Phobos fixed Thrym with a murderous stare. “Did you just blame Dei for his own death?” he shouted, eyes red with lack of sleep.

Thrym held up his hands, coming to his feet. “No, I was just illustrating the futility of thinking that way.”

Phobos leapt up and took a single step in the other man’s direction. “How about I illustrate the futility with my foot up your arse.”

Romy winced, quickly rising in a hurry to stretch out her arms between them. “Wait! Just sit down and we’ll talk about it. Everyone’s upset.”

“Get out of the way, Romy. This is overdue. He’s not thinking straight,” Thrym ordered.

Romy looked at Elara as the young woman stood, tears streaming down her face in a steady torrent. “It is my fault. All of this,” she sobbed.

There was a mighty roar and Phobos bore down on Thrym in the tight space. Thrym pushed Romy to the sand. Elara screamed and rushed in to grab Phobos’s swinging arm, but he knocked her back, causing her to trip over a propped branch.

Romy watched the scene from the ground in disbelief. They’d never fought like this in their lives.

She started as hands gripped her waist and lifted her up. She looked over her shoulder and up.

Atlas. Her mouth formed the word.

Atlas peered down at her for a beat, checking she was okay, and then strode into the middle of the tent.

“Stop. Now,” he commanded.

Romy’s chin all but dropped to the sand when it worked. Even Elara stopped crying. Thrym was the least affected, probably because he’d seen Atlas before.

Her knot stared at the stranger in their tent. All she could feel was overwhelming relief he was here. He’d followed them after all.

Atlas crossed the shelter and dropped to his knees beside Deimos, picking up a limp wrist. He checked the wound with his other hand. The grimace told Romy all she needed to know.

“We’ll have to work fast,” he said.

Romy approached behind him. “You can save him?”

He tilted his head to her. “We’ll try.”

“We?” she echoed. But Atlas didn’t comment further, instead putting his thumb and little finger to his mouth to let out a shrill whistle.

Five men entered the tent, all in funny green-patched clothes and helmets. All of them with Earth guns.

“What’s going on?” Thrym boomed.

Romy backed up.

Who were these men? There were too many of them to be the rest of Atlas’s knot. And he’d said his knot was dead . . . didn’t he? Were there two other knots here?

Something wasn’t right.

The group approached Deimos, ignoring Thrym’s angry question.

“Atlas, what’s happening? What are you going to do to Deimos?” she asked quietly.

“Stand aside. We need to act quickly,” he replied, signalling his men.