“That I only pledged myself to Pallas once he took you captive!” Illya said, raising his voice. “I threw myself at his feet because I couldn’t watch him take you away, not when there was a chance I could save you.”

Ephyra let out a high trill of laughter. “That is such horseshit. You can’t rewrite the past, Illya, no matter how many times you change allegiances. I can’t believe you think I would fall for—”

“I love you.”

Ephyra stopped cold. He couldn’t have just said that. He couldn’t be staring at her now, with that vulnerable expression on his face.

“What do you mean,” she asked, voice shaking, “you love me?”

“I mean, I love you,” he replied, defiant. “I have since Behezda. Maybe before then. Maybe I fell for you when you pinned me to the ground in a taverna in Pallas Athos and threatened to kill me. I don’t really know.”

“You don’t love me,” she bit out. “You don’t even know how to love someone. Look at Anton! He’s your brother, and you messed him up so bad when you were kids he’s still afraid of you. You hide behind your charm and your nice clothes because you’re terrified that if anyone saw what was underneath they’d walk away from you and never look back.”

Ephyra didn’t realize she’d started to cry until she’d stopped yelling. She choked back a sob as Illya’s gaze dropped to the ground. She was suddenly furious, all too aware that everything she’d just said had been more about herself than him.

Wasn’t that what Beru had done? Walked away once she’d seen who Ephyra had become? And the others, her friends—none of them would want to stick around, either. Not when they saw how broken she really was.

Illya looked back up at her, the vulnerability in his face vanishing beneath a familiar mask of amiable charm.

“You’re right,” he said, nodding with that practiced smile. “Thank you for … making that all so clear.”

Ephyra watched him leave and said nothing to stop him.

She fell back against the bedroll, winded, fury still coursing through her blood. She had driven away the last person who had any reason to care about her. She had made her worst fears about herself come true. It was like the Wanderer had said, back on the ship—sometimes prophecies became true because you believed in them.

She had to leave. She had to go somewhere—anywhere that wasn’t here. She had to find Beru.

It was this last thought that got her to her feet. She packed her bag quietly and then waited for the rest of the camp to go silent for the night before slipping out the front of the tent.

“Wondered when you’d come out,” a low voice drawled from outside.