The sharp tang of blood and the harsh, staccato rhythm of Jude’s breath bursting from his lungs.

A voice rasping through the air like wind through dead leaves. “Where is the Prophet?”

Jude didn’t answer. Someone struck him across the face, and Jude’s neck snapped to the side. He stared up defiantly as blood trickled from the corner of his mouth.

“I’m prepared to kill you if you don’t give me what I want, Captain Weatherbourne,” the same voice said, mocking now. “Where is the Prophet?”

Anton woke in a tangle of sheets, cold sweat matting his shirt to his back.

He kicked off the sheets and scrambled to his feet. The whole room seemed to lurch with him. After a moment of blinking in the darkness, he remembered he was on the Wanderer’s ship. Anton swayed, feeling like he might vomit.

Air. He needed air.

He threw open his cabin door and stumbled down the corridor.

“Anton?”

A light flickered behind him, and Anton turned to find the Wanderer opening the door of her own cabin. In her thin cotton nightdress, her hair braided simply over one shoulder, she looked more human than he’d ever seen her before.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

He dragged a hand over his face. “Nightmare.”

The dream clutched at him like the cold fingers of a corpse, and the hair on the back of his neck stuck up. It hadn’t felt like a nightmare. Not how they usually felt to him. It had felt … real.

He sucked in a steadying breath and asked, “How do you know if something’s a dream or a vision?”

Her dark eyes met his. “You think you had a vision?”

He nodded. “It’s happened before. I dreamed of the Hierophant, the night you told me to go to Endarrion. But it wasn’t a dream. And I don’t think this was, either.”

“What happened?”

Bile rose in his throat as the image of Jude’s bloody face flashed through his mind. “It’s Jude. Something’s wrong. He’s hurt. I saw—there was blood and they were interrogating him—they were looking for me.”

Anton blinked and a second later the Wanderer was right beside him, holding him up.

“You need to breathe,” she said soothingly.

It had been a long time since his panic had gripped him so tightly, but he knew the signs. He gasped for air.

“Just focus on me,” she said. “Focus on my voice. Can you count your breaths?”

Anton nodded, but his mind was consumed by the horror of his dream, by Jude’s pale, bloody face.

“Come on,” the Wanderer said, pressing him closer to her and helping him up the stairs. “Let’s get some air.”