“As if a scraped knee matters to you,” Malachite scoffs, wiping blood from the corner of his mouth. He took several fists to the face in the scuffle to make it all look convincing.

“I happen to like that knee, thank you,” I sniff. “It’s the sexy one.”

“I’m surprised they didn’t question why you’d returned so specifically now, and with so many friends.” Lucien dusts himself as he gets up, offering his hand to me. I wave him off and he gives it to Fione, instead. She takes it, frowning at some invisible scratch on her cane.

“Mindlessly following orders makes people feel as if they’re accomplishing something with their lives,” she says. “Ask any of the polymaths who worked with Gavik.”

Another thought rests unspoken on my tongue: Varia’s killed far more than Gavik. She destroyed Vetris, razed it to the ground. She destroyed Helkyris. Yes, she’s under the influence of the Bone Tree. Yes, she had no idea just how strong it would be, how much it would consume her mind. But she still made the choice. The princess still reached out and touched the Tree, hoping to change the world.

Just like I made that choice to kill all those men, when I was first turned.

When she gets back, there will be much to atone for. And, just for a moment, I wish I could be there to show her how.

We brush ourselves off, the Dark Below yawning huge and cold in the descent of the Fog Gate’s throat, the gray light from outside fading into pure velvet darkness. Lucien passes around his waterskin to each of us, a thoughtful gesture that gently says “prepare yourselves.”

“The guards didn’t even hesitate to throw us down here.” I marvel.

“The Fog Gate kills all who do not know,” Yorl recites. I puff my chest out and draw Father’s sword, striding down the slope.

“Right, then,” I say. “Ladies and undead thralls first. Lady undead thralls first of all.”

“Be careful, Zera, please,” Lucien calls, boots scrabbling on the stone to catch up. Not being able to sleep on the ship wasn’t a problem for the Heartless part of me—my body’s primed and ready to go. But it’s a moderate difficulty for the Weeping part of me—my brain is buzzing with disorderly thoughts, with fuzzy worries and tangled strings of plans. The background chatter of the hunger isn’t loud because I’ve been eating organs, but trying to ignore it or push it down feels like lifting an iron carriage with only my pinkies.

I grasp for silence, for any shred of the quiet peace of Weeping, but my own mind fights against me, a tight, close, me-shaped chamber lined with dagger-teeth, every prick worth a scream that echoes eternally.