“I’ve counted…” said Ruslan, strain tugging at his voice. “Five hundred steps and we have not moved … we have not crossed any distance. You’re doing it on purpose, aren’t you? Trying to tire me out? To fill my head with this nonsense about playing the lyre at the top of the ziggurat?”

Séverin wet his dry lips, summoning the effort to speak.

“It fits,” he said slowly. “Imagine that you are on a pilgrimage … that’s what all holy spots demand. It wants your desperation … your hopelessness. If you felt otherwise, there would be no need to commune with any higher power. I have every faith the steps will lead us somewhere soon. We just have to keep going—”

Ruslan’s arm swung toward him, and Séverin heard his friends cry out at the same moment that Ruslan’s fist cracked into his jaw. He stumbled back, the dagger point lightly swiping against his throat, drawing blood.

“What are you doing—” he tried to say only for Ruslan to slam his elbow into his neck, knocking him to the ground.

From the corner of his eye, Séverin watched Hypnos and Enrique lunge toward him, only for the dead Fallen House guards to lurch forward, tackling them to the stone ground.

Séverin rolled over. When he looked up, a wind rippled through the branches of the upside-down trees. The divine lyre thudded against his chest. Séverin’s bindings slipped down his wrist, but the moment he could move his fingers, Ruslan’s boot slammed down on his chest, knocking the air out of his lungs.

“Stop!” screamed Enrique. “He can’t play it without risking destruction of everything Forged! Remember what we found in the Sleeping Palace?” He gasped, fighting for breath. “To play at God’s instrument will summon the unmaking. Everything Forged will fall apart! We have to keep walking—”

“No,” said Ruslan, shaking his head. “No, we don’t.”

Too late, Séverin realized what he would do. He curved his body over the lyre only for Ruslan’s molten hand to snap out, catching him around the throat. Séverin kicked out, thrashing against him. He wheezed, gasping for air, but Ruslan’s golden grip was not human.

“I thought we could do this together, Séverin,” said Ruslan, “but I see now that my kindness has gotten the best of me. I don’t need your touch.”

He plucked the knife still hovering above his throat.

No, he thought fiercely.

Séverin tried to turn his head, to demand the sanctum of the lyre to rise up and defend him. Even now, he felt the rhythm of something vast and celestial coursing through his veins the moment he pressed his fingers into the lyre’s strings.

This is mine, Séverin told himself as Ruslan pried the lyre from his jacket. I own this wonder.

Only Séverin knew how the lyre truly looked when it was played—the light catching on the filaments and revealing a prism of colors, the pulse of stars nestled in the shining strings.

Ruslan slashed the knife across Séverin’s hand, smearing the blood on his own golden hand.