We’re so disoriented, so very focused on getting out into the fresh air, away from this place of terror, that we don’t think about alarms. As soon as we open the outer door, high, piercing wails sound. It’s too much for my raw, mixed senses. I clap my hands over my ears, screaming, adding to the cacophony. Nazarin cries out too, but recovers before me. He takes my arm. The King of the Ratel had not taken us far. We’re still on the pier. I can even see the cranes where Ensi and his men were earlier that night, the storage crate we hid behind.

There are the men that had been with Ensi. Standing guard. With them is Malka. The Queen.

Mana-ma, wearing a poor soul’s body.

She wasn’t there before we went in. Ensi must have sent notice. Was she on her way? Was she going to join us in the dream world, and visit one of the missing members of her flock? Or did she only come when things went wrong? Is her true body lying supine back in the Hearth?

Malka, or Mana-ma, is the first to see us. She raises her head and meets my eyes, and I can read her expression: You’ve failed this Test. She wishes it was me, her, and her sword in a soundproof room.

She yells a warning, and the men run toward us.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” is all I can think to say, staring at them. I’m so tired.

Nazarin takes my hand, pulling me with him behind the nearest crate. He shoots over the top of the crate and ducks down. There’s a distant cry of pain. Nazarin shoots again. No cry of pain. I can only seem to stare at the gun in my hand. A bullet ricochets against the metal of the crate with a crack that seems to hover in my vision, a riot of yellow, red and orange. It’s beautiful.

My sister’s voice is in my head: Get your gun, T. You have to get your gun.

I’m imagining it, but it’s comforting to hear just the same. The gun still lies in my numb fingers. More shots fire. I can barely see. My head is splitting. There is a ringing in my ears, like tinnitus. Another shot. Where is Nazarin? Is he all right?

I clutch the gun to my chest, and the cold metal grounds me. Nazarin is next to me. A bullet has grazed his forehead; his Kalar suit didn’t have a hood. Blood pours down the side of his face, but it hasn’t stopped him. He shoots and dodges, shoots and moves. Another bullet hits him, and he falls. I can only hope it’s the force of the bullet that felled him, not that it’s breached the not-always-infallible Kalar.