Johnis couldn’t seem to stop the waves of regret and sorrow that kept washing over him. He’d failed on every level, and he’d done it in such short order. Just a few days ago he was watching the Horde football game with his father, feeling sorry for himself but safe. A nobody who made no trouble.

In four short days he’d managed to lead the three most promising new leaders of the Forest Guard into the desert where they would now die. Worse, he’d played into the hands of this beast and given him a book that contained only Elyon knew what kind of power to destroy the world.

And even worse, he’d let Silvie down. He didn’t understand why, but this seemed like the greatest of his sins. Maybe because it was so personal.

“It’s okay, Johnis,” Silvie whispered. She’d been trying to comfort him, and even that didn’t seem right to him. He should be comforting her, not the other way around.

Teeleh stood on the platform’s edge, facing away from them, perhaps waiting to possess the book before killing them.

“Johnis, do you know when I told you I loved the other boy?” Silvie said.

He looked at her. What did that have to do with any of this?

“I do love him, but not more than any other boy,” she said.

She paused, and he still wasn’t understanding why she would discuss this while they faced their deaths.

“Do you understand what I’m trying to say?” she asked.

He studied her eyes, brimming with tears, and fought another wave of guilt. To have done this to such a beautiful, kind girl was a horrible thing.

“I think you’re the kind of boy I would love,” she said. “If I had known you better. You’re a very good person. I want you to know that.”

But he didn’t feel that way at all. Still, he didn’t want to discourage her by arguing at a time like this. “It’s okay, Silvie. I think I love you too.”

She blinked. Had he really said that? It was not what he’d meant to say, not so openly. But what difference did it make now?

Shrieking from the west signaled the Shataiki’s return. They flew in a haphazard formation, two dozen of them, sweeping over the trees and into the stadium.

A particularly mangy-looking bat carried the Book of History against his chest. He settled on the platform, shot Johnis a red stare, then snaked over to Teeleh, bowed, and handed him the book.

Johnis couldn’t read Teeleh’s expression because his eyes were fixed and his jaw shut, but the beast’s claws were trembling as he reached out for the book. He held it between his talons and traced the title, Stories of History, with his nail.