The ache in Henry's head registered before the soft light, painting the ceiling in ghastly, dancing patterns. It's water, he thought; the light must originate from some sort of water body. Only when his head had cleared so much that he could use his echolocation did he process that he heard another heartbeat next to his own.

"Whitespur—?" He jerked up and called instinctively, only to drop back down from the stabbing pain in his head. When he brought his hand up to the freshly bandaged back of his head, it came away stained in blood.

"I thought it had killed you," said a voice that wasn't Whitespur's, yet almost equally improbable.

Henry rolled onto his side and froze, meeting the round eyes of Luxa. She stared at him intensely from where she sat, a few feet away, with her legs pulled to her chest. Her sole motion was the twisting of something between her hands. Henry squinted, yet his head felt too staticky to discern what it was.

"I really thought it had killed you," she repeated, finally averting her gaze.

Henry focused his vision, realizing that Luxa sat on a shallow stone, and behind her was the glistening light of . . . This time he combated the painful throbbing of his head and rose onto his elbow, thinking he had to be dreaming. "We're . . . here?"

Luxa nodded. "It was surprisingly close. Ripred gave Aurora directions; he said we might be safe here. That you must rest away from the battle. No matter what you may claim."

For a few more moments, Henry stared at the Spout that stretched behind her in disbelief, then looked up to see the opening of the secret tunnel. "Here . . ."

"Here," she concurred, still without looking at him.

For a moment they grew silent, and Henry closed his eye, thinking that he would not run the risk of ending whatever it was that had her talking to him. But . . . "Where is Aurora?" he asked. "And Ripred, and Death? Did Solovet escape?"

"Solovet escaped," said Luxa. "Aurora is out keeping watch. After we had carried you out of the danger, Ripred determined that chasing her was not worth the risk. He told Aurora and I to bring you here. He and Thanatos would catch up soon . . . after they had taken care of something."

"Did he mention why he took so long to fetch the fliers?" asked Henry. "If he had brought them sooner, we might have—"

Luxa shook her head. "He did not say. But even if he had come sooner, what would we have done against Solovet?" she asked in an awfully stale voice. "She has chosen to betray me, and I have no proof."

"You have your word!" Henry called. "The fliers' words. Ripred's." The moment he said it, Henry admitted to himself that it wouldn't have been enough. "We will find another opportunity to expose her," he said soothingly. "It is not over. Do not speak like it is over."

"It might be."

"It is not!" he called, immediately gripping his stinging head. "You . . . did this?" He pointed at the bandage.

"Howard showed me how," said Luxa. "I . . . did the best I could."

"You . . ." Henry lowered his hand and averted his gaze. "You really bothered? Even though it would have been better for us all, had I stayed dead?"

Luxa flinched. "I didn't . . ."

Henry could make it easier for her, but at this point, he failed to see why he should. "It is what you said," he declared. "And you shall not deny them. After all that we have been through these last two years, tell me honestly that you meant them."

"I did not!" Luxa cut him off. "I felt angry and confused, and I . . . ask for your forgiveness."

Henry had expected to hear a lot of things, but certainly not that. She rested her chin on the top of her knees, and her eyes were on him. In a long time, she hadn't looked at him with so much clarity. Only when she brought her hands forward to lock them around her legs did he see what she was holding.

"That is . . ."

"I did not mean to touch it without permission." Luxa immediately dropped his old golden dagger when he pointed at it. "I found it when I was searching for bandages in your backpack. I merely . . ."

"I've already given you permission to have it."

"Had you remained dead," Luxa continued without minding the dagger or his words, "I would have lost my light, back there. No," she interrupted herself, "I would have died back in the trap. Or perhaps, in the Vineyard of Eyes. No—" She took a deep breath. "Had you stayed dead, Aurora and I would have fallen to the . . . serpents."

Henry's hand automatically flew up to cup the right side of his face.

"I am . . ." Luxa wrung her hands. "A . . . part of me knew all along. That you . . . that the Death Rider was you. Yet I did not reject the idea or . . . refuse to recognize you because I . . . hate you. You know that I don't hate you!" She looked at him with the same childlike eyes he recalled from back at the river. "Although, after what I said, I would understand if you hated me."

She spoke with so much emphasis that Henry almost laughed. "You're an ill-tempered, stubborn fool sometimes." He smiled. "But since when is that anything new? Besides, have I ever—and I mean ever, before exile or afterward—acted like I hated you?"

"Once."

". . . Point taken. But besides—"

"It wasn't that I couldn't recognize you," she cut him off, looking away. "Not after the jungle. I didn't want to recognize you."

"Oh yes, I comprehend."

"No, you do not!" she called. "You do not! I did not want it to be you because I didn't hate the Death Rider. I trusted him." Her voice cracked. "And if the Death Rider was Henry, I would have to . . . trust Henry."

She wrapped her arms around her pulled-up legs tighter and let out something that sounded suspiciously like a sob. Henry thought her words should hurt him, but they didn't. All they did was make him want to embrace her and tell her that her fear was unjustified. That he'd never put her in peril again, or her trust in him on the line.

"Why can you not just hate me?" Luxa cried, her head flying up at last. Her eyes sparked fury and . . . desperation. "I meant to . . . I said all those things so that you might hate me! So that you might stop making me not hate you anymore! I don't . . . I want not to hate you anymore."

"Then don't."

Luxa attempted to scoff, but it came out as a sob again. Had he not seen it glistening in the glow of the water, Henry would have missed her lone tear. "I didn't . . . I still don't understand," she whispered. "Why would you . . . come back to me in such a manner? Why would you play your part as the Death Rider? You chose to betray me, so why go back on that? Come back to . . . haunt me."

The words hung in the air, and Henry suddenly recalled what she had said by the river. "I never . . . My treason was never intended to hurt you." The moment the words left his mouth, he realized how stupid they sounded. "What I mean is . . ." He hesitated, attempting to say it as truthfully as he could. "I didn't conspire with Gorger because of something you did wrong."

Luxa looked back up, her eyes shining with tears. The familiar desire to just hug her overcame Henry once again, yet all that he did was rise carefully and sit cross-legged. "Look, several factors contributed to my decision to facilitate that conspiracy. And no matter how foolish it may sound, I never had any intention of hurting you. It had nothing to do with you."

"Were you so convinced that I would join you?" asked Luxa.

"I told myself that you would until I was," replied Henry. "I hoped."

Luxa's mouth opened, then closed, but she didn't look away from him anymore. "What you said to Solovet earlier . . . You did . . ."

"Was it the same sight—her standing there, trying to justify? Was it what you saw when you looked at me, back at that cliff?"

Luxa sat still for a heartbeat, then nodded slowly.

"I figured," he said. "And yet—"

"And yet this time, you played a different part," Luxa cut him off quietly. "You . . ."

"Look." Henry shifted, recrossing his legs and doing his best to ignore the sting of his head. "If you would like, I may tell you the whole story. From the beginning. With all the how's and why's and when's and but's. Should I?"

One moment of silence passed between them, then Luxa nodded again. And so, Henry began to talk.

She did not interrupt a single time throughout his tale. She listened to his first encounter with Tonguetwist, her promises, her lures, and her eventually bringing the proposition from Gorger to deliver Gregor in exchange for peace—a pledge that Henry had, in his naive, optimistic ways, believed without question.

He didn't stop there, either. Next, Henry spoke about Thanatos and how he had saved his life, about his first month in exile, and about their arrival at the nibbler colony. Then about his decision upon hearing that another quest was on the way. Gradually, Luxa edged closer until she lay down with him, clutching his arm as if it were her lifeline. She wept quietly, but she didn't let go.

When Henry concluded his tale with the loss of his eye, a long silence followed. He had already presumed that she wouldn't reply when Luxa broke it: "You really . . . do not hate me."

"I never hated you!" exclaimed Henry. "This was my entire point . . . fool."

Luxa let out an almost hysterical laugh and he thought it had to be hard to comprehend after she had convinced herself that his betrayal meant that he loved her any less.

"I was so nasty," she mumbled. "Even Aurora said I—"

"It hurt, yes." Luxa stiffened, yet Henry merely continued, "You hurt me, yet I hurt you too. We both lived."

He felt her laugh more than he heard it.

"I never hated you," Henry repeated. "Not for a moment. I meant what I said by the river: Henry still loves Luxa. He couldn't stop if he tried."

"Luxa still loves Henry too," she replied quietly. "She couldn't stop either. And she tried. She tried so hard . . ."

"Very well, would Luxa like for Henry to hold her now, because is that not how all sincere conversations ended when—"

Henry let out a strained "Oof" when Luxa locked her arms around him so tightly that it was almost too tight. But he didn't loosen her grip; he hugged her just as firmly. Fresh tears wet his shirt where she pressed her face into his chest.

"The conversations . . . when I used to storm into your room in the middle of the night because of a night terror or a fear?" she mumbled. "Or insomnia."

"You stormed into my room because if you could not sleep, you ought to throw me out of bed with you," said Henry. "To read, or make a pillow fort, or . . . that one time you didn't cease whining until I woke the fliers and we snuck out to swim here in the Spout . . . in the middle of the night!"

Luxa broke into laughter. "I would like to do that again sometime."

"Gladly. Why, weren't I so gravely injured, I would throw you into the water this instant."

Luxa laughed so hard that she nearly choked, and Henry laughed along despite the sting in his head. Some things had still been left unsaid, he thought. Yet somehow none of it had needed to be said. He tightened his arms around her; they had never needed many words, and maybe they wouldn't anymore from now on.

***

"Looks like sending the two of you ahead had a positive side effect."

Both Henry and Luxa jerked up at the sound of Ripred's voice, and Henry groaned at the sting in his head, then realized he had not paid attention to his surroundings.

Luxa untangled herself from Henry wordlessly. His arms felt empty afterward, but he smiled all the same.

"Have you two finally spoken properly?" Thanatos appeared on his other side, and Henry briefly leaned his head against that of his flier.

"We have."

"I'm glad. Also that your injury is not keeping you down. It does look rather swollen, though," his bond remarked, and Henry gave him a sour grin, feeling the swell beneath the bandage.

Only when he turned his attention back did he notice what Thanatos was carrying. Henry released a sharp breath, and his head began to spin again. He registered Luxa's suppressed shriek only on the side.

"I could not leave her there," said Ripred as he lay Whitespur's body out on the beach, by the water.

"How . . ." Luxa stammered, falling to her knees beside Henry. Even Aurora on her other side stared at Whitespur with large, unbelieving eyes.

"She was not . . . It was not supposed to happen," said Henry, unable to take his eyes off of her. All the grief that he had pushed aside earlier crashed into him anew, yet this time it did not drown him in rage . . . only in bottomless sorrow. He wrapped his arms around Luxa, and before long, he was sobbing into her shoulder.

Although Henry was devastated, and they were all mournful, no one grieved like Ripred. He did nothing besides sit by her body and stare out onto the Spout, yet no words were needed to convey his pain. It radiated from him so pungently that Henry thought it may suffocate him if it did not match his own.

Eventually, he released Luxa and slid closer to Ripred, forcing himself to also confront Whitespur's sight properly. "Forgive me, I really meant to bring her back to you," he said quietly, not yet letting himself ponder if with her had died any chance for a new golden era. "I meant to . . . She loved you. She said that she loved you."

Ripred said nothing. Then Henry flung his arms around him, and to his astonishment, Ripred allowed it. Perhaps because this was the only quiet moment they would get to truly grieve in this chaotic, uncertain time. So, Henry allowed it too—allowed the pain to permeate him and the tears to flow.

A minute might have gone by before Luxa asked on Henry's other side, "You two . . . were quite close to her, no? I cannot fathom that he allows you to embrace him like this now."

Immediately, Ripred dragged Henry off himself, staring at him as though he had gone insane. "What the hell are you doing?"

"You seemed like you needed it."

"I need for you to exercise some self-restraint," hissed Ripred. "You are not . . . not . . ."

"She would have welcomed the sight," said Thanatos behind them, and both Ripred and Henry spun around. "Of the two of you in embrace."

"Now look what you have done," Ripred said to Henry, shaking him. "I have a reputation."

"I have no care for your reputation." Henry fell back against him, pressing his face into his fur. "I had care for her. So much . . . This serves you right for sending me to her," he hissed. "Serves you right. You scoundrel."

"My lad."

"Endure it for her," said Henry, and Ripred gnashed his teeth, well aware of how dirty this tactic was. But he no longer struggled against him, and Henry honestly did not know what to make of this.

So far, he hadn't even questioned how close he and Ripred might be now, but suddenly he became acutely aware of the odd yet astonishingly solid connection that had grown between them without either of their consent. Although personal care had never been between them before, he acknowledged that it may have grown out of the countless other things that united them now.

Henry could not tell for how long they sat there this time. Eventually, Thanatos leaned against his back, and Luxa crawled back into his arms, with Aurora close behind her. He could embrace them all, yet Whitespur never again, Henry forced himself to think. Never again would he hear her exasperated groan or the firm yet compassionate voice of her grand true self. Never again would she call him her greatest warrior.

"Should we . . . put her to rest here?" Luxa asked after an indeterminable time.

"We should," replied Henry, forcing himself to release her and wipe his face. "It is a good place."

"I wish I . . ." Luxa stood, approaching Whitespur. "I would have gotten to know her better. In the short time I've known her, I've grown to respect and . . . trust her." There was no higher compliment from Luxa's mouth.

"You and I both," Aurora behind her mumbled. "She saved our lives, and I will never forget her for what she's done for us . . . for her species, and for anyone meaning to put an end to this wretched war."

"You two should have gotten to know her better." Henry put an arm around Luxa's shoulder again. "You would have had so much fun together. She . . ." He wiped at his face. "I sought her out to be my teacher more than a year ago, but she was so much more. Without her, I would have died more times than I can count. Without her, I would have never adjusted to the loss of my eye. I promised that she would always have me on her back. That she would always have me! She was—" Henry broke off, meaning to say so much more but he had no words for his feelings or the true extent of his affection. Or maybe he did, one: "—family."

"She had so much wisdom, so much skill," Thanatos spoke next. "I had grown to admire her greatly. I wish I would have expressed it more. We shared . . . pain of a similar kind, and so much more." He paused. "She never wanted the crown, but she would have deserved it."

"She wanted to make peace." It was all Ripred said, and it was all he needed to say.

It did not take long to discover a fitting cave, right by the beach. Thanatos carried her body over and laid it out, and Luxa and Ripred filled the entrance with loose stones. Henry, they ordered to sit and rest his head.

Within minutes, the cave was sealed. Henry stared at the freshly erected wall pensively before he slowly rose from where he had watched, despite the sting in his head, took a step forward, and drew Mys.

"It'll be a reminder." He stepped back and stared at the crossed scythe on the large stone in the middle of the wall. "Here lies Whitespur," he declared. "She who sought to make peace."

They remained in front of the grave for another minute before Ripred broke the silence: "We must not linger any longer. There is still a war going on and a decision to make." He regarded Luxa. "About whether you can even afford to set foot in Regalia after what Solovet announced earlier."

Luxa's jaw clenched. "I will go to Regalia and I will publicly announce her betrayal. She cannot hurt me from within a prison cell."

"Take ease." Henry put a hand on her shoulder before finally sitting back down. "You must consider that, even though you are the rightful queen, Solovet is powerful, with many allies and connections. We have no clue who supports her and to what lengths they might go to keep her in power."

"They've done it before—after she created the plague," concurred Aurora.

Henry nodded. "We must deal with her, yet we must do it intelligently."

"The lad's right," said Ripred. "I've had a little conversation with Gregor before the Bane's arrival about this same thing. We'll deal with her, but first, we must know what exactly we're dealing with."

"We currently don't know anything other than that Solovet cannot be left in power," concurred Henry. "Perhaps, Luxa, you should remain out here until she is dealt with."

"I agree," said Aurora. "We cannot trust anyone except the few we know we can trust, right now." Her pensive but warm eyes were on Henry, and, understanding exactly what she meant, he gave the golden bat a grateful nod.

"Thank you."

"You have earned it," she replied simply.

"He has, and yes, we trust him now," Luxa said with a fake-sour grin. "But forgive me if I have difficulties sitting idly here while Solovet drives my people into ruin. Heard you what she said? That we have blood on our hands and that she would add to it. I refuse for there to be more needless blood!" She clenched her fists.

"We will not allow that," said Henry soothingly. "Somehow, we will find a way. But you cannot put yourself in harm's way . . . If you are killed, she will have an even freer reign."

Ripred nodded. "Sometimes it is best to wait and act when your action is guaranteed to have an effect, Your Majesty. Stay out here with the lad. Be our eyes on the outside."

"I'll keep her safe," Henry assured.

Luxa ignored Ripred's "Well, actually, aren't you hurt?" and looked only at Henry. "You . . . and me? Out here? Just like—"

"Just like old times," Henry managed a grin, and she returned it before turning back to Ripred.

"You will handle things for me in the city?" she asked. "And send for me if you need something?"

"Yes, yes." Ripred waved.

"You should also maybe get that scratch looked at." Luxa pointed at his face, where Henry made out the long, bloody gash that Whitespur's claw had drawn, forming a near-perfect "x" with his old scar.

Ripred brushed it. "Oh, that's whatever."

"About the others . . ." Luxa hesitated. "About Gregor, I . . ."

"Don't worry, I've got you covered." Ripred waited not for Luxa to interrupt him. "And I'll have an eye on your other loved ones too if you have an eye on the lad here for me. So that he doesn't overexert himself again. Promise?"

"Send Gregor my encouragement," called Henry, rising slightly. "Tell him that he did well and that we all root for him—"

"See what I mean?" asked Ripred. "He just cannot cease."

"I see." Luxa grinned, then placed one hand on Henry's chest, shoving him to lie on the floor. "And I promise."

***

Henry lay—doing his best not to sulk—while Luxa and Aurora sat by his side on the beach, in front of Whitespur's grave. They watched Thanatos, with Ripred on his back, fly higher and higher until the rat could reach the entrance to the turtle tunnel. He heaved himself in and disappeared within seconds.

"I want to say that I find it hard to believe that Solovet would . . ." Luxa cut herself off and threw a furtive glance down at Henry. "Is it terrible of me to be unsurprised?"

Henry shrugged. "No. Honestly, I . . . used to admire her greatly, but . . . only one of us grew up, I suppose."

Luxa giggled. "It's much easier than I thought. To . . . laugh with you again."

"I'd nearly given up hope, at this point."

"You gave up hope?" She shoved him. "Impossible."

"Nearly."

"You make it easy for me." Luxa dug her hand into the sand. "It was Tonguetwist . . . the same gnawer who turned Dalia against us."

"It was her, and it was my own naivety."

"Of course." Luxa laughed again. Henry thought she wanted to say something about what it must have been like to see what Tonguetwist had done to Dalia and be unable to stop it. "I cannot imagine that it will be hard to convince the council to pardon you once they hear your story," she said instead. "You already spent two years in exile. They could hardly sentence you to more for . . . more or less attempting to make peace between our species."

"I would have also invaded and facilitated the deaths of many others for it," said Henry sourly. "Although this was barely on my mind at the time. But in the end, my plan was not so different from Solovet's now."

"You told her this," said Luxa pensively. "Would you have really killed them all? Those too weak to fight back?"

"Genuinely, I did not think of killing anyone," said Henry, suddenly feeling sheepish. "All I thought was, "If I ally with the gnawers and if we rule together, they can no longer hurt me". Go on, call me a fool for consenting to bloodshed when thinking about peace."

"As you told Solovet, such peace is not genuine."

"There is a time to fight, and there is a time to negotiate," said Henry. "Now we must fight. Back then? I was so terrified that I would have swung my blade at anything that even in theory could be a threat."

"Had you told me about your plans back then, I would have told you that you were a fool."

"Attagirl."

"Either way, you may soon tell the council all about your foolishness in great detail." Luxa laughed, and Henry wanted to laugh with her, but then he realized that there was still something else he needed to tell her . . . A decision he had made back when things hadn't been easy, but . . . he had already decided that it wouldn't change anything.

Just then, Thanatos landed beside them, and before Henry could open his mouth, Luxa reached for the back of her belt. "I'm . . . truly sorry that I took this without permission." In her open hand, she held his old dagger, which she must have collected from the floor earlier.

"Have no worry." Henry pushed her hand back. "I already offered it to you. You may keep it. I have Mys now." His hand brushed the hilt, yet his smile came out melancholy. "Also so that you may have something to remember me by."

"Re . . . member?"

Henry forced himself to hold her gaze as he proclaimed, "Luxa . . . I will not return to Regalia."