And between the ridges? Between the towers? Nothing at all. Darkness. Hundreds of miles of drop, an abyss, yawning all around the city. I squint—not quite right. Threaded over the shadows of the crevasse I can see tawny strands. Woven. Purposefully. Huge beams of wood jut out from beneath the towers every which way, planted all along the stone ridges and supporting an intricate web of nets that spans the whole city, like a last halo of salvation, as if a massive spider’s carefully woven a web around it. The wind whistles viciously, and I pull my head back in to avoid the shards of ice.

“The people here felt the explosion,” Malachite says. “And the quake from the falling valkerax.”

“Were any of them hurt?” I blurt.

He sighs. “Do you two have to do that?”

“Do what?” I blink.

“Ask the same question right in the exact same spot. You’re either the same person or meant for each other.”

He means Lucien. Heat tries to tickle my cheeks, but I won’t let it.

“No one in Breych got hurt,” he finishes wearily.

“Fantastic. How long have I been out?”

“Seven halves.”

“Good!” I throw my hands up. “Not enough time to miss anything important. Where can I get clothes?”

“Here.” Malachite walks over to a dresser, throwing me a drab-yet-functional mustard dress and a heavy black wolf-fur covering.

“Ugh.” I wince. “The colors.”

“Bright, clashing shit seems to be the order of the day around here.” He opens his own leather covering to reveal a pink tunic with a mess of magenta ruffles. We both burst out laughing, the sound quickly swallowed up by the dour stone. The silence isn’t oppressive, but it’s there, echoing shards of reality back at us. A reality that’s changed so quickly, so brutally.

Varia’s gone. She has the Bone Tree. The valkerax.

I’m Lucien’s Heartless.

Fione is…

Malachite and I—

“I hurt you,” I say, reaching out to touch the edge of his face. Not the ointment-smeared wounds that must be agony but the skin still whole.

His red eyes soften, and his smirk crooks high. “You wish you managed to hurt me.”

“Mal—”

“It’s over, Zera.” He cuts me off. Not hard. Easily. Gently. “You made your choice. And for once, I happen to agree with it.”

I step behind the wooden divider, pulling the rags of my clothes over my head. It’s not all forgiveness from Malachite. It can’t be. His wounds are too fresh for that. My betrayal up until that moment on the mountain peak is too fresh for that. It’s not forgiveness, but it’s the start of it. Better than nothing. Kinder than nothing. He’s so kind to me, even after everything.

I’m going to cry. I’m going to cry behind this godsdamned ugly divider. Ugh, no. I’m not. He wouldn’t want that. I know that.