But they didn’t, and so I saw what happened as we rose from the wrecked body of that dying space station. High above the nest of tongues, Ianthe was poised as though flying—fluttering white flimsy in the heart of that vortex—as God and Augustine thrashed together. The tongues had retracted almost to the rim of the mouth, and God was not winning. Those demoniacal tongues had him almost entirely in their grip as Augustine pinned him down. The tongues seemed more interested in the Emperor than in Augustine, though they weren’t uninterested in Augustine. God’s desperation, even in your darkening eyeballs, was clear.

If Augustine wanted to free himself and get clear, he’d need to stop fighting. Or he could keep fighting, make sure the stoma took the Emperor, and be taken himself in the process. Above them both the third option floated like a panicking butterfly. Ianthe could make the difference. If Augustine gave God a last good shove down into Hell, and then Ianthe pulled him free of the tongues, they could probably both escape.

I watched, dimly, as Ianthe lifted her hands. The current parted—the water flumed around her in thick, opaque curls, red with blood—the tongues lashed out all at once.

I watched Ianthe dart down, rip the tongues from the Emperor of the Nine Houses, and wrestle him clear. The tongues entwined in a bower to bear Augustine silently down to that ravenous mouth, to the Hell where only demons went.

Which was Tridentarius all over. She got one choice, and not only did she blow it, but she blew it in such a huge fucking spectacular way that you would’ve been impressed had you not hated her for it. Ianthe, throwing in her lot with the guy who had lied to everyone about everything. Ianthe, backstabbing her own cavalier all over again. Ianthe, with the world in the balance, reaching her hand out and pressing down on the weight marked BAD. She surged out of sight, covered and hidden by a blast of water. The tongues retracted and the teeth folded up, to close that chewing great void.

Then the pressure closed its hands around your wrists, and your chest pounded inward.

Harrowhark, did you know that if you die by drowning, apparently your whole life flashes in front of your eyes? I didn’t know, as I died and took you along with me—having kept you alive for what, a whole two hours?—whether it was going to show me both. Like, at the end of everything, if it was going to be you and me, layered over each other as we always were. A final blurring of the edges between us, like water spilt over ink outlines. Melted steel. Mingled blood. Harrowhark-and-Gideon, Gideon-and-Harrowhark at last.