Hassan couldn’t sleep. It had been two days since their escape from Pallas Athos, two days of being trapped on a ship with a creature who could end each and every one of them with a snap of its fingers. Though the god had been subdued, every time Hassan caught a glimpse of Beru his blood turned to ice and all he could think about was the fathomless power locked inside her, waiting to burst free again.

And then there was the guilt. He had barely spoken two words to Khepri since the escape, but when he wasn’t worrying about the god, he was thinking about the months Khepri had spent at the Hierophant’s mercy.

It was Hassan’s fault. He was the one who’d tried to make a deal with the Hierophant back in Nazirah. The one who’d gotten Khepri captured. The one who hadn’t even realized she was still a prisoner.

Guilt and fear chased each other in circles until finally Hassan sat up in his bunk, rubbing his face. In the bunk across from him, Hector snored peacefully.

Hassan got out of bed, pulled on his clothes, and crept out of the cabin. Normally on nights like this when he couldn’t sleep, he would hole up somewhere with a book. So when he strode down the corridor past a half-ajar door and caught a glimpse of bookshelves, he found himself stopping to peer inside.

The room appeared to be empty, with a few plush chairs, a single low table, and a bookshelf that stretched all along the back wall. He drifted inside, letting his fingers trip over the leather spines. There were volumes of history, collections of poems, and the writings of dozens of acolytes. He paused on one with flaking gold lettering that read Origins of the Seven Prophets. As he reached to pluck it off the shelf, the sound of someone clearing their throat came from the open doorway.

“Behezda’s mercy!” Hassan swore, fumbling the book off the shelf.

“Behezda would say you got what you deserved for snooping.”

Hassan turned and was met with the sight of the Wanderer sauntering into the room, a small smirk on her lips.

“I wasn’t snooping,” he said, unable to hide the thread of nervousness in his voice as she approached. Her presence made him feel strangely small and a little dizzy—as if his mind could not properly reconcile the idea of the mythical Wanderer and the woman standing in front of him.

She stooped to pick up the book, looking down at the cover. “An interesting choice for late-night reading. I’m afraid it’s not terribly accurate, though.” She set the book back on the shelf and moved toward a cabinet on the adjacent wall. “I’ve something that might help you get to sleep more easily.”