Over the woman’s shoulder, Hassan spotted a familiar face—Faran, one of the original Herati refugee soldiers who had come over from Pallas Athos with them.

“Faran!” Khepri called out to him as he trotted briskly across the atrium, carrying a stack of maps under one arm. She waved her hand. “Faran!”

He looked up distractedly. “Oh, hi, Khepri, I just need to get these to the war room, but I’ll see you there!”

The woman turned to Faran, bewildered, as Hassan and Khepri both stared, equally perplexed as he walked right past them.

And then he froze, and the entire stack of maps went fluttering to the floor in front of him.

“Khepri?” He wheeled back to them. “Prince Hassan? What are you—what—how—?”

“It’s a rather long story,” Khepri said. “So we’d prefer to tell it only once. Are my brothers here?”

Faran nodded. “They’re probably already waiting in the war room. Zareen, too.”

The woman who had stopped Hassan and Khepri looked thoroughly embarrassed as she fumbled to resheathe her sword. “I—My apologies, Your Grace.”

Hassan waved a hand. “Not the first time someone thought I was dead, probably won’t be the last. Faran?”

“Follow me,” Faran said, setting off across the atrium.

“Don’t you need these?” Hassan asked, stooping down to collect the maps.

“Right,” Faran said, spinning right back around and crouching beside Hassan. But instead of helping pick up the maps, he just stared. “I never thought I’d see you again. None of us did.”

He sounded relieved and a little awed. Hassan offered him a tight smile and straightened. Once the maps were safely tucked under Faran’s arm, he led Hassan and Khepri through the atrium.

As they strode down the wide, vaulted corridor, Hassan took in the scores of people rushing between rooms. A few months ago, when they’d resided here, there had been maybe three hundred people total in the rebel base. Now, Hassan had already seen almost twice as many. The Library was huge—who knew how many more were sheltered in its halls. This wasn’t a ragtag group of rebels anymore, he realized.

This was an army.

His stomach squirmed. He was relieved—overjoyed, really—that the rebels were still here and seemed to be doing better than ever. But he knew they would have questions for him. Questions he’d told himself he was prepared to answer, though the closer they drew to that moment of reckoning, the less sure he felt.

Khepri slipped her hand into his, squeezing gently. They approached the north reading room, which Hassan assumed must have been converted into what Faran had called the war room. As they crossed over its threshold, he heard voices within.

After all this time, Hassan still recognized Zareen’s voice—and her annoyed tone. “I told you, it’s not ready yet. You can’t rush genius, Chike.”