“We … we were going to take the city back from Lethia,” Hassan said. “We were going to launch the attack tomorrow. But if what you say is true … we should be evacuating as many people as we can.”

“It won’t matter,” Jude replied. “You won’t be able to flee fast enough or far enough to escape it. Which is why we’re here to stop it before it destroys Nazirah.”

“How?” Hassan asked.

Anton looked out at the night sky through the broad windows instead of facing any of them. He couldn’t look at Jude while he explained in that calm, measured tone what they were here to do. Couldn’t watch Hassan’s face as he realized the sacrifice Jude was about to make.

He felt like he was drowning all over again, being pulled beneath the ice by a grip so strong it felt like a vise.

Before he knew what he was doing, Anton was tearing from the room, out the door, down the hall. Vaguely, he heard the others call after him, but he didn’t stop.

As he banked around a corner in the hallway, he spotted two doors that led to what looked like a courtyard—not that he could see much of it in the darkness. Anton pushed them open, flinging himself into the night air. His whole body was shaking, wracked with uncontrollable tremors. He crumpled down onto the steps, his back against a pillar, and just counted his breaths for a few moments.

He heard footsteps behind him and turned.

Ephyra stared at him from the threshold. A jug dangled from one hand, the other held the door open. There was something raw about her expression, something that tugged at Anton and clenched his chest.

Without a word, Ephyra ambled forward and sprawled down beside Anton on the steps. She took a long sip from the jug, wiped her mouth, and then offered it to Anton.

Anton took it hesitantly, tilting it to his lips. Tart, sweet wine rolled over his tongue.

“Herati pomegranate wine,” Ephyra said. “Not bad, right?”

Anton took another sip and then handed the jug back to Ephyra.

And suddenly he was crying—big, gulping sobs that had him collapsing against Ephyra, burying his face in her shoulder.

“I can’t do this,” he said, clinging to her.

“I know,” she replied, slinging her arm around him. “I know.”

“I need him too much.”

Ephyra’s fingers tightened over Anton’s shoulder, and he knew that she understood the awful grief he felt. It was the same grief that had driven Ephyra to bring her sister back from the dead, to kill over and over to keep her alive.

Ephyra just sat there, arm around him, as he wept against her shoulder, and when his sobs subsided she passed the wine back to him.

“Hey,” Hector’s voice said from behind them. “Mind if I join you?”