Lethe sounded amused. “By all means, Razzia. Sharing is caring, after all.” He wrapped Temper up in a choke, then threw him, and followed him out of sight.

Omen got up. Rubbed his knee and his face. Every atom in his body wanted to hide, but they’d find him. Of course they would. And Temper Fray was on his side. He couldn’t abandon him. There was a code about these things. Omen didn’t know what it was, exactly, but he knew there was one.

Keeping low, he crept up the stairs. The sounds reminded him of the arena back home, when his brother faced a queue of fighters and wouldn’t be allowed to rest until the clock ran out. As a kid, Omen had closed his eyes to most of it, but the sounds had got into his head. Grunts. Cries. Knuckles striking flesh. Bodies going down.

He came level with the top of the stairs, watched Temper fight Razzia. Temper was tired, and she was playing with him. Omen didn’t know what magical discipline Temper had studied, but, if he didn’t use his magic now, he wasn’t going to last much longer. Lethe circled them both, watching. Nero was there, too, standing with his back to Omen, calling out the occasional bit of advice that Razzia would ignore. Nero wasn’t wearing his jacket, which meant the knife, sheathed on his belt, was plainly visible.

There was no other choice. The realisation hit Omen like a slap and his guts turned cold and plummeted somewhere deep and dark, leaving a hollow space where only shivers lived. No other choice but to do something stupid. It was this or never escape. This or die here.

Omen scuttled up the last few steps, counted to three and burst forward.

He slammed into Nero and they went tumbling over each other, Omen going for the knife, his fingertips finding the handle and then losing it again. With his other hand, he kept a tight grip of Nero’s shirt. He couldn’t let go. If he let go and Nero teleported away, he was lost.

They came to a stop. The knife was in Omen’s hand, the blade jammed against Nero’s throat.

“Sloppy,” said Lethe, but he didn’t run in to haul Omen off. He didn’t move. Razzia didn’t move, either. Temper collapsed.

Omen badly needed some water. His throat was parched and his lips were dry. His tongue felt too heavy to form words.

From beneath him, Nero said calmly, “Don’t do anything stupid.”

Anger flashed and Omen came up to one knee, digging the knife in a little deeper. He could talk fine now. “You’re going to let us go,” he said, with a hell of a lot more confidence than he felt. “If anyone tries anything, I’ll kill him.”