“No. Not anymore.” Hal lowered his eyes. “Some gods are false.”

She stayed quiet, waiting for him to continue. But he only sighed.

“I’m tired.” She believed him. He sounded like he’d aged ten years in minutes. “Perhaps we can talk about this another time.”

“You have terrible coping mechanisms.”

“Yes.” He offered her a thin smile, the barest upward tug of his lips. “I know.”

Their silence was almost companionate.

Wren was certain about few things in her life. But she’d always known, as certainly as she knew the cycles of the moon, that Vesria was the enemy and Hal was the worst of them. If he wasn’t what she thought, what did that mean? What else was she wrong about? Trust and understanding—compassion—had forged this alliance between them. But after everything she’d lost, how could she let herself believe that kindness, not ruthlessness, was the way forward?

For now, Wren could only acknowledge that she was tired. So, so tired of arguing with Hal Cavendish. So she let herself surrender to this new order. Tentatively, she reached out and placed a hand on his knee. “Thank you. I know it’s not easy to talk about the war.”

Hal did not take his gaze from her hand. “Of course.”

“I don’t know if there’s anything I’d kill for. I thought about killing you once—that moment when we first met. But I couldn’t do it. Not for my country or my friends. Not even for myself. I thought I was so weak.”

“That doesn’t make you weak. Mercy is the most difficult thing.”

But it wasn’t mercy that’d spared him. It was pure selfishness. Her throat tightened. “Thanks.”

“Maybe I’m wrong,” he said pensively. “I still have things I would kill for. But perhaps the most important things—what truly drives us—are the things we would die for.”

Wren stilled and let her hand drop back to her side. It felt oddly empty without his body heat and the warm buzz of her magic between them. Could that be true? She always knew she was reckless—acted in ways that Una said could get her killed. But she’d never acted thoughtlessly. Only on conviction.

“I’m not much of a philosopher, but I hope that’s true.”

“Regardless,” Hal said. “I’m glad you didn’t kill me.”

She was, too.

Wren hesitated, searching within herself for levity. But nothing clever materialized. No barbs. She could only think about the way he had looked on the day she first saw him all those years ago, cold and unfeeling. The confusion that haunted her even now. Why had he left her alive?

Mercy is the most difficult thing.

“I’ve been wanting to ask you something,” she said.

“What is it?”

“I mentioned I saw you at the Battle of the River Muri,” she said hesitantly. “Did you see me?”