But that was only at first glance.

The longer Séverin stared at the island, the more he felt it: a worn-out numbness. The kind of cold vacuum that fills the body when it has been emptied of all its tears and prayers and pleading.

The hairs on the back of his neck lifted.

He scanned the island, listening closely.

In his pack, he felt the torches and supplies they’d gathered along with the jagged point of the gilded box that held the bottle of the mind Forged map to Poveglia. Its contents were gone, distributed amongst the five of them, already tugging their consciousness down an overgrown path of weeds to where the scaffolding skeleton of a former quarantine station beckoned. And yet, no one moved.

Everyone turned to Laila, a silent understanding moving through them. For all that Séverin may have boasted about his dreams for all of them, when he tried to picture what would happen when he finally played the divine lyre in the temple shrine, it wasn’t his face he saw transfixed by celestial light.

It was hers.

Her smile, unburdened by the weight of death … her laughter turned reckless, knowing this was merely the first in an infinite string of joys. Séverin wanted to see that so badly, he would’ve rushed down the path this instant, but he would not step ahead of her.

This was her journey too.

And though Séverin knew power sang through his veins, he also knew that it was only for her sake that the others had even entertained giving him another chance … and so he waited. Beside him, Enrique bowed his head, as if praying. Zofia stood with her hands clasped, and even Hypnos’s usually irreverent grin had been smoothed into a thoughtful expression.

Séverin watched as Laila looked up at the sky. She turned her palms up and closed her eyes. Slowly, she bent and touched the ground, then touched her forehead.

On occasion, Séverin had seen her practice bharatnatyam in L’Eden. She liked practicing in the early mornings best, and often used the spare suites that adjoined his office. Sometimes, he’d stop working just to listen to the chime of her anklets. Whenever he caught her before she began, he noticed that she brushed her fingers against the floor and pressed her hands together in prayer.

Once, Séverin had leaned against the doorframe, watching her. “Why do you do that?” He vaguely imitated her motions, and Laila raised an eyebrow.

“You mean Namaskaram,” she said. “We do this as an offer of prayer, and to ask the permission of the goddess of the earth to dance on her.”

He’d frowned. “It’s only dancing. It’s beautiful, but surely not so dangerous that a goddess needs to give her permission.”

Séverin would never forget how she smiled at him. Serene and somehow terrifying too. He remembered how the sunlight through the stained glass backlit her silhouette and turned her loveliness inhuman.

“Do you know how the world ends?” she asked softly.