Fione’s hand on his arm stops him cold. He looks down at her, but her gaze never wavers, and he finally gets the message and sits back down. The woman bows slightly and leaves, the heavy door clunking behind her. When she’s gone, Malachite props his muddy boots up on the table.

“So, good parts,” he starts. “They haven’t killed us thus far.”

“Bad parts,” I counter. “They’re making metal Heartless, essentially.”

“Not Heartless,” Fione argues. “Not really. It’s not as if they’re controlling something that was already alive. They made those matronics, from ore to metal to the legs and every other part of it. They’ve created it.”

“Like gods,” Lucien murmurs, and those two words ring powerful enough to make us all go silent.

The little room has a slot for a window, the bright sunlight squaring through no bigger than a peg. I stand on my tiptoes to see out of it, and feel a support underneath me as Lucien picks me up by the waist with his broad hands and lifts.

He smirks up at me. “Is that any better?”

“A little.” I feign disinterest, peering through the window. Outside is a lush expanse of vivid green, the sweltering humidity of the outside air so different from the coldness of the Archives—they must keep it cool to preserve the books. We’re closer to the meridian here, and so while the ocean is still relatively cool, the land is a different story. Palms and tallferns reach for the sun, piercing blue and purple and gold blossoms bursting from every crook of every shadowed canopy. Vines slick with viscous pink sap creep over bark, over the forest floor, over any rock they can find. It’s a different forest than I’m used to compared to the chilly pines and old moss of Cavanos—more alive, more active.

And I too am more active, considering my beloved’s arms are securely around my waist and his face perhaps the closest to my body it’s ever been. I motion for him to put me down and turn to him with a pout.

“Who taught you to approach ladies in such a brazen manner?” I look over at Malachite. “Was it you?”

“Oh, c’mon.” The beneather rolls his eyes. “Like Luc ever takes my advice.”

“I take it sometimes,” the prince argues lightly. “When it’s relevant. Which is, well…never.”

Malachite throws his hand up. “My point exactly.”

Something about the moment sobers us. Maybe it’s the black rock fortress of our tiny room, or maybe it’s the height of the view outside the minuscule window. Whatever it is, it makes Lucien’s dark gaze wilt on the edges as he looks at me.

“I’ll be there with you. Sending magic. So. If they try to hurt you—”