It’s Asher, his chest heaving with exhaustion, blood along his brow. He drops his mag-rifle and rushes to me, gathering me up, pulling my face to his. His lips taste like salt and sweat, and then they are in my hair, kissing my head, my temple, the side of my jaw. He inspects my face, muttering about falcon talons, telling me that it looks bad, but I’ll be fine, that instead of a single scar through my brow, I’ll now have several. The star chain dangles uselessly in my hand, chips clinking.

“You were gone,” I say into his chest. “The wagon. It was burning.”

“I jumped from the bow. Just before the explosion. Three of us made it off.”

“Harlie?” I ask, looking up.

He shakes his head. She was in the crow’s nest when the wagon was hit. I saw it happen. Still, my ribs ache, as if I’m witnessing her death a second time.

“I saw you running for Bedrock,” he says, “and I followed. Helped the Prime cover you.”

“It was you,” I murmur. “I thought I imagined it.”

His right ear is covered in blood. I notice that he tilts the other ear toward me, and I wonder if maybe he can’t hear properly out of the injured one. I touch his face, make sure he’s real. The General’s stars knock between us.

“I don’t like that chain,” Asher says.

“Me either.” I set it down beside the General’s cooling body. “Here, quick. Help me with Reed.”

Asher grabs him beneath the arms. I take his feet. We’re approaching the curtain when the Reaper bursts through, breathless. Her nose is swollen—broken most likely—and her teeth are coated in red. “Delta, the Prime requires your immediate audience.” Her gaze flicks to Reed. “Dead?”

“Unconscious. Needs a healer.”

“I’ll help bring him to the Tender,” the Reaper says. “We’re already seeing to the injured.” She takes Reed’s ankles from me. Asher gives me a reassuring nod, a silent promise that we’ll see each other later. As soon as they have disappeared through the curtain, the beads part again and Kara the Prime enters.

Her dark skin is covered in a sheen of sweat, and if it weren’t for a few traces of blood on her garments, I’d assume she’d simply been working in the sun, not fighting a battle. Her gait is uneven, her weight pressed through her uninjured foot.

“Delta of Dead River,” she says heavily. “We need to discuss what happens next.”

But I already know what happens. I retrieve the star chain and stand before the Prime, holding it out in offering. She frowns, pausing a moment, then eventually drops her chin. I lower the chain over her head, letting the chips fan across her chest, some rusted, others gleaming.

“You made this possible,” the Prime says. “The chain could be yours.”