“No!” Kit said, turning to him and grabbing him by the shoulder. “No. Not until Naumoriel finishes installing the Core Analytica. Don’t you get it?” She gestured at the hulking shape of Leviathan, eyes gleaming. “This is exactly what we wanted, Gyre. Can you imagine if we were in control of that thing? Forget selling it to Refuge. They’ll fix me, or we’ll crush them underfoot. And the Order? You can take the Forge to pieces. This is it. This is what I’ve been looking for my whole life.” She gulped for breath. “All we have to do is get there.”

Gyre was about to protest that she hadn’t known about it until five minutes ago, but the desperate look on her face stopped him. He glanced over his shoulder, where the sounds of combat echoed from the archway.

“Just hold them off,” Kit said. She put her hand on his face, cupping his silver eye. “You can do it, can’t you? Give me enough time to get these doors open, and we’ll take that key off Naumoriel and blow him to the Chosen.”

She raised herself onto her toes to kiss him, arms wrapping around the small of his back. Gyre leaned into the kiss, feeling the hot, bright spark of her pressed against him.

“I’ll do what I can,” Gyre said when he pulled away. Kit grinned, like a kid with a plate full of cookies, and turned back to the door. Gyre loosened the silver sword in its scabbard and ran back along the dock.

Shapes were struggling and clashing in the dust, the murk periodically illuminated by a flare of brilliant fire. One of the soldier-constructs came staggering out of the cloud, missing one arm at the shoulder and with its faceless head slashed to pieces. A young man strode after it. He was covered head to toe in gore, his traveling leathers sodden and caked with it; dried blood smeared his face. He wielded a haken, its blade a line of shimmering distortion, doing odd things to the eye.

A centarch, not much older than Maya. As Gyre watched, he extended his off hand, and waves of twisted space snapped out. They vanished when they hit the construct, splashing harmlessly into nothingness, and the centarch clicked his tongue in disapproval as the thing swung its remaining arm at him. He ducked, but one of the bladed protrusions on the construct’s arm caught him on the shoulder. Instead of leaving a cut, blue energy flared, stopping the blow. The centarch surged upward, his distorted weapon slicing the construct from armpit to shoulder, and it fell in two pieces in a welter of black blood.

The boy looked up and saw Gyre. His eyes narrowed.

“Who are you supposed to be?” he said.

“Gyre Silvereye,” Gyre said, with more bravado than he felt. He resisted the urge to look back at Kit.