After beginning to move, Henry noticed right away that there was one set of footsteps less than expected. He proceeded carefully, walking a few feet to listen for the missing pair, then he turned around to see if something was amiss.

His echolocation painted a vivid picture of his surroundings and the gnawers in the nearby caves. For a moment, he wondered why they hadn't yet smelled them before registering the pungent odor of burnt oil and blood that always hung over the arena like a sickening blanket.

The missing set of footsteps was Dalia's; he made her out by the back wall and whipped around to assess whether there was an issue. Yet when he honed in on her and realized what she was holding in her clenched fist and how she held it, he froze to ice.

Henry perceived her every rigid muscle, her every stiff limb, and his mind reeled back to her slightly elevated reserve this morning, as well as her refusal to eat . . . And suddenly, he was hit by a wave of raw panic. Because—this behavior, this stance, this air—he recognized it.

A glimpse at her posture and what she was holding sufficed to piece together her plan. What Henry couldn't piece together was how to prevent it. Because he had to prevent it. He had to . . . do something, his mind screamed. Act—save her—by any means before she threw herself away in the same way that he had.

"Halt."

He had meant to scream, but he could barely bring himself to speak. And even if Dalia had heard him . . . Henry battled the rising certainty that she was past the point of no return.

"You do not—"

In hindsight, he couldn't have explained what he had intended to say. "You do not have to do this," perhaps. Or, "You do not know what you are doing. You do not know what you are getting into, what you are throwing away."

Perhaps all of them at once. But then she did what he had predicted—she switched the light on—and with the light came the unyielding truth, which he could no longer ignore.

With the light came gnawers too. Longclaw emerged to stand by Dalia's side and congratulated her enthusiastically. Gorger never congratulated me, thought Henry, instead of attempting to fight the gnawers who efficiently seized him and his party. He ignored me, then mocked me, and finally dragged me off a cliff.

"It appears that despite Tonguetwist's epic failure with your flier, Achilles, here she has succeeded."

Those words finally pierced the odd numbness that had enveloped him, but when Henry searched for Thanatos among the fliers, he had already been restrained on the floor. A pair of gnawers lifted Henry off the ground, and no matter how much he twined and struggled, they carried him easily.

Henry sensed that the rest of his party was in a similar predicament; they were all being carried toward the prison, but in that moment he couldn't even care. He could only look at Dalia with an incredulous expression. She hadn't said a word yet, and for some reason, that bothered him all of a sudden.

Explain! He meant to yell. What are you throwing yourself away for? Everyone had a reason. Ensuring that his familiars listened to his reason had been his main goal during his own downfall. Had she no such desires? Had she no reason to share?

"This will not unfold the way you anticipate!" he yelled with a hoarse voice. Whether he had addressed the towering Longclaw or the sunken Dalia, Henry couldn't tell. But no matter—in order for this to end in anything but disaster, he couldn't allow either of them to have their way.

Moments later, the flashlight was crushed, leaving them in darkness. Not for long, as a flickering brazier came into view almost immediately before the gnawers carrying him entered one of the prison elevators and released him some ten feet above the hard stone ground.

Henry remained lying where he had landed, dazedly registering the others dropping beside him. A collective groan reverberated through the pit, and the gnawers retreated, elevating themselves back up.

There was everyone, thought Henry as his echolocation picked up on their shapes: all the questers—the humans, the fliers—everyone except for Dalia.

Go, go, go, go. Stand with your friends.

Suddenly, Henry was consumed by the desire to yell these words in Dalia's face. See how she liked that.

Stand with your friends.

Against his best efforts, Henry shuddered. He knew very well that they had not been his friends, and they were not Dalia's either. Then and there, the words he wished to yell at her shifted.

They are not your friends, so you mustn't stand with them. Stand with your friends.

Henry let out something between a laugh and a sob. His fingers dug into the cold stone on which he lay, and he took a deep breath, extending his perception to take in the entire pit before slowly rising to all fours.

The pit was narrow; it barely fit all nine of them. One moment passed, then his head flew up. Nine? Without Dalia, his party counted seven. But he heard . . . not nine, twelve heartbeats, including his own.

Henry scrambled to his feet and scanned the pit with his eye, checking to see if he had somehow been mistaken. But instead, he found someone else: her once-elegant dress was torn, her hair unkempt and tangled, and her face, hands, and bare feet smudged with dirt—yet she was alive, her wide eyes fixed on the newcomers.

"You!" Stellovet's eyes lit up, and she clasped her hands over her mouth, looking at Henry as if he were the greatest sight she had ever beheld. She took one disbelieving step toward him when Howard caught her in a tight embrace.

"Thank Sandwich, you live!"

She gingerly returned his embrace, all without taking her shining eyes off of Henry. "You are here . . ." she mumbled, then she spotted Luxa and Gregor next to him, and the disbelief in her eyes took on a different quality. "You . . . halt, what are you all doing here?"

"Friends?"

They all jumped when a tiny voice interrupted from the corner Stellovet had previously occupied. Henry's gaze flew in that direction, and only then did he remember the additional heartbeats he had heard.

Stellovet shoved Howard aside. "They are. Come forth! Come!"

"What in—"

Howard cut himself off when, leaning on Stellovet, out of the shadowy corner emerged the cream-colored shape of a flier. In anticipation of who else he had now discerned, Henry inspected her . . . Yet his smile fell when he noticed the iron shackle around her leg.

"Who—"

"May I introduce?" Stellovet cut Luxa off—Henry thought she seemed a little too happy about the opportunity—and released the flier, helping her settle on the ground. "This is Hera. She is a prisoner like I. We . . . kept each other company." She paused, then stood on her tiptoes to glance behind Hera. "You may come out; they are . . . They are not a threat."

And like on cue, from behind Hera emerged a tiny white head, quickly followed by a light brown one. And from under the flier's wing came a dark brown third head. "They friends?" repeated the tiny white pup, perking up on who Henry presumed was her mother's back curiously.

Stellovet nodded, and Henry couldn't remember the last time he had seen her smile so genuinely. "They are Leda," she said, pointing at the white pup. "Danae," she indicated the light brown one, "and Io." She held out her arms, and the dark brown pup flapped her tiny wings and flew straight at her. "They are Hera's pups."

It took only a few moments for Henry to register the abnormal silence. Everyone stared at Stellovet with disbelief, and as he pondered why, he took in her disheveled appearance among the family of fliers—her torn dress, bare feet, and tousled hair—and thought even he barely recognized her.

"It is a pleasure," said Howard at last, breaking the silence. "Thank you for your excellent care of my sister. Now let me reciprocate your kindness and tend to your own injury."

Only on second glance did Henry make out the bloodstains marring Hera's silken, light fur, where the shackle had dug into her flesh.

"It is most likely infected," said Howard, sitting beside the evidently exhausted flier with his backpack, which the gnawers had neglected to seize, and glanced back. "You others, line up as well. I will examine everyone . . . especially you, Stello."

Nobody had it in themselves to protest. As it turned out, no one was seriously injured, although tending to their fliers properly proved nearly impossible. They had been shackled in heavy chains to prevent escape, and even though all of them insisted they were fine, Henry believed them not for a second. Even with joint efforts, Henry and Howard barely managed to loosen the chains a little.

Henry did not move from Thanatos' side and watched his battered, exhausted party settle as best they could as well. Gregor and Luxa's frozen faces, the circles under Howard's eyes, the tattered state of Stellovet, the uncomfortably heaving fliers . . . and his own soiled hands.

The blood that stained them came from a semi-fresh puddle at the bottom of the pit, but to Henry, it may as well have been the blood of those he had endangered—the blood he had spilled—by embarking on this mission. By having left Longclaw alive. By not having caught onto Dalia sooner. He had wanted to lift others up. Henry bit down on his lip until he could barely stand the pain. Yet here he was—the cause of their suffering due to his neglect.

He watched Howard give Hera some of their remaining water and finally inquire about her backstory. It appeared that she and her partner Chronos had been traveling to the Fount with their newborns, as Chronos had taken on a courier job there. Over the waterway, a waterspout had driven them off course, separating them from Chronos. Hera had managed to save herself and her pups in a tunnel, but they were soon captured by gnawers. All of this had occurred only a day before Stellovet's arrival.

"I extend my deepest sympathies for your loss," said Howard with a respectful nod. "As my sister has undoubtedly told you, we are the children of the family that administers the Fount. If we manage to escape, you are very welcome to accompany us and stay, even if your partner did not make it."

Hera returned his nod. "Thank you for your kind offer." Shortly thereafter, she fell back into a restless sleep, and Henry turned his gaze away, suddenly finding the grief she emitted unbearable. They all knew that Chronos couldn't have made it, even if no one said it aloud.

What ensued was a period of miserable silence. Henry glanced at Luxa and Gregor, who were huddled with their bonds, and then at Howard, who had his arm wrapped tightly around Stellovet's slender shoulders. Although he could have likely understood what he was saying to her, Henry couldn't bring himself to listen. He could only lie with his legs drawn up, his face buried in Thanatos' fur. As time passed, the overwhelming guilt and helplessness began to suffocate him more and more, making it increasingly difficult to hold back tears.

He should have never allowed Gregor and Luxa to join this quest. He should have seen through Dalia sooner. He should have . . . should not have dragged any of them into this wretched feud. "I am a miserable hypocrite," he whispered.

"None of this is your fault," replied Thanatos, but Henry shook his head.

"I said that I would lift others up. And instead, I have landed them all here."

"This is not your fault," urged Thanatos again. "It is Longclaw's."

"If I had—"

"We mustn't weigh ourselves down with what-ifs," Thanatos cut him off. "We have chosen not to pursue Longclaw. We sought to leave him in peace, and yet he seeks more bloodshed. Is this bloodshed our fault?"

Henry pressed his lips together. "Perhaps it was the wrong decision," he mumbled. "Perhaps sometimes, to prevent needless bloodshed, one must partake in a bit of it."

Thanatos said nothing for a while. "You may be right," he admitted after a while. "Perhaps we have been careless when we chose not to pursue Longclaw. But what's done is done," he urged. "You mustn't blame yourself any longer."

"I shall not blame myself for Longclaw," Henry conceded after a while. "But I should have seen through Dalia."

"None of us others did."

"I am not like you others."

"You are less like her than you think," urged Thanatos. "Please, blame yourself not for her actions or for failing to prevent them."

"But if I had—"

"I said that you should not be weighed down by what-ifs," Thanatos cut him off.

"It was Tonguetwist all over again," mumbled Henry as if he hadn't heard him. "With me, with you, and with her."

"And yet all of this is still not your fault."

"We chose wrong," said Henry after a while, more convinced than ever. "When we spared them. They shall not cease to spread misery and bloodshed for as long as they live. We cannot spare them any longer, not if we wish to sow peace. Death, I crave peace." Henry drew his legs closer to his chest, feeling the immense burden of all the suffering that had consumed him for so long, squeezing the fresh hope that he had only just started to embrace again from his heart. When will it be enough? He thought. When will the suffering finally cease?

"Perhaps this is just not our place," he mumbled. "Perhaps this is telling us that if we mingle with humans, we cause suffering."

"You . . ."

But Henry continued: "We are outcasts. We do not belong." The words hurt to say . . . yet not as much as hearing Luxa's words last night had. Sometimes I think that it should be difficult for me as well to keep him in my memory as more than his treason. Henry suppressed a shiver. There are so many good things that I still recall. I wish to keep the good things in my memory as well. For, if I will not, who else will?

No one, the truth reverberated in his mind. And perhaps you should no longer either. His eyes found Luxa in the shade. You shouldn't torment yourself with memories of me, he said to her silently. Be free.

He hadn't expected to still feel so much when confronted with these memories—memories seemingly belonging to a different lifetime. A different person. He was no longer that person, he realized all of a sudden. No longer that Henry.

Briefly, he recalled feeling torn about this when he had glimpsed the wall of Regalia before following the quest over the waterway . . . He was no longer torn. And he did not belong here. He forced himself to feel the agony this truth carried. Here with them may be the place of the Death Rider, but not that of Henry. Because as much as the Death Rider seemed to have grown on them—Henry, they would never embrace again.

Henry turned his face away from them all, suddenly overcome by a fear of being seen in this state. He wasn't supposed to be so miserable. If he were already here, he should at least be the Death Rider they so craved. He should be rational and strong when the others despaired. Henry wrapped his arms around himself tighter. He was supposed to be . . . uplifting. Was that not what he had promised? It was what they deserved, he thought. The others . . . the children whom he had landed here.

Abruptly, he sat up. Yet before he could say anything, an enraged scream cut the loaded air: "How dare she?!"

Everyone flinched, turning their attention to Stellovet, who had wriggled out of Howard's grasp and gotten to her feet.

"Stello, I am truly—"

"I care not!" Stellovet cut Howard off, waving her arms and staggering back until she nearly ran into Gregor and Ares, who sat behind her. "This conniving shrew planned it all! She stood there, cold as stone, and watched as those wretched gnawers seized me. She was not threatened!" Her narrow shoulders trembled, and Henry thought, despite her enraged front, she may be moments from breaking into tears. "Curse her!"

"Stellovet!"

"I say curse her! That lying, ungrateful—" Stellovet broke off, wrapping her arms around herself. "Why would she do this?" she hissed between clenched teeth, and Henry was now even more certain that she was on the verge of tears. "She said nothing to you either? I cannot understand—"

"Neither can any of us," said Luxa all of a sudden, drawing everyone's attention. Her voice, as well as the look in her eyes, were as cold as ice. "But learning the traitor's motive is hardly our main concern right now."

"Your main concerns, perhaps," hissed Stellovet, her voice breaking.

"It's probably not worth it," said another voice that hadn't spoken yet. Gregor raised his gaze from where he had sat with his knees pulled to his chest, leaning against Ares. "She played us all. Who knows why." When he had everyone's attention, the Overlander visibly shrank a few inches. "She . . . I mean, she talked me and Luxa into coming here in the first place," he mumbled. "Luxa, I'm sorry. If I hadn't fallen for her guilt-tripping, we wouldn't be here."

"No one blames you, Gregor," Luxa replied coldly. "No one blames anyone but the traitor."

Henry ignored the sting that her icy words delivered to his heart for some inexplicable reason. Instead of dwelling on the odd emotion, he said the one thing he himself yearned to hear: "Placing blame will not help anyone." He pulled himself to his feet and dusted off his hands. After one moment of hesitation, he pulled down his hood, exposing his face. "Take ease, you all." He gave them his best attempt at a smile. "We are not lost yet, and we shall not succumb."

"So, you will save us?" asked Stellovet in an uncharacteristically bashful voice. And Henry saw that they all looked at him now, with uncertain and tired faces. At him as he stood center stage, expecting him to lead. To inspire. To . . . be uplifting.

"I shall try my absolute hardest. But you must not lose hope," Henry urged, forcing himself to scrape together the last remains of hope that he had left and pour it all out of his mouth. "Should the opportunity to question Dalia ever arise, we will do so, but contemplating what she did will not help us now. We must make the only thing that may: a plan."

"Have you a plan?" Luxa's wide-eyed gaze, stripped of its former hardness, stirred Henry's heart in an entirely new way.

"Not yet." He kneeled between her and Gregor, placing a hand on each of their shoulders. "But I vow to do anything in my power to ensure your safety. To return you home. You all."

"Listen to him; he is wiser than he looks," said Thanatos, and an actual grin broke out on Henry's face.

"You are not wrong," admitted Howard. "And so, I make the same vow."

"We will all do our best," concurred Gregor.

"Hope is hard to come by right now," mumbled Luxa. "But I shall make my best effort." Upon this, Henry couldn't resist the urge to ruffle her hair with one hand, prompting a genuine giggle.

Howard's eyebrow shot up, yet before he could comment, Henry sat down with crossed legs, staring up at the pit's forty-foot-tall wall. "We cannot climb this, not even with joint efforts. And even if—the gnawers would recapture us at once. I suggest we wait until we are fetched to make our move. I doubt it will be long."

At the array of confused expressions, Henry explained: "Longclaw will hardly let us rot away in a pit. We are far too significant. He may either want us to witness his coronation, or battle in his arena . . . Or both."

His announcement prompted an audible gasp.

"I realize this is a dire outlook," admitted Henry, desperately combing his mind for a way to use this to their advantage. "But . . . It may not be so bad. All of you can fight, no?"

The party exchanged uncertain glances. Luxa looked at the shackled shape of Aurora, then nodded. Howard frowned, but finally nodded too.

"Any of you will be at a disadvantage if you are pinned against an opponent by yourself," said Henry direly. "As someone who is quite accustomed to it by now, I can say with certainty that your chances are slim without at least your fliers."

"Tell them." Henry looked over at Ares, who had nudged an uncomfortably twining Gregor. "They should know."

Howard's and Henry's brows creased; only Luxa rolled her eyes. "Gregor will have no difficulties," she said, waving her hand. "He is a rager."

"He is a . . . really?" Henry stared at the lanky teenage boy with the miserably furrowed brows in shock.

"Yeah." Gregor kneaded his hands. "I kind of figured it out last year, before the quest to kill the Bane."

"Well, that eases my mind," said Henry with fresh elation. "If he asks for volunteers, you must go first, Gregor. I would, but I doubt Longclaw will be very eager to see me battle. I may be his greatest champion of all time, but nothing is as exciting as fresh faces."

At everyone's curious expressions, Henry shrugged. "I may tell you this story another time. When we are in less of a dire situation, perhaps. But Gregor, if you can rage, you may prevail and buy us enough time to prepare an escape. Perhaps if we are made to fight, we may at least get a hold of our weapons." He pondered for a moment. "If somehow possible, make it so that I acquire a weapon. I may handle it if I can only acquire a weapon."

Luxa stared at him with unabashed curiosity now. "It seems that you can do battle once more, as opposed to in the jungle?"

Henry nodded. "There was something that . . . Ripred offered to me. I vow to tell you once we are no longer in potentially fatal shit. Preferably in no shit whatsoever."

Stellovet and Luxa giggled, and Howard raised an eyebrow. However, when Henry proceeded to search their backpacks for provisions to distribute, he said nothing. In the end, they found themselves with the contents of Henry's water bags, as well as a full bottle consisting of an unfamiliar, transparent material and a full pack of cookies from the Overlander's backpack.

"My mom packed those for the trip to the Fount," mumbled Gregor as he reluctantly handed them over.

Henry patted his shoulder encouragingly. "I assure you, they will not be wasted."

And so, everyone quenched their thirst while Howard swapped bandages. Then Henry handed out the cookies as the only food they had. With a pack of twenty, they had plenty to spare, and when Henry bit into the first one, he felt instantly reinvigorated by the sweet sugar rush.

"Oh, how I have yearned for sugar!" he exclaimed, barely resisting the urge to take another. "You have no semblance of what it is like to live without sugar!" He waved the half-eaten cookie toward the group, then gazed at it lovingly. "I will never again underestimate the power such a simple food item holds," he said to Thanatos. "Put it on our list of things to trade for."