Hassan said nothing, watching Jude cross the room and yank open their shared wardrobe, hanging the jacket inside with short, stilted movements.

“The Archon Basileus was arrested,” Hassan said to the tense line of Jude’s shoulders.

Jude didn’t turn around. “I know. I was with Hector when we found out.”

“And what exactly was more important than coming back here to tell me our entire plan is ruined?” Hassan demanded, rising to his feet.

“I was out,” Jude replied curtly. “What does it matter?”

“It matters because we have been in Tel Amot for six weeks now and you’ve barely lifted a finger to help us come up with a plan to stop the Hierophant. I came up with the plan. I got in contact with the Archon Basileus. I don’t even know where you are half the time! Do you even want to go back to Pallas Athos?”

Jude finally whirled on him. “Do you? Or do you want to run back to Nazirah?”

So he’d heard that. Hassan wasn’t surprised—he was used to living with two people with superpowered hearing by now.

“I want to go to Pallas Athos,” Hassan said heatedly. “I want to stop the Hierophant. I want to rescue that girl from him and stop the god like we planned.”

Jude stared at him mutely. He’d never answered Hassan’s question.

Hassan took a steadying breath. “We’re supposed to be in this together, but sometimes it’s like you’re somewhere else entirely.”

Jude met his gaze, and the shadow of a pain too terrible to name overtook his face. Hassan had seen it lurking behind Jude’s eyes ever since that first week in Behezda when they’d picked through the ruins searching for some sign that the Prophet, Anton, still lived. They’d found nothing. On the road back to Tel Amot, it was like Jude had shut his pain away, locked it up tight somewhere, as though he could deprive it of air and suffocate it. But Hassan could see that it was suffocating him.

He knew Jude was barely sleeping, staying up until the wee hours of the morning and tiring himself out with hard labor at the docks before he’d finally pass out from sheer exhaustion. He trained compulsively with Hector, sparring and practicing his koahs with a fervor bordering on obsessive. And sometimes, he simply shut down for seemingly no reason—like the other night, when Hassan had suggested they blow off some steam down at the Three Palms card tables. Jude had stormed out of the room without a word, not returning until the following morning.

And there had been an incident, about a month ago, that had resulted in what could only be described as a street brawl. Jude, against half a dozen Witnesses. They’d been no match for him. One, he’d almost killed. It had taken Hassan and Hector together to pull him back.