Third, a man bursting out of the mass of soldiers, making straight for Harkan. He had determined that Harkan was the leader of this upstart group of rebels, this squadron of fools who thought they could prevent an imperial army from doing what they did best.

But they had prevented it, at least for a while, at least in this one small canyon.

Had it been enough?

Was it enough? Harkan asked, groggy.

Zahra sent him a feeling, a sensation—her own ancient fingers stroking his hair. I’m right here, Harkan.

He struggled to remember. Even with Zahra’s help, it was difficult. Slippery and elusive.

But he did see it now: the man, running for him. Lithe and swift, an efficient swordsman. Harkan had grabbed his sword and jumped to his feet, meeting the man’s blade with his own. They were well-matched for a few moments, nimbly dodging each other’s blades—until Gerren fell. Caught in the throat. His eyes widening, surprised. His hand flying to his neck. And then the boy was down, dying fast, and that moment of distraction was enough.

The man’s fist smashed into Harkan’s jaw, knocking him backward. And then he flung a dagger at him, and it landed hard and true in his gut.

Harkan’s body jerked. Through a fog, he remembered the pain, how it was as if fire had shot inside him, spreading outward from his abdomen, as though his veins had been scorched by Eliana’s castings. His hands flew to the knife in his belly, and he looked down at it and laughed. Then he sank to his knees, falling hard on his side, and he faintly heard Catilla’s voice, urging him to get up, to run, before her voice abruptly ceased.

He remembered scrabbling in the dirt, fumbling for his gun, his dagger, anything, because this man, whoever he was, was killing everyone—there went Viri, and the girl Roen, and Qarissa, and Rogan, all of whom Dani had recruited from the farmlands outside the city. And then Harkan saw, through a flash of furious thought sent in despair from Zahra, that this man was named Varos, and that he was a member of Invictus. That he had left Willow in flames and executed every member of Red Crown who remained there.

That he intended to hurry next to the beach and make sure that no rebels on the beach interfered with—

And Zahra realized it at the same time Harkan did, for she was delving frantically through Varos’s mind with what strength she had left. She howled when she saw the truth, a terrible, shrieking wail that shook Harkan’s bones.

Simon.

Simon was leading Eliana not to freedom, but to the admiral.

Simon was not Red Crown.

He was loyal not to the Prophet, if the Prophet was even real. That much Zahra could not see. A figment, a lie? Part of the ruse? Perhaps.

No, he was loyal to one being only, and he intended to take Eliana across the ocean to the doors of his palace.

The Emperor.

Zahra howled with rage, but Harkan was faster. His fury crystallized his pain; his despair sharpened his slipping mind.

He pulled himself to his hands and knees, found his rifle. Turned, saw Varos drawing his sword out of Catilla’s gut, and fired everything he had left.

Varos fell, his gut shredded.

Another scream pierced the air, as full of sorrow as Zahra’s had been of rage.

Harkan, his eyelids fluttering, the pain in his gut traveling up to pound at his temples, found the source—a woman with freckled brown skin, a red-dyed braid. Lithe and dangerous; a soldier, certainly. She stared at Varos’s body, frozen with horror, and then a brilliant light flashed from the beach.

The girl turned, shielding her eyes. She looked back once at the slain Varos. Her bright gaze cut to Harkan, and he watched her expression harden, a veil of hatred dropping over her eyes. Then she turned and fled down the cliff paths, joining the imperial army as they converged on the beach.

Harkan dragged himself closer to the cliff’s edge, watching this light, this fallen sun, streaking toward the water.

Dimly, he heard Zahra screaming, “I can’t get to her! I can’t stop her! Stop, my queen! No! No!” And he felt Zahra’s rage, the fist of it pummeling against some cage that he too, could sense, as if someone had erected an invisible shield between them and Eliana, keeping them immobile while she ran unknowing toward betrayal.

Harkan lay his cheek on the hot stained ground, laughing a little, his eyes stinging from tears and the grit of sand. He listened to Zahra sob and wail, fighting uselessly against whatever force was imprisoning her here on these cliffs of death. Then he closed his eyes, listening to the distant sounds of gunfire from the docks below. Sharp, efficient. One after another.

An impressive marksman.

Better even than Gerren.

• • •

“That’s what happened?” he whispered.

Zahra’s touch was cool and still against his cheek. Yes, Harkan. That’s what happened.

But this, she added, this happened too.

These memories were his own—older, deeper, and dear. So distant that, given the circumstances, he wouldn’t have been able to find them on his own.

But with Zahra’s help, he did.

• • •

First, seven years old. Passing messages to Eliana, from his balcony to hers. Moving his palm across the flame of his candle so she would see a flashing light from her window. The first time they had written a code between them.

Second, ten years old. His brothers leaving for the war front, after which he had been inconsolable for weeks. His only comfort had been playing games with Eliana on the floor in her bedroom, helping care for Remy when Rozen was out working her mysterious job. At night, lighting candles for the windows. May the Queen’s light guide them all home, Rozen had said, over their heads—his, and Eliana’s, and little Remy’s, all bowed together over storybooks, listening with bated breath for a door to open with good news that never came.

And third, fifteen years old. A killer now, at Eliana’s side. Reluctant, but devoted. And at last, he had kissed her. That first night, in his bed, both of them trembling with nerves, all awkward angles and sweating brows, and Eliana whispering his name against his neck. He had been afraid to touch her, desperate to touch her. After, his cheek against her chest, listening to her pounding heart, trying to catch his breath. The smell of her in his bed. Burying his face in the pillow she had used. Breathing her in.

• • •

“Yes,” he whispered, smiling a little. His eyes were wet, as was his mouth. “Yes,” he agreed, “that happened too.”

And then he looked up at Zahra’s faint ripple of a face, so odd and unsettling in the air, and knew that he was dying, for how else would he—untouched by the empirium, unremarkable and ordinary—be able to see Zahra’s face at last?

How strange that the face of an angel who loved humans would be the last thing he would ever see.