“I trust you, and that’s why it’s so hard,” I say, echoing the sentiment he expressed on Harlie’s wind wagon several moons ago. I shrug happily. “I trust you, I love you. They’re one and the same.”

“I trust you, I love you,” he repeats, and lowers his face to mine. When our lips meet, the battle ahead of us feels distant, as if it will happen to different people in a different time, because this moment, now, is inescapable. The tug between us is magnetic.

“Stay strong, Delta,” he says as he steps away. He whistles for Harlie, hops from our side rail to her deck once her wagon is close enough.

I can feel the tug still, his nearness calling to me. I may not believe in the gods or fate or promises foretold by the stars, but I believe in us. I believe in magnets, propelled apart, then drawn together. Like a lodestone finding north. Like the Gods’ Star above the horizon. Constant, inevitable, and true.

But the thing about magnets is that they fail during silent storms. They can be turned around, forced apart. Magnets come together—or they don’t. Those are the only two endings, and I’m scared to learn which is ours.

We turn northwest beneath a high sun. The fleet spreads out, forming a line that will advance on Bedrock, eventually attacking the entire eastern half of the dam. Far beyond the starboard bow, I can make out a needle on the horizon. East Tower. We’ll reach the General’s domain by afternoon.

The dam appears first, little more than a dark line on the horizon. As we close in on it, it takes shape, grows in height. We assemble our wagon’s blast barrel. It has a rear wheel that we can push left or right on the wagon’s deck, changing the aim of the projectile, but for now, the barrel points straight ahead, over the bow. Between the assembled blast barrels at the front of the vessels and the brakes being applied in the rear, the entire fleet has slowed.

“Falcon!” someone screams. It circles high above us, its wings catching sunlight. The sharpshooters unleash their arrows, but to no avail. Someone even fires a mag-rifle, until the Prime scolds them for giving away our position. The shot rings, echoing over the wastes, and the bird screeches at us before tearing north.

He’ll know we’re coming now.

But we’re nearly there. The smudges atop the dam are taking shape. I can make out limbs. Dark Loyalist uniforms. Muffled shouting reaches us. I can’t make out a single word they say, but they race atop the dam, scrambling to positions.

“Load!” the Prime yells as we glide into range.

Stone balls are shoved into the blast barrels. Flints are held at the ready.

“Steady . . .”

We roll onward.

“Steady . . .”