I want to believe it’s just the same disruption that has been happening for days, but I can’t. Not after the dream. Not with the corridor yawning empty before me. It should be bustling while we are in transit, but I see no crew. No Sisters or vassals. No cherubim, even. We are alone, save for our shadows.

‘It is the storm,’ Yumia says. ‘It sees us.’

At her words, the Vow trembles and the lumens flicker out. There are a series of pops and clicks, and I smell cold air. Mountain air. Then the lumens flicker back on, but the mountain smell lingers. I see then that we are no longer alone.

I see him.

My father stands facing us at the midships junction, his right arm held outstretched as if he is pointing the way. His eyes aren’t gold. They are white. Rolled back, like the day I found him in the spire tower. I stop running. Stop breathing. I draw my main-hand sabre in one smooth motion and point it at him.

But he is already gone.

I stand there a moment, breathing hard, dimly aware of Zoric and Yumia speaking to me. Asking me what is wrong. What I see. Sweat runs between my shoulder blades. With my free hand I tug the pendant from beneath my armour and my tunic and roll it in my hand. I squeeze it hard enough that the spiked halo pierces my skin and blood wells up in ten perfect, tiny dots from the same old scars. I look at the icon in my hand. The chips and forms of it. Every tiny engraver’s mark, too complex to replicate.

‘It’s real,’ I say, as my nose starts to bleed slowly, thick and clotting.

‘What is?’ Zoric asks.

‘Lord?’ Yumia says.

I turn to her. She is looking at me, wide-eyed. ‘Go to the command deck and find the Canoness,’ I tell her. ‘Tell her what I told you about the dream. Tell her she must be ready to fight. Once you have done so, come and find us at the graven door.’

She blinks, but then nods her head. ‘Aye, inquisitor,’ she says, and then she sets off at a sprint towards the forecastle, her bare feet making hardly a sound on the deck.

‘What did you see?’ Zoric asks.

I wipe my nose on the back of my gloved hand. ‘A sign,’ I say. ‘One we must follow.’

He looks concerned, but he doesn’t question me. He just nods and together we take the left-hand corridor. The way my father was pointing. After that I see my father five more times. He is always blank-eyed and still. Always pointing. I follow him all the way to the foot of a wide spiral stairway made of iron and steel. I look up through the levels to see a light flickering at the top. I take a ragged breath and taste cold mountain air again.