I share a glance with Cami. She bites her lip as she looks back at her brother, but then blows out a breath and offers a reluctant nod, moving forward with us.

“Good,” Kael says approvingly. “Now, while you three eat, I want to hear everything about the breakout. Every single detail. Hopefully something will help us find him again—and the people who took him.”

Because it’s the unknown Speakers Kael’s most concerned about, I remind myself. Not Riley, not even Ward. His priority is still to keep the Remnants safe from what he perceives as a new threat.

Only, I’m not so sure that they are a threat.

I’m not sure of anything anymore.

And as I follow Kael up the ladder and back through the flame-lit tunnel, I again hear Riley’s voice echoing through my mind:

Lyss—you have to remember!

The question is, remember what?

Chapter Fifteen

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

“Wait a second. He said he’s your brother?”

Kael sounds as incredulous as I feel.

I nod and swallow my mouthful of soup, reveling in the creamy pumpkin taste as it fills the emptiness in my stomach. “Riley Scott. That’s what he said his name is.”

Kael makes a scoffing sound. “You don’t have a brother. You’re an only child.”

It eases something in me, hearing confirmation from Kael’s lips. He knew my family; in fact, he’s the only person I’m close with who knew my family. He’s the one who told me about my history, that my parents left Lengard when I was just a baby. Cami hadn’t even been born yet, and Ward is barely a year older than me, so he’d have been too young to have any memories of me from back then. Same for all of my other Lengard friends. Only Kael knew me as I was growing up, watching over me from afar whenever his parents checked in with mine. If anyone can refute Riley’s claims, it’s Kael.

And yet … while it’s a relief to hear his denial, it doesn’t bring me the wholehearted peace I was hoping for. I think it’s because Kael didn’t hear the pain in Riley’s voice today. Nor did he hear it last night.

I THOUGHT YOU WERE DEAD!

A shiver runs along my spine and I set my spoon down, reaching for my glass of apple juice. I take a moment to look around the medium-sized room we’re in, one that reminds me of a refectory—an underground mess hall of sorts, lined with stone tables and benches. There are more flaming torches in here than anywhere else I’ve seen so far, as if the catacomb architects understood that socializing over a meal is easier when we can see each other.