My stomach flops over, and I half turn back toward the entrance. This was a terrible idea. I’ve been through some wild shit the last few days, it’s true, but to voluntarily walk onto Valkyrie Bridge? This place has been the source of my worst nightmares for a year. I should get the hell out of here as fast as my feet can take me.

But there’s nowhere else to hide. No other way I can keep the transmitter safe till I can get it to my loft. It’s boiled down to a choice between stepping onto Valkyrie Bridge or failing to do what I came here to do, and apparently the bridge is the lesser evil.

I keep my breathing even, listening to the fog-muffled sounds of the chaos outside. A slow minute passes. Then another. By the time I count to five hundred, the distant din of thunder is all I can hear.

I should give it another minute or two just to be safe. There could be a cop out there, stationed to watch the entrance the way they usually do after exile ceremonies, to stop anyone trying to return. I should wait here until I’m certain they’re all gone.

One more minute. I’ll give it one more minute. I’ve been through all the fog on the mainland, faced down multiple Beings, even held one in my hand. I can manage standing still on Valkyrie Bridge for sixty more seconds. I let out a long breath that shakes only a little.

Beneath a roll of thunder, I hear the clink of glass on concrete.

I whip around, my eyes straining to see past the smothering gray. That came from the direction of the mainland. Farther down the bridge—where there’s nothing alive.

Or … did I get turned around? When I came in here I walked straight toward the mainland and then stopped, or at least I thought I did. But I’ve shifted my weight a few times, and I did half turn toward the entrance a moment ago. I swivel my head back and forth, trying to recalculate, but the more I try to be sure which way is which, the more lost I feel. I understand now how exiles can get turned around in here, how their plans—to just walk past the mirrors with their eyes closed, to find the edge of the bridge and jump off it—fail so easily in this disorienting haze.

Claustrophobia clamps its jaws over me. The fog is too thick, too heavy. With every breath I take I can feel it clogging my throat. I need to run. Need to get away. Need to be safe.