“We’re just a newly betrothed couple, getting to know each other,” I say. “Enjoying a nice walk through the cozy halls of a massive warship.”

Five’s hand is sweaty and cold. He tries to jerk away from me, his initial instinct not to be touched, but after a moment he calms down and lets his dead-fish hand be held.

“Betrothed?” he grunts. “He wants us to get married?”

“That’s what Setrákus Ra said.”

“He says a lot of things.” Five’s face is red, the blush traveling all the way up into his scalp. I’m not sure if he’s embarrassed or angry or some combination of the two. “I didn’t agree to that. You’re a child.”

“Um, obviously I didn’t agree either. You’re a gross, murdering, weirdo—”

“Shut up,” Five hisses, and for a second I think that I’ve actually offended him. But then I realize we’re passing by the open entranceway of the observation deck.

I can’t help but slow my steps as we sneak by. The empty darkness of space I’d gotten used to has been replaced by the familiar, bright-blue atmosphere of Earth. The Anubis is still making its descent, but already the outline of civilization is visible, roads boxing up green fields, tiny houses arranged into perfect suburbs. Dozens of Mogadorians have gathered to watch Earth approach, an excited energy in the air as they whisper to one another, probably talking about which swath of land they’ll pillage first.

Five leads me around the next corner and crashes right into two Mog warriors who were jogging towards the observation deck. The nearest one lifts a corner of his mouth in a disdainful sneer, eyeing us.

“What are you two doing?” the Mog asks.

In response, I draw myself up, trying to look as regal as possible. I fix the overcurious Mog with a cold stare. The Mog’s sneer quickly fades as he remembers himself—or, more likely, remembers that I’m not just some Lorien but the blood of his Beloved Leader—and he looks down at the floor. He begins to mutter something apologetic when a metallic shink cuts him off.

A needlelike blade extends from the leather contraption on Five’s forearm. In a blur, Five drives the blade right through the first Mog’s forehead, instantly turning him to ash. The other Mog’s eyes widen in panic and he tries to run. A delighted grin spreads across Five’s face. Before the Mog can get even a few steps down the hall, Five’s non-blade arm takes on a rubbery consistency and stretches after him. Five’s arm snakes around the Mog’s neck and then yanks him backwards so Five can finish him off with his blade.

The whole thing is over in about ten seconds.

“We were supposed to be acting normal,” I say to Five in a loud whisper, mindful that we’re not all that far from the crowded observation room.

Five blinks at me, almost like he’s not sure what just came over him. Carefully, he presses the blade back into its holster.