Not cribs, Anton realized with a start. They were caskets. Filled with bodies.

His hair stood up on end, and he froze as the Wanderer inspected the row of caskets.

“Anton,” she said, her voice carefully controlled, her gaze pinned on one of the caskets.

He knew what she was going to say before he even went over to her.

Anton had spent so long being terrified of his own brother’s face. But now, looking down at it, still and placid as he lay inside the casket, Anton didn’t feel fear. He felt hollow, like he had lost something he hadn’t even realized he had. Illya’s eyes were closed, his face strangely boyish without the usual cruel curl of his lips, the malicious gleam in his golden eyes. He looked almost small. Human. Not the monster from Anton’s nightmares—just a boy.

And on his throat, Anton saw a pale handprint.

He took an unsteady step back. Ephyra? Had she killed him?

But he could still feel the faint thread of Illya’s esha reverberating in the room like the sound of breaking glass.

“He can’t be dead,” Anton said, raising his eyes back to the Wanderer. “You can feel his esha, too, can’t you?”

She reached into the casket and held her fingers against Illya’s jaw, checking for a pulse. “He is alive. But barely. What do you want to do?”

This was Anton’s plan. His stupid idea.

They needed another way to get inside the citadel. A new plan.

But before he could come up with one, Illya’s eyelashes fluttered. Anton froze, certain it was a trick of the light, but then Illya gasped, his eyes flying open.

Anton reeled back, his heart pounding so hard he thought it might burst from his chest. He tripped back against another casket and went toppling to the ground.

“I’m not dead!” Illya shouted, gripping either side of the casket and dragging himself up to a sitting position.

“Clearly,” Anton huffed, his heart still hammering as he climbed back to his feet.

Illya’s gaze landed on him, his whole face scrunching up in confusion. “Anton?”

“Surprised to see me?” Anton asked, dusting himself off to avoid looking at Illya.

“If you’re a hallucination brought on by me nearly dying, then no,” Illya replied. “But if you were a hallucination, you’d already be listing every terrible thing I’ve ever done to you, so I’m guessing you’re real.”

“Maybe we’ll have time for that later.”

Illya started to climb out of the casket and then paused, looking at the Wanderer. “Who are you?”

“She’s with me,” Anton answered. “Want to explain why you’re in a crematorium, practically dead?”

“If you must know,” Illya replied, straightening his clothes primly, “I was just executed by Pallas. Well. He thinks so.”