The palace was so heavy with tension that Gregor wondered why he didn't see a physical discharge. Before Ares staggered forward and nearly collapsed, he barely acknowledged that they had landed.

"Hey, are you okay?" Gregor leaned over Ares' neck, remembering that he was still injured from the fight against the Bane. "We have to get you to the hospital—"

"You both, actually."

Gregor spun around to face Andromeda carrying Mareth. The soldier whipped out his crutch and maneuvered himself over to Gregor. "Come, it is what Solovet ordered."

A hundred thoughts clustered in Gregor's head as he followed Mareth through the palace—why had Solovet ordered him back after giving the command to follow Luxa's call? Where had Luxa even come from? Where was she now?

"Is my family alright?" he asked instead, taking off the helmet and shoving it under his arm a little awkwardly.

Mareth nodded. "They have remained in the code room—or, in your mother's case, the hospital. I'm certain that once you've had your own check-up, you may visit her."

Andromeda remained behind, saying something about going back to help out on the field, and Mareth brushed his hand against her claw, wishing her well. Then ushered Gregor through the gateway to the hospital.

"So, what happens if someone else kills the Bane?"

Gregor's question caught Mareth off guard. "What mean you?"

"I mean Ripred earlier," said Gregor, trying to combat his impulse to fumble with the hilt of Sandwich's sword. He could honestly not wait to get that thing out of his belt already. "He and Whitespur did a pretty good job. What if they won? What if he's dead already?"

"We would know," said Mareth, sounding like he wasn't even fooling himself.

One look at his apologetic face sufficed to make Gregor feel bad. "I know you're trying your best," he said. "And that you want to help me. I'm just a little . . ." Gregor broke off, not really feeling like saying "fed up with all of this fighting and the prophecy nonsense" out loud.

Mareth gave him a grateful smile, and Gregor even managed to smile back. When there was no prophecy breathing down his neck, the Underland was one of his favorite places to be . . . But he couldn't say to Mareth, who seemed to have his own load of problems, that he just wanted that back.

No one wanted to be at war—if nothing else, their way through the hospital made this abundantly clear. Gregor had seen plenty of gore on the battlefields, yet he still stared in horror at the sights that waited for him in every hallway: gashing flesh wounds, missing limbs, gauged-out eyes . . . blood and gut and excrement that no one had had the time to wipe away yet. Or they did not bother, with how there always seemed to be more spilling. All enveloped in a thick coat of stomach-turning odors and agonized screams.

He turned a corner, trying desperately to keep the contents of his stomach at bay. It had begun to churn dangerously at the sight of a man whose intestines were spilling out of a deep cut inflicted by a massive claw. He was still screaming when Gregor hasted away from his sight.

Ares caught up to him before Mareth did. "No one will think less of you for being horrified," said his bat. "Everyone is."

"I just want it all to be over," said Gregor, no longer caring about sounding whiny.

"We must believe that it will be soon," said Mareth, catching up and placing a hand on his shoulder.

Yeah, but won't I be dead then? Gregor almost said. He bit down on his tongue, nodding instead.

For a while, the three of them stood around somewhat lost before Gregor realized that this was the reception room. Doctors hasted past them, yet they all seemed busy . . . Gregor thought maybe that was for the better. They shouldn't expend their doctors on him, who wasn't even injured, when so many others were.

After maybe half an hour of waiting, someone finally came and brought him into a room so clean and pleasantly smelling that Gregor breathed out in relief. There, he was told to wait; Mareth remained behind, and Ares was taken somewhere else by a pair of doctors to properly address his injury, as it was far more severe.

Even though Gregor was initially anxious to be left alone with strangers, the two doctors who took over his check-up were friendly and apparently knew what they were doing; he was done in less than fifteen minutes.

"Nothing severe." One of the doctors, who had introduced herself as Triana, smiled. "It will take care of itself in no time."

"Awesome." Gregor managed to smile at her. "I can leave, then?"

The doctors exchanged a look before Triana's colleague cleared his throat. "I am afraid we have not the authorization to release you from the hospital. So ordered Solovet."

"What?" Gregor's grip on the edge of the bed tightened. "Why? Can't I at least go see my mom? And my other family in the code room?"

The doctors exchanged another look before both shook their heads. "I could . . . send someone to ask if they may visit you—" the male doctor, whose name Gregor couldn't remember, offered.

But Triana interrupted him: "Solovet ordered for him to remain without visits from outside. I am not even certain if we may allow him a visit with his mother. I will check at once." With that, she spun on her heel and disappeared out of the room.

"My apologies," her colleague mumbled with a blatantly fake smile, then went after her. He shut the door—an actual stone door—behind himself, letting a lock snap into place.

The moment Gregor was alone, the room fell into an unnerving hush. Momentarily, he eyed the door, asking himself why there was one here and whether they had brought him specifically to a room that could be locked, as opposed to most hospital rooms. He decided it would not amount to anything to bang on the stone and demand to be let out. It wouldn't happen, not if Solovet had ordered otherwise.

Instead, he let himself fall backward on the sheet and shut his eyes. No matter how hard he tried, he could not unsee the Bane's rage and then his madness, caused by the loss of his tail. If he were actually dead . . . Gregor's eyes snapped open. Did that mean he could avert the prophecy after all?

When the monster's blood is spilled, he heard in his head and made a face when it occurred to him: Technically, "spilling blood" didn't even have to mean he was going to kill the Bane. Whether he was dead or alive, Gregor had definitely spilled his blood today.

Just then, he sat up, scowling. Did that mean he could say his job was done? If he could convince the Regalians that this was what the prophecy actually meant, maybe he could leave the killing to Ripred and Whitespur after all. If the Bane was still alive, anyway.

Gregor looked around, realizing he didn't really believe in the Bane's death, even if they'd fought him together like that. They . . . Ripred and Whitespur, he thought, letting himself fall back onto the bed. Before they had fought, they had, she had . . . Gregor squeezed his eyes shut. What had she tried to do? Get the Bane's army to follow her instead? Why would they have done that? Gregor didn't know. But judging by Solovet's angry face, she must have achieved something.

Solovet. The moment her name entered Gregor's mind, he realized that not killing the Bane was a pipe dream for him, as long as she was in command. She wouldn't believe any alternative interpretations—she would pit him against the Bane until he died . . . wouldn't she?

Gregor shuddered, recalling how Solovet had hesitated to follow Luxa's cry for attack. How she had held him back by his sleeve, ordering Mareth to accompany him and Ares back to Regalia. Did she . . . want him dead? But why? What had he ever done to her?

Gregor clenched his hands around the bedsheet. All he had ever done was try to help the Regalians, and yet they, yet Solovet, were sending him to his almost certain death anyway. Just like that. He shoved aside images of Vikus telling him it might be a misinterpretation in a voice that conveyed his hope that it was aside. Why?

. . . Because Sandwich had told them to.

This truth crashed into Gregor like a boulder, and for a moment, he struggled to breathe. It was only because Sandwich had written that stupid line that Solovet was sending him into battle over and over, hoping he'd actually die. Because . . . Why?

Gregor's hand found the hilt of Sandwich's sword, dragging it out of his belt and pressing his finger into the sun mark. The sun is heeding the viewer that they should live, he heard Teslas in his head and scoffed. If Sandwich wanted to help him live, he could have easily done more for Gregor by writing something like "When the warrior's blood is spilled / When the monster has been killed" instead.

But Sandwich hadn't wanted him to live.

This realization didn't slam into Gregor; rather, it rose from the depths of his gut and overtook his heart like an undeniable flood, drowning everything in its path. Of course, Sandwich hadn't wanted him to live. In retrospect, Gregor wanted to yell at himself for even thinking that. Sandwich hadn't been a good guy. He'd brought the Underland nothing but more bloodshed, more war. He had brought the killers, and he had brought Gregor here too. For what reason?

All of this . . . Gregor breathed heavily, picturing the horrific suffering that was still going on outside. It was Sandwich's fault. He had written Gregor into this land, into this conflict. He had told him to go on all of these quests. He had told Gregor that if he killed the baby, his heart would die, and then he'd told him to take up his own sword—his mantle?—and spill the former baby's blood anyway.

And now he was telling him to die.

"I'm not dying!" screamed Gregor, feeling an unprecedented wave of rage sweep over him. "You hear that?! I'm not your successor, and I'm not a killer. I'm not doing it! Screw you!"

No one replied, but screaming made Gregor feel better anyway. It left him panting, but in a satisfying way—like after winning a race or catching a train just before the doors slid shut. By declaring that he wasn't following Sandwich anymore, had he just caught the train to escape his doom?

One more moment, Gregor's hand tightened around the hilt of his old sword, then he flung the blade sideways, off the bed. It crashed to the ground, apparently bringing something else down with it, but Gregor didn't care to look what. Screw that sword too, he thought, shutting his eyes and feeling as though he had just wrestled an invisible weight off his shoulders. Yeah, it was better than normal swords . . . at killing. But Gregor didn't need it. He suppressed the thought "because he was good enough at killing as was" and replaced it with "because he didn't want to be good at killing." Not like Sandwich, he thought over and over.

As Gregor lay there, panting as if he'd actually just freed himself from under a massive weight that had been dragging him down, he thought he understood for the first time what Henry had meant when he had said, "You all must refrain from letting anything but your own will dictate the direction of your lives."

It was what the Regalians were doing, he thought. They were all trying to make the prophecies happen. Trying to follow the guidance of this guy who had left the prophecies there . . . for what reason? It made no sense. If he'd been a bad guy, wanting them all to fail, why had he even left those prophecies there?

Annoyed with himself, Gregor shook his head and squeezed his eyes shut. Maybe Ripred was right, and he should spend more time thinking about the here and now rather than the past. Maybe they all ought to. Was there any chance that he might make the Regalians understand what they were doing wrong?

His frustration mounting further, Gregor opened his eyes again. The oil lamp on the wall emitted only sparse light; he barely made out the color of the ceiling, let alone what was stacked on top of the little cabinet in the corner beside the door.

Click.

It was books, Gregor thought, trying to focus only on the sensory input instead of the swirling thoughts in his mind.

Click. Click.

Some glass cylinders and a spare oil canister.

Then, another face appeared before his inner eye . . . Luxa, alive and well. He smiled. For a moment, he contemplated standing up and fetching the photo he had put back in his backpack after the doctors had him take off the armor.

She was out there . . . his smile faded. She was fighting for her people. She . . . had held a flaming sword. A flaming . . . His eyes flew open. The only one who had ever wielded a flaming sword in all of the Underland was Henry, and the last time he had seen her, she had not spared Henry a single look. What did this—?

"Gregor!"

He jerked up from his sheet when the lock clicked and a voice called from the door.

"Are you alright? When they told me you'd been confined to a hospital room, I assumed the worst!"

Gregor blinked a few times before leaping out of bed and toward . . . "Howard!"

"Yes, it is I." Howard hugged him tightly, then held him at arm's length and smiled, though Gregor saw well enough how exhausted he was. "It was a damn hassle to find you," he mumbled. "Previously, I had assumed that this hospital was a place of transparency and cooperation."

"Howard, you . . ." Gregor tilted his head, only now realizing he hadn't seen him in ages—not since they'd returned from the quest and he had been ordered back to the city to train. After he'd learned Luxa had disappeared. "Where were you?" he asked. "And, how did you get in here? Into the palace, I mean. You and Luxa, you just disappeared during that battle, and I didn't . . ."

"Those are tales for a different time," Howard interrupted Gregor, ushering him away from the door before shutting it, like he was paranoid someone was eavesdropping. "Listen, we haven't much time before I will be discovered in here, and there will be questions." He sighed, then began pacing. "We were driven into a trap that day—Luxa, Aurora, Nike, and I. Hadn't it been for Kismet and Henry, we would have lost our light."

Gregor covertly kicked Sandwich's sword so that it slid under the bed, hoping no one would ever find it if he just left it there, then he sat back down on the sheets. "A . . . trap?"

"Someone seeks to kill Luxa, Kismet said." Howard stopped in front of him, speaking in a hushed voice. "We followed the Bane's forces as they marched on Regalia and overheard some conversations confirming that there is an informant among us, though they never mentioned a name." He paused, and his frown deepened. "Where is Luxa? Is she here? Safe?"

An informant . . . Gregor's eyes became round. His first thought was that it had to be Solovet, but why would she give information to the rats? So far they had assumed that, no matter what else she planned, she did want Regalia to win the war. But who else would it be?

Before he could voice his thoughts, Howard took a step closer, taking Gregor's shoulders again. "Gregor," he urged, "by Sandwich's own spirit, do not look at me like that. Speak! Where is Luxa?"

At the mention of this name, Gregor flinched. "S-She's not here, I think," he stammered. "I fought the Bane earlier, and—"

"We saw." Howard released him and began pacing again. "Kismet—perhaps I should begin to say Whitespur—and the rest of us watched you battle him. Then Henry devised a plan to lure the gnawers away from the city walls. He sent Twitchtip and I with Nike and Thanatos to the Spout to enter Regalia without being spotted." He clenched his teeth. "He promised to have Luxa follow us when the coast was clear. He ought to have—!"

"Wait!" Gregor's head flew up. "Did you just say . . . Twitchtip?"

Howard nodded, and Gregor's heart skipped a beat. "We came across her in the Bane's camp on the Plain of Tartarus. Henry and Whitespur rescued her, together with Lapblood, her pup Sixclaw, and . . . Well, we did not rescue him, but he aided us—Splintleg. Apparently, he is an old acquaintance of Whitespur's. Twitchtip is in bad condition. But she lives." Howard halted before Gregor and crossed his arms. "As soon as we arrived back, I asked a friend to bring her to an unused room and treat her. Have no worry, she is in excellent hands."

Gregor's mind reeled . . . Twitchtip. Memories of the rat drifted to the surface—of being forced to leave her in the Labyrinth. They had hoped she wouldn't die—and she didn't.

"They kept her alive to extract information about you," said Howard when Gregor asked if she had told them anything about what had happened. They both knew that "kept her alive" meant "tortured", yet neither of them said it.

"Can I see her?" was all Gregor asked.

"Certainly," replied Howard. "But perhaps another time. Now, we must act quickly. If Luxa is not here, she is in peril. Twitchtip will live . . . Some others may not."

"You're right." Gregor cast his eyes down, attempting to fit all the new information into his head to form a coherent plan. What was their priority now? "Where are the bats . . . Nike and Thanatos? They carried you up, right?"

"Nike followed me. Afterward, she joined the fliers who carry the wounded from the battlefield." Howard approached the door and peered through the keyhole. "Thanatos returned to his bond."

"So, what do we—"

Before Gregor could finish his question, Howard jerked back from the door. It swung open and Triana stood in the frame. "Oh?" Her gaze wandered back and forth between Howard and Gregor. "You have company." She didn't sound too happy about it.

Howard cleared his throat. "My name is Howard, son of York. I work here, and I would like to know why he is being held here despite being unharmed. We ought to use these rooms for those who actually need them."

Triana scowled. "You ought to know that Solovet ordered—"

"Solovet ordered us to accompany him to the war room," a voice behind Triana spoke, making her flinch. Gregor clutched the bedsheet tighter as two familiar men in full armor emerged behind Triana—Horatio and Marcus.

"But—but the order—"

"We have new orders." Marcus ushered Triana aside. "Solovet has gathered the council in the war room and she wishes for the warrior to attend. Come."

Gregor threw a last glance back at Howard and Triana, who remained standing in the doorway, before he was led away. His first thought was that with Horatio and Marcus shadowing him again, he stood no chance of sneaking out to search for Luxa. His second thought, when the room finally faded out of sight, was that at least his plan to hide Sandwich's sword had worked . . . With some luck, he'd never see it again.

Although the chaos had died down some since he'd been brought here, Gregor still had to battle the urge to duck and cover his ears any time he heard distant screaming. He focused on watching his feet so as not to accidentally run into any of the suspicious stains that still littered the floor.

Only when they finally left the hospital behind did Gregor realize he'd forgotten to ask Howard if he knew where Ripred was. He'd jumped from the wall and fought the Bane . . . Surely he must've been let back in afterward.

Before concern could overwhelm Gregor, Horatio said, "We bring him," then ushered him through a doorway.

Only on second glance did Gregor recognize the former council room that Solovet had turned into the war command center. As he took his first look around, he saw that the whole council had assembled. He spotted Ares, looking better than before; his leg was still bandaged but he returned Gregor's nod. And in the middle stood someone else . . . "Vikus!"

Both Vikus and Mareth, who appeared behind him, gave him an encouraging smile. "Hello Gregor," the former greeted, and Gregor automatically made his way over to him.

"Now that we've all arrived," a stern voice spoke from the door, eliciting a shiver, "let us all take in the dire news I'm afraid I must deliver."

Gregor turned back and saw Solovet stride into the room, halting at the other head of the table, directly across from Vikus. She looked around and placed her palms on the table, leaning in. Although . . . something about her seemed off. She usually took great care to look her best, yet now she was without her armor; her braid was messy, and her clothes were plain and hastily put together. But she still wore that elaborate crest that had caught Gregor's eye earlier, pinned to one of her belts this time—her commander status symbol.

Gregor frowned. Whatever she'd assembled them all for, he was starting to get a bad feeling about it all. Everyone around them seemed to inch forward, closer, eager. Behind the row of humans, Gregor spotted a row of bats, among them Ajax, who hunched a little offside. Next to Ares were Andromeda and Vikus' bond Euripedes.

"You have all witnessed Queen Luxa's act of bravery outside the city walls today," Solovet began.

"How could she even be there?" a council member with a beard that reached past his waist cut her off immediately. "Hadn't you yourself assured that she was in the city this whole time?"

His call was picked up by others: "I've heard that Queen Luxa has fought for us from the outside, with the Death Rider!"

"Fought for us? I hear she, in her cowardice, hid outside the city!"

"Silence!" Solovet thundered, vibrating the loaded air. Some looked at her like they meant to rebuke her for yelling at them, but no one dared.

A tense silence descended onto the room. Gregor heard Vikus' strained breathing and reached for his arm to support him. Apparently, the uncertainty of Luxa's whereabouts had already created its fair share of rumors. Gregor gritted his teeth, suppressing the urge to step forward and reveal all he knew to explain what Luxa had been doing. They didn't have the right to badmouth her like this!

"Following Queen Luxa's call to attack, a battle was waged in the tunnels around Regalia," Solovet continued, her hands clenching so hard around the table that her knuckles shone whiter than her skin. "Though I'm afraid, I must inform you that it has all been an elaborate setup . . . a trap to lure Luxa away from our soldiers." Nobody dared break the grave silence, and Solovet released a breath. "I . . . fought for her to the best of my ability, yet . . . in the end, I could only watch as the gnawers took her life."

Through the static in his head, Gregor could barely hear anything. The room had to be in dismay, he thought. There were screams. Someone . . . Vikus' arm, which he was still holding, grew limp. He barely processed that Mareth had caught him as he had passed out.

Luxa was . . . It was their dance at Hazard's party that Gregor found himself taken back to. Her smile . . . Had that been the last time she had smiled at him? Gregor blinked as he felt tears well up in his eyes. No, she had smiled at him when Henry had taken the photo . . . the photo . . . He reached toward where it had been during the battle, but of course, it was back in his backpack between his feet.

She was not really dead, he thought numbly. Who even knew if Solovet was telling the truth? Hadn't Ripred said that she couldn't be trusted?

Gregor bit his lip so hard it hurt as words clogged his mind—so many words he still wanted to say to Luxa. Words he had not even thought through yet, but their meaning was crystal clear—clear as light. He would see her again, he promised himself here and there. And when he saw her again, he would tell her.

"In that unfortunate case," a very familiar voice suddenly cut through the mist around Gregor's head. "Queen Nerissa has something to say to you all."

Gregor slowly turned his head to see if he had misheard.

"Ripred . . ." Solovet sounded as taken aback as Gregor felt when they all watched the great scarred rat stroll into the war room, closely followed by Nerissa. She was dressed neatly this time, in a plain yet elegant dress and with her hair in a clean braid, yet her expression was unreadable. Only then did Gregor register that she hadn't been officially summoned to this meeting.

Murmur broke out in the room at the sight of Ripred, and though a wave of relief instantly washed over Gregor, he also saw what a miserable state the fight with the Bane had left him in. His fur was disheveled and crusted with so much blood that Gregor doubted it was all his own. Yet the most worrying thing was a fresh cut right across his face, forming a cross with the old scar. It must have bled not long ago.

"It is good to see you alive, Ripred," Solovet said somewhat rigidly, apparently having recovered from her initial shock. Then she turned to Nerissa. "You truly wish to attempt to lead in these trying times, child? We would all understand if you feel like it is too heavy a burden."

A wave of disgust hit Gregor when he understood what Solovet was doing. Don't let her get away with this, he internally pleaded with Nerissa. Don't let her make them all believe she is the only fit ruler left.

To his relief, Nerissa held Solovet's gaze resolutely. "I will do what I must," she said, and for the first time since he had entered this room, Gregor smiled.