She sighed heavily, seeing an alternate and all too tragic turn of events. The Aurora Constellation would come and pass, leaving providence as distant and unreachable as the stars themselves. In this moment, with the Tree poised to bear fruit so sweet that it would make the wanting worthwhile, The Which could only wait and hope.

This common Indiran soldier had to be the one.

NINE

Everson fell.

He landed flat on his back, the air forcefully expelled from his lungs, yet he was grateful. It could have been far worse. Impact had come much more quickly than his frightened brain had expected.

Given his displeasure with heights, Everson had inched down the elevator shaft slowly and carefully, clinging to each handhold with tenacious anxiety, not daring to look below at the precipitous drop. His nervousness had not allowed him to remove a hand from the wall even to wipe away the sweat stinging his eyes.

To clear his vision, he had shaken his head vigorously from time to time as if in vehement denial. Not that vision was all that helpful in the near darkness into which he had descended. It was during this reaching and peering and shaking for the hundredth time that he had lost his balance and tipped backward into the void.

Looking up now, Everson realized he could have jumped, so near had he been to the bottom. Here it was again, yet another example of his inability to judge his place in the world. He shifted slightly on the dusty floor of the elevator shaft, wincing as he felt the new spots where bruises were sure to blossom. He expected he would have a lovely blue sash across his back where he had landed on his sword.

It will match my new blue apron, he thought. He continued to lie on the floor, gathering his breath, when the thought of more of those verms finding him—and finding him delectable—forced him stiffly to his feet.

Everson peeked out the opening of the shaft and studied the short hallway that led to the open door. He saw the unidirectional footprints and immediately understood the implications.

No one ever leaves this place.

He pulled his sword from its sheath with a sibilant snick and then became immobile. He couldn’t force his feet to move forward. Cold fear crept in like a freeze that chilled his very marrow.

No one is forcing me to do this, he thought. If I never emerge from this building, no one will come looking for me. It was an option. He could just stay here, hiding, surviving on verms and whatever other disgusting delicacies he could rustle up. He could let the war wage on without him. At least then he would be alive.

Four words materialized in his conflicted conscience. “Department for Military Research.” The antidote that could cure this plague of war could very well reside in that room. The prince heaved a resigned sigh and walked down the hallway.