“I’m not!” I argue. “I’m just trying to lighten—”

“If Varia dream-tracks you again, or whatever, it’s my people who’ll get the worst of it,” he snarls. “She’ll see into your brain and head for the Dark Below and start destroying Pala Amna.”

“Mal,” Lucien says. “That won’t happen. We’ll get there first and warn them.”

The beneather snorts. “We better.”

“Surely Pala Amna is best prepared for a valkerax attack out of every city on Arathess,” Fione says.

“Yeah.” Malachite shrugs. “But not all the valkerax. And sure as shit not all at once.”

“Why does she want you so badly anyway?” Lucien muses at me.

“A very good question,” Yorl agrees, then looks to me. “Zera?”

“I—” I falter. Just for a second. “I don’t know. I know she attacked Windonhigh right after we were there and then the Black Archives while we were there.”

“Seemingly tracking you,” Lucien says. “Is it because—you don’t think it’s because she still hates you, right?”

no, foolish prince. it’s because she’s afraid of us. of losing her power because of us.

“I don’t think she remembers her own name most of the time, let alone what it’s like to hate someone,” I insist. “If there’s any hate fueling her, it’s the Bone Tree’s. And if there’s any reason that thing hates me, it’s because I’m part valkerax and not obeying it.”

I meet Fione’s periwinkle eyes, the sole gaze that cuts right through me. She’s the only one who knows both Varia and me intimately. She knows something doesn’t sit right in my words.

“Anyway, I don’t need sleep,” I quickly blurt. “But what if—she’s destroyed Vetris. Helkyris’s capital. Maybe she’s destroying Avel’s right now. After that, all that’s left on the Mist Continent is the beneathers.”

“Pala Amna,” Lucien agrees.

“She could go to the Feralstorm,” Malachite argues.

“No,” Yorl says. “There are more beasts than people there. Disregarding her going out of her way to stalk your group of late, there’s been a pattern to her attacks. The cities Zera just listed are of the greatest population densities. Varia seems to be going by descending order. And the fourth largest is Pala Amna. She’s headed there eventually, regardless if we are or not.”

Malachite’s face goes even whiter, the cargo bay’s shadows clawing at his cheekbones. The silence between us is filled by the creaks and groans of the ship, the pressure of the ocean bearing down like iron. Lucien looks somberly at the matronic. Yorl studies his claws with a frown, and Fione gazes at a far crate with hard eyes. Malachite looks sick at his own thoughts. I clench my fist.

“What if we lure her?” I ask. Fione’s the first to snap her gaze to me.

“With your dream?”