Navi knew he was right. And yet, the world shrank around her even as it expanded. She felt the truth of her own smallness, the enormity of the world, how much pain and sorrow it contained.

She rose, rolling her shoulders. A walk might clear her mind, even if it meant facing the flies.

Then the lamps outside the tent, dotting the camp like dim fireflies, went out one by one. Muted, startled cries arose from the night.

Hob stood swiftly, blew out their own lamp, drew his sword, and roused Miro. Navi bent to retrieve her revolver, a crude thing they’d bought in Morsia’s underground market. She was grateful to Hob for dousing their light; already, her eyes had begun to adjust.

A voice called out from the center of camp. “You who claim this camp. You who calls herself Jatana. If you want the man Rovan to live, you will empty your hands of whatever weapons you carry and come forward at once.”

Navi stood at the tent flap, her heart pounding. Jatana and Rovan: her false name and Malik’s.

Whoever these people were, they had her brother.

Navi dropped her revolver into the mud, ignored Hob’s whispered warning, and stepped outside.

Immediately, someone grabbed her and roughly shoved a sack over her head. She kicked out and hit a shin, shoved her elbow into something fleshy, but then hands seized her arms, and Navi could no longer stand. The sack, she realized, swaying, had been soaked with a sharp, foul-smelling substance meant to knock her out.

She growled in frustration, heard Hob bolt out after her. Through the sack’s woven fabric, she saw a distant pinprick of bruised blue light—the fissure’s eye, lidless and staring, watching her struggle without remorse.

Then she saw no more.

• • •

Navi awoke to a fresh breeze. Sunlight kissed her arms and neck.

She no longer wore a sack over her head. Instead, a rag had been tied tightly around her eyes, leaving her nose and mouth free to breathe the salty air. She shifted on her hard seat; her hands were bound with cloth. It occurred to her that the world was rocking.

A gruff voice sounded overhead. “She’s awake.”

Another voice, sharp and authoritative, said, “Let me see her.”

The blindfold removed, Navi squinted in the bright light, and after a moment, she saw that she was sitting in a small, narrow boat. Across from her on a low bench sat someone wrapped in earth-colored shawls—some with beaded fringe, others hemmed in pink silk, all of which obscured the person’s true shape and size. A dark scarf covered their head, hiding scalp and hair, and over their face they wore an oval mask fashioned of small metal plates bound together by links of chain. Slits marked the nose and mouth.

Quick glances left and right showed Navi that other boats floated nearby, three figures in each. One person sat to work the oars. The two others stood, spears in hand, all of them trained on Navi.

The masked person spoke in a low, rich voice. “You are Jatana of Meridian.”

Navi stared evenly at the mask. “I am.”

“Why are you here?”

“You took me from my camp and brought me here.”

The mask was silent for a long moment. “You come to the Vespers in hopes of meeting Ysabet of Red Crown. You want soldiers. You want weapons. You want to hurt the Empire.”

Navi said nothing.

“Fourteen years ago, the Empire claimed the Vespers in the name of His Holy Majesty the Emperor of the Undying,” the mask continued. “Those who would work against him are considered traitors to the Empire. We, his humble servants, are tasked with bringing traitors to the capital for judgment. But we are perfectly capable of performing executions ourselves.”

Sweat rolled down Navi’s back. The breeze did little to temper the scorching sun. She realized she hadn’t seen Malik in either of the other boats, nor the two people who’d gone with him to meet with Ysabet. She wondered if they were now dead at the bottom of the sea and if she would soon join them. She held her tongue, resisting the urge to lean over the side of the boat and search the water for her brother.

“What would you say,” the mask continued, “if I asked you to declare your loyalty to the Empire or else lose your life at the hands of my guards?”

The soldiers raised their spears, their bodies tensing as if ready to throw.

As the boat bobbed with the waves, Navi imagined the cool, blue world of the ocean floor. It would not be such a terrible place to rest.

And if she was going to die, she would do so with love for Eliana on her lips.

“I would say that the Queen’s light guides me,” she replied, looking steadily at the mask’s unreadable plated face, “and that her fire will burn the Empire to the ground.”

And then, remarkably, the masked person said, “Excellent.”

They whipped out a dagger from under their clothes and leapt at Navi. Pounced on her, pinned her to her seat, and held the dagger’s blade hard against her throat.

Navi froze, fighting the urge to struggle. Through the gaps in the plated mask, brown eyes met hers.

For a long moment, that bright gaze searched her face. Then the masked person relaxed, stood, returned their dagger to its sheath. Navi caught a glimpse of the iridescent copper blade—the same metal as that of the box inside which Zahra had been trapped.

Navi felt a bitter pang of longing. What she wouldn’t have given to hear the wraith’s voice suddenly drift down from the sky.

The masked person called out a command in a Vesperian dialect Navi did not know. The soldiers in the nearby boats relaxed, lowering their spears. The rowers resumed their work, pushing the boats toward a small black island on the horizon.

Navi’s attacker untied their mask and unwrapped the scarf from their head, revealing a slim, ruddy-faced young woman, her skin marked with freckles and one rather large white scar. She shook out her shaggy, chin-length hair, bleached white from the sun, and shrugged off her layers of shawls. Beneath it she wore snug brown trousers over slim shapely legs and battered knee-high boots. The collar of her white tunic gaped open to reveal two knotted cords of leather tied around her neck.

“Apologies for the dramatics,” she said, gesturing noncommittally with a lazy flick of her hand. “And for the knife. But I don’t trust anyone until I’ve looked them in the eye and held a blightblade to their throat. You understand.”

Navi, shocked into speech, said, “I do, actually.” Then she paused, wondering. This was a much younger woman than she had been expecting, perhaps only a year or two older than Navi herself. “You are Ysabet?”

Ysabet raised an eyebrow. “And you are Navana, princess of Astavar.”

“My name is Jatana.” Navi wrinkled her brow, feigning confusion, but her heart lurched with sudden fear. “You know this.”