Farbod keeps screaming. The sound is like claws gouging the underside of my skin, and I stare in horror as he slowly sinks to the ground.

“Stop there!” shouts the third soldier, and he runs toward us. My hand moves of its own accord, pulling my blowgun out and fitting it with a dart. I shoot him in the neck and barely duck out of the way as his momentum carries him into the wall.

And then I’m the only person left standing. My head spins, and I pull the damp cloth over my nose and mouth. Farbod is still moaning from the snakebite. I see all the signs of the poison moving—the rash making its way up his arm, the bloodshot eyes. I could still save him with an antidote, but I don’t have one.

Bile rises in my throat. I’ve delivered dozens of people from the bite of the purple-crowned serpent. Tonight is the first time I’ve killed someone with it.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. I take out a dart, and he watches with wild eyes as I scratch his skin. It will put him to sleep and save him from the worst of the pain when his organs begin to fail. “This is the best I can do.”

I feel ill. Using the herbs against Utana was nothing compared to this. But I’ve no time to linger. There will be other soldiers coming soon. The herbs I brought in are still smoking, and I leave them there. On the belt of one of the men is a ring of keys. I take them, along with his dagger, and run toward the holding cells.

The cell doors have sliding panels, and I run from door to door, checking each in turn. As I finish checking the third room, a guard emerges from the stairwell at the end of the corridor. He pauses, puzzled at the sight of me, and I shoot him before he recovers.

I keep going, finishing with this floor and then moving down. Finally, I slide open a panel to see Dineas’s familiar profile. I can hardly hold the keys steady as I try them one by one on the door. The lock turns.

He’s chained to the wall. His eyes are closed, and he doesn’t react to my coming in.

“Dineas!”

He’s still—frighteningly so. I run to him and turn his face toward me. His skin is warm and covered in sweat and grime. He’s marked by bruises and scabs, but he’s alive.

“Dineas,” I say, more insistently this time, and he groans. I take my keys again and work at the shackles around his wrists. The first one gives way, and then the other, and he sinks to the ground. It’s all I can do to slow his fall.