But here they were. Working together, sparring together. Trying to heal together. The break in their friendship, the cracks it had stemmed from, still stood between them some days, a chasm they might never completely cross.

“You didn’t tell me why you returned,” Jude said quietly, lifting his gaze back to Hector’s. “To Kerameikos. After you went searching for the Pale Hand.”

Hector drew a knuckle across his mouth. “I don’t really know why I did it. I guess I was just tired of it all. Tired of my search. Tired of being by myself. I missed you.”

“I missed you, too,” Jude said. He still remembered the cold dread that had gripped him when he’d arrived back at Kerameikos Fort after his Year of Reflection to find that Hector had not waited for him.

Hector offered a tight-lipped smile. “Not like you miss him, though. The Prophet. Anton.”

Jude turned away, back toward the sea. It hurt to even hear his name. He closed his eyes. “I’ve been having these dreams. Half the time I can barely remember them. Just … just him.”

That wasn’t entirely true. Sometimes Jude woke and it was like Anton had just been beside him, his warmth and his scent lingering. Sometimes the dreams were slow and sweet, the honeyed light of late afternoon warming them as they kissed. And sometimes Anton stood out of reach, calling to Jude. I’m here. It’s me. I’m right here, Jude, and Jude would wake, gutted, furious, certain that there was no crueler torture.

He’d never been a good sleeper, and now it was worse—staying up for days on end, staving off sleep however he could so he wouldn’t have to see the specter that haunted him so sweetly, before giving in, tumbling into sleep and into Anton’s arms again because there was nothing he wanted more.

“I used to dream about my family.” Hector reached for Jude’s shoulder. “My parents, my brother … every night, it felt like. If you let it, it’ll consume you.”

Jude looked at Hector’s hand, recalling a time when he’d been the one to reach out in comfort, to offer futile words of reassurance.

He shrugged Hector’s hand off. “Maybe it should. Maybe I deserve it.”

“It wasn’t your fault.”

Hector didn’t understand. Jude hadn’t been able to protect Anton when it mattered most.

“I failed,” Jude said abruptly. “He’s the Prophet, the one destined to stop the Age of Darkness. How are we supposed to do it without him? How am I—” He cut off abruptly. His words teetered too close to the heart of the matter, and Jude didn’t know if he could survive it.

“I don’t know,” Hector said, his gaze locked on Jude’s. “But we have to. Somehow, we have to.”