Breathe. Ayla’s brain was shivering, rattling around. She was still there, still there, hidden in the latrine. She had been locked inside it, in that terrible coffin, ever since.

She had never emerged. Not really.

Nobody had ever come for her.

Crier gasped, and there was a wrenching noise, the clatter of metal on stone.

A figure stepped into the cell. There was something familiar about the breadth of those shoulders, that silhouette. Ayla squinted through the darkness and the haze of her own tears.

The figure took another step forward. The light from the high, narrow window fell across his face.

For a moment, Ayla thought she was hallucinating. Or she’d passed out and this was a dream. Because there before her was Storme. He was a man now, but in the wavering light, she could have sworn there were two of him, one superimposed on the other, a faded imprint, a little ghost. A little boy. Barely nine years old. Ayla blinked and the child-Storme disappeared, but the older one didn’t.

“You came,” she breathed.

Storme let out a funny breath, almost a laugh, sad around the edges. “I came. Sorry it took this long.”

Ayla took him in, her brother, her twin. He looked a little worse for the wear, hair matted with dirt or blood, a nasty scrape across one cheek. But he was whole and alive, and he was here. He’d come for her. “No, you’re—you’re just in time, I think,” she said faintly. “But how?”

“I’ll explain later,” he said.

“You,” said Crier, and Ayla finally tore her eyes off her brother. “You . . . you were Queen Junn’s adviser.” She sounded stunned.

“Still am, actually,” said Storme, crouching down before them. “Hello again, Lady Crier. What a terrible place for a reunion. We have to get out of here before the Watchers come.”

“I’m chained to a wall,” Ayla said.

“Yeah, I thought you might be. Hold on.” He rummaged around in a small pouch at his hip, and Crier gave Ayla a look of deep bewilderment that would have been funny under any other circumstances.

“You know each other?” she said, eyes darting between Ayla and Storme.

“You could say that,” said Ayla. “He’s my twin brother.”

Crier’s eyes widened. “Your—? And he’s alive?”

“Thus far,” said Storme, who was sprinkling some sort of white powder on Ayla’s manacles. Then he took out a tinderbox.

“Is your brilliant escape plan to blow my hands off?” Ayla squeaked.

He rolled his eyes. “I’m not going to blow your hands off. Can you hold still for a second? The Watchers are gonna show up any minute. Our diversion in the western sector will only distract them for so long.”

“Stars and skies,” Ayla mumbled. “Fine. Fine. Please, for the love of all the gods and then some, please be careful.”

“Your dead twin brother is alive and also adviser to the queen of Varn,” said Crier, dazed.

“It’s a long story,” Ayla said. “I’ll tell you later, promise.”