It’s a command. An imperative. Our head floods with flashes of burning forests, of burning houses, of burning people. Flashes of lightning splitting the earth, of seas demolishing mountains, of broken bones and yellow fat and gray organ sacs spilled, burning wood and stone, rubble. All of it rubble, the flesh-kind and not-flesh-kind. And it never stops. Never pauses. Like a million chain link of memories that aren’t mine or even Varia’s. Ruin.

This thing in us wants ruin.

But we invited it in, didn’t we? We’re going to use it, aren’t we?

It is our tool, not the other way around.

We get to our feet, the snarling and snapping of a thousand valkerax behind us, and we hold close the only thing we have left. A face. A sweet, apple-cheeked face with a mass of mousy curls, standing strong even as the images of death and ruin flash behind it.

We look over at the Bone Tree, no longer swaying in an invisible wind. It’s perfectly still. And beside it, faintly and like a ghost, is another tree. One I know but Varia doesn’t. One that I can see but Varia might not.

Like a trick of light on water, this tree wavers in the air. It’s a mirage made of glass branches, glass roots, glass leaves, moving gently in some unknowable breeze.

The Glass Tree.

TOGETHER AT LAST.

In a stunning turn of events, my body wakes up before my brain does. And my mouth wakes up before the both of them.

“Old God’s great hairy shit in a bush—”

“Whoa.” A voice, and a hand instantly trying to press me down. “Whoa there, Six-Eyes. Calm down. You’re safe.”

I blink, and from the offending swathe of bright light carves shadow and color. Deep ruby-red eyes, ears so long and pointed they droop a little, a mouth that always looks slightly entertained. And three new, angry red claw wounds across a nose, ripping the corner of a mouth up. No pain in my body. I’m not hurt. But he is.

“Malachite!” I inhale. “What are you—” The room’s strange, too much stone and blue velvet. I’m in a too-soft bed. “Where are we?”

“Some city. We’re taking a break after all that horseshit, that’s all I know. Hold on.” He lifts one finger, rummaging around in his chainmail back pocket and pulling out a hastily scrawled piece of parchment. He clears his throat excessively and reads: “‘Zera, I wrote this for you because Malachite likes to twist my words to his liking.’”

“Lucien.” I exhale a half laugh, leaning back on my pillows. Malachite trundles on with all the emotion of a carriage wheel.