kilorn at my back, inches from me. He is silent, but I hear his meaning all the same. Run. Run. Run. But running is not something I can do anymore.

“Her Highness is here?” Cal bites out. For a second, I’m afraid he’s forgotten himself. “Still?” he adds, the afterthought of a lie. But suspicion flares in the captain all the same. I see it like an explosion in his eyes.

Blessed Nanny laughs aloud, her forced chuckle cold and detached. “Mother has always done as she likes, you know this,” she says to Cal, scolding him. “But I am here on other business, Captain. No need to bother her.”

The captain offers up an obliging smile. It pulls at his face like a sneer, twisting his fine features into something ugly. “Very well, sir.”

Kilorn taps my arm, his touch urgent. He sees what I see. The captain no longer believes us. Turning, I take Cameron by the elbow, and squeeze. Her next signal. Under my touch, her muscles tighten. She’s pouring everything she has into blocking Eagrie’s ability, to keep him from seeing what’s coming. Confusion crosses his face, but he shakes it off, trying to focus on us. He doesn’t understand what’s happening to him.

“And what have you come here to do?” Iral presses on, still wearing his pointed, demon grin. He takes one languid step toward us. It will be his last. “Remove your helmets, if you please.”

“No,” I tell him.

With an easy breath, I take hold of the cameras pointed down at all of us. As Iral opens his mouth to shout, I exhale, and the cameras explode into a twist of sparks like fireworks. The lights go next, flashing on and off, plunging us into pitch-black and striking brightness in succession. We are prepared for this. The soldiers of Corros are not.

Flame races along the tile, casting strange, dancing light across the white. It bars every door, jumping up to the ceiling, effectively locking the soldiers in with us and the flickering darkness. The Osanos soldier, a nymph, hastily leaches moisture from the air, but not enough to combat Cal’s crackling fire. A stoneskin rushes at me, his flesh turning to rock before my eyes, but he hits the wall known as Nix Marsten. Darmian joins in, and the two invulnerable newbloods set to taking the soldier apart. The others fare just as well. Ketha obliterates the Provos telky, planting an explosion in his heart that rips him from the inside out. The Haven soldier does her best to combat my darkness, using her ability to collapse the shadows, pooling them into a black mist that suddenly erupts with blinding, brilliant light. Even our helmets do nothing to stop the glare, and I have to shut my eyes. When I open them, the Haven is on the ground, with a deep gash in her neck. She coughs silver blood onto the tile, and my brother stands over her, knife in hand. Behind him, Eagrie drops to his knees, clutching his head and screaming.

“I can’t see!” he weeps, tearing at his own eyes. Blood joins his painful tears. “I can’t see anything, what’s happening?! What is this?! What are you?!” he shouts to no one.

Cameron is the first to pull off her helmet. She has never killed a man before, not even in her escape. I see it all over her face, in the horror twisting through her. But she doesn’t let go. Out of bravery or malice, I can’t say. Her silence takes hold, until the man on the ground stops crying, stops clawing, stops breathing. He dies with his eyes wide open, staring at nothing, blind and deaf in his last moments. It must feel like being buried alive.

It’s over in a minute or so. Twelve Silver soldiers dead on the tile, some burned, some electrocuted, some shot, some with their heads bashed in. Ketha’s kills are the messiest. An entire wall is splattered with her handiwork, and she pants noisily, trying not to look at what she’s done. Her explosive ability is gruesome at best.

Only Lory is wounded, having taken on the magnetron with Gareth. She got a shard of metal in the arm, but nothing too bad. Farley is the first to her side, and pulls out the makeshift blade, letting it clatter to the floor. Lory doesn’t so much as grunt in pain.

“We forgot bandages,” Farley mutters, putting one hand over the bleeding cut.

“You forgot bandages,” Ada replies, pulling a small swatch of white fabric from inside her suit. She expertly ties it around Lory’s arm. It stains in an instant.

Kilorn chuckles to himself, the only one to enjoy a joke at a time like this. To my relief, he looks perfectly all right, focusing on reloading his gun. The barrel smokes, and there are at least two bodies riddled with his bullets. Anyone else would think him unaffected, but I know better. Despite the laughter, Kilorn finds no joy in this bloody work.

Neither does Cal. He bends over the dead Captain Iral, gingerly taking the black key from his neck. I won’t kill them, he told me once, before we stormed the Security Center of Harbor Bay. He broke his own promise, and it’s wounded him more deeply than any battle.

“Nanny,” he mutters, unable to look away from Iral. With shaking fingers, he closes the captain’s eyes forever. Behind him, Nanny focuses on Iral’s face, staring at him. It only takes a moment before her features match his own, and I breathe a small sigh of relief. Even a fake Maven is nearly too much for me to bear.

A hiss of static crackles at Iral’s belt. His radio—the command center attempting contact. “Captain Iral! Captain, what’s going on down there? We lost visual.”

“Just a malfunction,” Nanny replies with Iral’s voice. “Might spread, might not.”

“Received, Captain.”

Cameron tears her eyes away from the dead Eagrie. She lays a hand on the red door.

“This way,” she says, almost inaudible over the drip of blood and the sighs of the dying.

I feel the prison’s command center like a nerve, pulsing, controlling all the cameras in the facility. It pulls at me, dragging me through the sharp turns of its hallways. The corridors are white tile, just like the entrance, but not so clean. If I look closely, I can see blood between the tiles, turned brown by time. Someone tried to wash away whatever happened, but they weren’t thorough enough. Red blood is so hard to clean up. I see the queen in this, in whatever nightmares she’s concocted deep in the bowels of Corros.

She’s here somewhere, continuing her frightening work. She might even be coming for us now, alerted to a disturbance. I hope she is. I hope she turns the corner right now, so I can kill her.

But instead of Queen Elara, we round the bend to find another door with a large D on it and no lock. Cameron runs to it, her knife in hand, and gets to work prying at the switch panel. It comes loose in a second, and her fingers plunge into the wiring.

“We have to go through here to get to command,” she says, jerking her head at the door. “There are two magnetron guards inside. Be ready.”

Cal quietly clears his throat, dangling the key in front of her. “Oh,” she grumbles, flushing, and takes it from his hand. With a scowl, she jams it into the corresponding slot on the switch. “Tell me when.”

“Gareth,” Cal begins, but he’s already stepped forward, bracing himself against the metal door. Nanny takes his side, still disguised as Captain Iral. They both know what they must do.

The others are not so sure. Ketha looks on the edge of tears, her hands twitching up and down her arms, as if she’s afraid she’s lost a limb. Farley reaches out, only to be batted away. My heart sinks when I realize I don’t know how to comfort Ketha. Does she need a hug or a slap?

“Watch our backs,” I bark at her, electing what I hope is the happy medium. She shivers, glaring at me. Her braid has come undone, and she tugs at the strands of dark hair. Slowly, she nods, turning on the spot to watch the empty corridor behind us. Her sniffles echo off the tile.

“No more,” she murmurs. But she holds her ground. Darmian and Nix take her side, more in a show of solidarity than strength. At least they’ll make a very good wall when the guards realize what’s happening up here. Which should be soon.

Cal knows the urgency as well as I do. “Now,” he says, and flattens himself against the wall with the rest of us.

The key turns. I feel the electricity jump in the switch and flood the door’s mechanism. It flies open, screeching back into the wall to reveal a cavernous cell block. In stark contrast to the white tile corridors, the cells are gray, cold, and dirty. Water drips somewhere, and the air is sickly damp. Four levels of cells reach down into the gloom, one stacked on top of the other, with no landings or stairs connecting the sets. Four cameras, one in each corner of the ceiling, watch over all. I shut them off with ease. The only light is a harsh, flickering yellow, though the small skylight above has gone blue, betraying the rising sun. Standing beneath it, on a single catwalk made of gleaming, reflective metal, are two magnetrons in gray uniforms. Both of them spin at the sound of approach.

“What are you—?” the first says, taking a single step toward us. He has Samos colors on his uniform. He freezes at the sight of Nanny, standing at Gareth’s shoulder. “Captain Iral, sir.” With a wave of his hand, the Samos magnetron officer raises flat sheets of metal from the block floor, constructing a new section of catwalk before our eyes. It connects to his, allowing Gareth and Nanny to walk forward.

“Fresh blood?” The other officer chuckles, nodding at Gareth with a sly grin. “What legion are you out of?”

Nanny cuts in before Gareth can answer. “Open the cells. It’s time for a walk.”

To our chagrin, the officers exchanged confused glances. “We just walked them yesterday, they’re not due for—”

“Orders are orders, and I have mine,” Nanny replies. She raises Iral’s key, dangling it in open threat. “Open the cells.”

“So it’s true? The king’s back again?” Samos asks, shaking his head. “No wonder everyone’s in an uproar back at command. Got to look sharp for the crown, I guess, especially with his mother still skulking around.”

“She’s a strange one, the queen,” the other says, scratching his chin. “Don’t know what she does in the Well, don’t want to know either.”

“The cells,” Nanny repeats, her voice hard.

“All right, sir,” the first magnetron grumbles. He elbows the other and they turn together, facing the dozens of cells rising from floor to ceiling. Many are empty, but some hold shadows languishing under the crush of Silent Stone. Newblood prisoners, about to be let loose.

More catwalk clangs into place, the sound like a giant hammer beating a wall of aluminum. They line the cells, creating walkways around the perimeter of the block, while more sheets twist and fold into steps to connect the levels. For a moment, I’m seized by a sense of wonder. I’ve only seen magnetrons in battle, using their abilities to kill and destroy. Never to create. It’s not hard to imagine them designing airjets and luxurious transports, curving jagged iron into smooth arcs of razor-thin beauty. Or even the metal dresses Evangeline was so fond of. Even now, I admit they were magnificent, though the girl wearing them was a monster. But when the bars of every cell yawn open, causing the people inside to stir, I forget all my wonder and amazement. These magnetrons are jailers, killers, forcing innocent people to suffer and die behind bars for whatever feeble reason Maven gives them. They are following orders, yes, but choosing to follow them all the same.

“Come on, out you go.”

“On your feet, time to take the dogs for a walk.”

The magnetron officers move in rapid succession, trotting to the first set of cells. They bodily drag newbloods from their cots, tossing the ones who can’t get up fast enough out onto the catwalk. A little girl lands dangerously close to the edge, almost falling. She looks so much like Gisa I take a step forward, and Kilorn has to yank me back. “Not yet,” he growls in my ear.

Not yet. My hands clench, itching to let loose on the two officers as they get closer and closer to the door. They haven’t seen us yet, but they certainly will.

Cal is the first to remove his helmet. Samos stops short, as if shot. He blinks once, not believing his eyes. Before he can react, his feet leave the ground, and he hurtles toward the ceiling. The other follows suit as his tenuous hold on gravity releases. Gareth bounces them both, smacking them against the concrete ceiling with sickening, final crunches of bone.

We flood into the cell block, moving as one, as fast as we can. I reach the fallen girl first, hauling her to her feet. She wheezes, her small body shivering. But the pressure of Silent Stone has fallen away, and some color returns to her pale, clammy cheeks.

I remove my own mask.

“The lightning girl,” she murmurs, touching my face. It breaks my heart.

Part of me wants to pick her up and run, to take her away from all this. But our task is far from over, and I cannot leave. Even for the little girl. So I put her down on shaky legs, and pull my hand gently from her grasp.

“Follow us as best you can. Fight as best you can!” I shout to the block. I make sure to lean over the edge of the catwalk, so everyone can hear and see me. Far below, the few prisoners still alive in the low cells have already begun the climb up the metal steps. “We are leaving this prison tonight, together, and alive!”

By now, I should know better than to lie. But a lie is what they need to carry on, and if my deceit saves even one of them, it is worth the cost to my soul.