I have it handled.

Henry paced anxiously along the beach, battling the impulse to cover his ears and scream at the top of his lungs. Why yes, he certainly had it handled. His judgment was certainly superior and impartial—it wasn't like Dalia knew his true identity, and he had no personal stake in the question of whether to back her return to civilization whatsoever.

"What troubles you so?"

"My own decision to strive to lift the children's burdens," retorted Henry sourly before he forced himself to sit by Thanatos' side. "I cannot be impartial," he declared. "I cannot allow this, not without some guarantee."

"Was this why you suggested not revealing her deeds? Wish you to blackmail her with this information?"

Henry made a face. "The thought has crossed my mind," he admitted. His gaze was drawn to the lake, and he shuddered, picturing Dalia standing in the shallow water, pressing a dagger to her own throat. Yet the part that frightened him more was that, when he had looked upon her, he had realized that her turmoil, her anguish, was not unfamiliar to him.

With Thanatos by his side, Henry leaned back against a stalactite and shut his eye, attempting to control his enraged heartbeat, to not feel it all rushing back the way it had done at her sight there. Her sight and the realization that he, who had always prided himself on loving life, understood what she felt . . . had done something to him, thought Henry.

"Perhaps I misjudged myself," mumbled Henry, looking away. "Perhaps I am not one to lift others up after all. It is . . . more draining than I expected."

"You mustn't give what you require yourself," replied Thanatos. "Give to others only as much light as you can spare."

"But what if I will never again have more light than I need for myself?"

"Then no one will condemn you for not giving to others."

Henry looked at him uncertainly. "If I choose to live for myself, no one will condemn me?"

"No one. And if someone does, they are in the wrong," stated Thanatos resolutely. "If you say that others have a claim to the light that you require for yourself, that would be akin to saying they are justified in sucking you dry."

"It is what Hamnet chose," mumbled Henry. "To live only for himself." He contemplated Hamnet's choice, yet as much as he sought within himself more understanding, he still couldn't find himself in alignment with it. "I wish not to live for myself," declared Henry. "I wish to earn my light back so that I can share it again. But I know not how."

When Thanatos said nothing, Henry threw him a look and found a mix of astonishment and awe in his face. "I must thank you for the reminder of why I have such profound admiration for you," he said.

Henry laughed. "Now I must only find a way to achieve that."

Thanatos hesitated. "You search," he said after a while. "Recall you?"

"What you said about searching." Henry nodded. "Spending some time preparing for what is to come. I . . . Perhaps I am due for a vacation yet again. Perhaps some time away from all of this . . . from humans," he glanced back toward the questers, not without a pang, "will replenish my light. I wish not to leave them to their own devices, but . . ."

"I concur," said Thanatos, to his astonishment. "Think of it not as a permanent goodbye. Think of it as a . . . vacation," he said with a smile.

"Very well." Henry pressed his lips together. "I . . . I can do this. I shall finish what I started and bring them all home safely, and then we shall leave. May we leave?"

"We may."

Henry threw his bond a grateful look for not pressing him about where he wanted to go. "I shall deliver on my promise and speak to Dalia first." Despite the urgent exhaustion he felt weighing on him, Henry rose to his feet. "Let us bring this to an end, once and for all."

***

"I've witnessed some truly unfortunate fates, but I can't say I've ever felt less envy toward anyone than I do toward you. If that gives you any solace."

Dalia's head snapped up, and she shot him a fierce glare. "It does not." She scrutinized him, then turned her face away. "Has the queen better things to do than decide my fate personally? Why has she sent you when she is unaware of your royal blood?"

"Let us make one thing clear." Henry sat in front of her with crossed legs, returning her glare. "I am not here as some kind of prince. I am here because the queen is a thirteen-year-old girl whom I so happen to love like a sister and wish to avoid adding unnecessary burdens to her."

Dalia stared at him, mouth agape. "If you are not a prince, why have you been bestowed with the power to represent her now?"

Henry intensified his stare until she had to avert her gaze. "I think not that it should be your concern who sits here in front of you."

"I think it should," retorted Dalia, raising her head again. "If the one in front of me is not impartial."

Henry clenched his jaw. "You underestimate me," he claimed, yet he couldn't shake the feeling that she was right. "Why did you not long tell them?" he asked in a quieter voice. "If you wanted to make me, a royal, suffer, you have a very effective means to achieve that."

To his surprise, Dalia lowered her gaze. "You are royalty." She said it as though she meant to remind herself. "You act . . . not like royalty." Her voice was barely more than a whisper. Then her head snapped up. "You are right. I should despise you. I should tell them. I—"

"You should?" asked Henry icily. "You should despise me, you say. Why? For the circumstances of my birth? Does that weigh heavier than my actions?"

Dalia stared at him, her jaw tightly clenched. "Nobles are despicable," she mumbled. "They exploit without care or consideration. They see us as no more than a mindless workforce, existing solely to worship and serve them."

"Tell yourself this as much as you like, yet it will not erase the kind deeds that you have witnessed during your journey with us."

Dalia froze.

"Has your despised queen not helped you prepare food?" continued Henry undauntedly. "Has Howard not treated your wounds? Has he not carried you when you were too weak to walk? Have I not helped you look after them?"

"Be still."

"I shall not be still!" yelled Henry. "I happen to have had my fair share of prejudice in the past. Yet what I have learned is to judge individuals based on themselves, on the way they act in the present and not the past, or even less on some generalized preconception. And so I ask you, what has been your experience on this quest?"

Dalia was silent for a long while. "I have witnessed some . . . things that seem difficult to believe," she mumbled eventually.

"And yet they have transpired."

"I have witnessed many cruelties at their hands too."

"At the hands of Luxa? Of Howard? Of me?"

Dalia hesitated, then shook her head.

"I condone or deny none of the cruelties that you have experienced, but I say that your preemptive judgment of nobles is as wrong as the prejudice that you and your fellow commoners have been subjected to," said Henry with a shrug. "We are all individuals, and so we should judge each other."

Briefly, a hint of fury flashed over her face, but then she averted her gaze. "I can hardly argue with this."

"Then give it some thought, and perhaps re-evaluate your priorities. It is not too late," Henry said in a more mellow voice.

"It is not?" Dalia's head shot up again. "Are you mad? You know that I am as good as condemned."

"Not necessarily," said Henry. "In fact, this is what I have been sent here to determine: What is it that you wish your fate to be?"

Dalia stared at him incredulously.

"By this, I mean, you may stay here or let us take you back."

Henry opened his mouth to tell her that they had even considered keeping her treason a secret when Dalia beat him to speaking: "The queen is interested in what I have to say." She shook her head. "Now I've seen everything." Before Henry could rebuke her again, she continued: "I made the right call to orchestrate the release of the fliers."

When Henry looked at her curiously, she shrugged. "I craved to despise you. I had once pledged vengeance against the whole lot of you. Yet, as I said, I can hardly deny that this journey has debunked many of my . . . preconceptions. The Overlander, he . . ." She cut herself off, wringing her hands. "I . . . I have never wanted to be a . . . villain."

"And yet you suddenly felt like that was what you had become."

"How can I be a villain if my vendetta is directed only at those who have provoked my wrath?" she exclaimed.

"Because we have not provoked it."

"You—"

"We have not, and if you pursue vengeance against those who have not harmed you, you are a villain." Henry briefly considered his own former vendetta against weakness and made a face. "It is easy to have preconceptions and so much more difficult to realize that they are what their name suggests—preemptive. I once thought that crawlers were less useful in battle than rocks—at least those could be thrown." Henry let out a laugh. "Until I found myself trapped in one of their colonies as it was besieged by a pack of cutters. Suffice to say, without the crawlers' aid, I would still be there to this day . . . Or potentially, I would have become a fine dinner for the cutters."

"So what you are saying is that I must not presume you noble lot are all the likes of Stellovet," said Dalia frigidly.

"Has she really been so bad?"

"She is an insufferable wretch whose sole purpose in life appears to be to make my existence miserable."

"Is that so?"

Dalia hesitated. "She . . ."

"Was it not Stellovet who reminded you of your purpose to live earlier?" Henry threw at her. "Who sought your forgiveness and proclaimed that the harm she caused you was not due to any malicious intentions or grudges against you?"

"I can still not make sense of that," whispered Dalia.

"I can tell you the sense of it," hissed Henry. "Sometimes we cause harm to those we mean no harm to, simply because no one has made us aware of how harmful our actions are. I have no doubt that Stellovet has been negligent and spoiled, yet I also have no doubt that she does not mean you any harm. In fact, I have seldom ever heard her speak as sincerely as she has earlier."

Dalia shook her head. "I know not if I can forgive her yet."

"No one says that you have to, or that you must make a decision about this now."

"I shall make a decision later," she said stiffly.

"Yet there is another decision you must make now," Henry reminded her. "There has been a suggestion to . . . take you back and not disclose anything about your committed treason as well," he offered hesitantly.

Dalia's eyes widened. "That is something the queen would do?"

"If that is your wish."

Dalia remained silent for a long while. When she finally raised her gaze from the floor to stare directly at him, a shiver slithered down Henry's spine. "I want you to take me back."

"You—"

"I must ensure that my brother is safe and cared for," she continued undauntedly. "And then I shall surrender myself to your authorities."

Henry stared at her with his mouth agape. "What are you saying?" He demanded after an eternity. "I just told you that we would—"

"I know that you would, yet I have no need for your deceitful offer. I would be in the hands of those who knew about my treason for the rest of my life. And even if that played no part in my decision . . . I am undeserving of this gifted chance."

"Undeserving?"

"I have done what I have done," she retorted. "I believed myself to be justified, yet I am growing more and more certain that I have not been. That I have been a fool . . . a villain. My actions have caused undeserved suffering, and so I shall suffer for them."

"But you needn't suffer!" exclaimed Henry. "Why must there be more suffering if it can be avoided?"

"Because I deserve to suffer," she said. "Could you sleep at night, knowing that your life hinges on a lie? That you have been given a second chance that you have not earned?"

"Yes!"

Dalia looked him up and down, and Henry hated the dismissive air that had entered her face. "I am not a liar."

"You have lied plenty."

"I have not—" She released a strained breath. "I have not felt well doing it. I wish to no longer carry the burden of lies."

"You would rather die?" Henry found himself battling an unexpectedly potent wave of anger. Its source eluded him, but suddenly he craved to strangle Dalia with his own hands to stop her from pursuing this madness.

"I made my peace with death a while ago."

Henry clenched his jaw, giving her the most furious glare he could muster.

"In case you fear that your identity may be in any danger, I shall not drag you down with me."

Henry's eye widened.

"You deserve no further punishment. You have . . ." She hesitated. "You have been kind to me." She lowered her voice to a barely audible whisper. "I shall no longer be vengeful against those who have not wronged me. Perhaps Tonguetwist told the truth on this one occasion: We are more alike than I thought."

"We are not alike." Henry scoffed. "You acted on a promised chance to end your misery. You had nothing to lose. I acted on a foolish, grandiose vision and gambled away everything I never considered I could ever lose."

"And yet you handle it so much better than I . . . the consequences. You are strong," said Dalia without looking at him. "You have made peace with your actions; you even made a name for yourself in the aftermath of your own greatest failure . . . Death Rider. I shall not take that away from you."

For a moment, Henry considered telling her that he was far from peaceful at the moment. Then he shook his head. "And yet you are the one who is refusing an offer for a fresh start . . . This time, I am certainly not the fool."

"Why care you so?" She raised an eyebrow. "My fate is none of your concern."

"Because you are out of your mind!"

"Perhaps I am. Yet you claimed to be here to ask for what it is that I want." She gave him a challenging look. "Will you retract your question now?"

They held each other's stare for one more moment, then Henry rose to his feet abruptly. "No," he said frigidly. "But say not that I have not warned you." With that, he pivoted and strode away from her toward the others. Confident as he seemed—in that moment, Henry felt more helpless than he had in a long time.