Zoya watched the fire leap toward the night sky, the flames dancing as if they didn’t know this was a solemn occasion, their light reflected in the water. Ordinary soldiers had gathered on the lakeshore to pay their respects alongside the Grisha, palace guards, Nolniki—those special troops who had declared themselves neither Grisha nor First Army, who had toiled together, side by side, in solidarity forged by new technology and the Small Science, working for a future born of Nikolai’s vision and David’s ingenuity.

Zoya knew she had to preserve that future. She had to find a way to move forward with the war effort, figure out whom to choose from among the Materialki to join the Triumvirate in David’s place. She was a general. She was a soldier. That was her duty and she would fulfill it, but right now … Right now she couldn’t think, couldn’t find that solitary place inside her, that bunker that could survive any bomb blast or storm.

You cannot save them all.

Maybe Juris was eternal, maybe his dragon’s eyes could perceive that one death was nothing in the great sprawl of time. But Zoya couldn’t take flight with the dragon. She had never felt more mortal or more small.

“Stay with me,” Genya had whispered. “Stand with me.”

So Zoya was here, on this lakeside where they had all trained together, near the school where they’d sat for their lessons, Genya’s arm looped through hers. Nikolai stood on Genya’s other side, his arm around her shoulders, as if they could protect her from grief when they had failed to protect her from loss.

Zoya felt her friend’s body, swathed in a heavy red kefta, beside her. There was no Grisha color of mourning. They’d had too many lives to grieve.

Genya was trembling and her weight against Zoya felt insubstantial, as if she might be carried away with the sparks from the fire. But the heft of her sorrow clung to Zoya, heavy and dense, a sodden coat, dragging her down, pulling at her limbs. She wanted to cast it off, but the dragon wouldn’t allow it, wouldn’t let her run from this pain.

“I can’t do this,” Genya whispered. Her face was swollen from crying. Her vibrant hair lay limp down her back.

“You don’t have to do anything,” Zoya said. “Just be here. Stay standing.”

“Not even that.”

“I’ve got you. I won’t let you fall.”

It felt like a lie. Zoya was breaking apart. She was shattered on the rocks. You are strong enough to survive the fall. Juris was wrong. But she owed Genya this and so much more.

“Nikolai,” Zoya said, “I don’t think she’s ready to speak.”

Nikolai nodded. He looked out at the crowd gathered in the dark, their faces lit by flames.