After they’d been captured, literally lifted by the claws of the Grief Walker, he’d been placed in a cell, all by himself, enraged to be separated from Roxy. He was as confused as he was angry. Nothing made much sense to him. Well, except for one thing. He was a naive, gullible, reactionary fool. To think he could outwit the Grief Bearers, the priests and priestesses, the entire Remnant Nation. How could he have believed that one young man, raised and trained by a people that killed strangers on sight, by a people that had established a brutal, survivalist regime that devoted their lives and civilization to preserving their own and destroying the Godhead . . . How could one man fight against that?

What had he been thinking? That question was all he could . . . think about.

A door opened with a metal shriek. A man stepped inside. The door closed with a metal shriek. The man wore a mask, an oval of hard metal with slits for eyes and mouth.

“Orphan, bow your head,” he commanded. Nice fellow. “I’m Griever Barrus. From this moment on, you have no room for error. One more mistake, no matter how small, and you’re going to Hell.” He smiled at the double meaning.

Minho knew that phrase was used as an insult in the very old days. But this man, this man with the mask, he meant it in a very literal way. Hell—the floor below the lowest floor at the fortress. So near to the place where he’d saved the boy, where he’d saved Kit’s life.

He was brave enough to speak. “Griever Barrus, am I allowed to ask questions and be honest? I can still help with whatever it is you’re trying to accomplish. What I did isn’t what it seems. If you’ll let me explain . . . present my case.” He despised having to grovel and beg like this, though he was no stranger to it. “Please, just hear me out.”

The man, slightly stooped, wearing the mask and rough robe that showed his humility, took a seat on the other side of the small room, crossed his legs, then stared straight at the Orphan.

“You were never this talkative back home in the fortress.” The man’s voice came to him muffled and distorted, an electric charge oddly buzzing and sparking against certain sounds and consonants. Almost . . . robotic, though Minho had rarely seen such marvels of science. “I’m certain I heard you say more words just now than in your entire previous life.”

Minho leaned forward, against the restraints clasped around his hands and ankles. He closed his eyes and forced a few deep, penetrating breaths, holding them inside of his heart and lungs for a spell then blowing it all out again.