Ripred may as well have struck him with a baseball bat. Gregor inhaled sharply, trying to comprehend. He would not have been surprised about a covertly executed room arrest or even the dungeon. But . . . "Not in Regalia? You mean nowhere here?"

"No." Ripred sighed, sinking to his haunches. "While you were in training, I searched the entire palace for fresh traces of her scent. She is not here."

"But Solovet said—"

"Boy!" Ripred cut him off. "Solovet cannot be trusted."

Gregor stilled to solid stone yet again. "What do you mean, "trusted"? Is she plotting against me? My family?" An icy claw of fear dug into his heart again, although for an entirely different reason.

Yet, to his surprise, Ripred shook his head. "While entrusting Solovet with your family has and will always remain a bad idea, that is not the kind of trust I mean. This has nothing to do with you. What I mean is that she deliberately concealed the fact that the queen has not returned to her city yet."

Gregor stared at Ripred's silhouette, barely managing a faint, "What?"

He strained himself to comprehend what Ripred was trying to say. Sure, he had never liked Solovet. She was ruthless and manipulative, and she had caused the plague, which had almost killed his bond and his mom. But . . . never had he even considered doubting her loyalty to Regalia.

"She was pardoned!" exclaimed Gregor. "Even put back in charge. What reason would she have to . . . do something that would make her look bad . . . again?"

Before his inner eye, Gregor saw Henry's bitter face. He had fought so hard for a second chance. And here Ripred was, claiming Solovet, who had just so happened to have her second chance freely given to her, would . . . what? Risk it again?

"I know what you are thinking—you are thinking of Henry," Ripred guessed his thoughts. "But you cannot compare Henry to Solovet in this case. See—" He dragged a claw across the floor. "Henry understands that what he did was wrong. But Solovet . . . as hard as it may be, you have to try and think like her for a moment to understand where I'm coming from." He paused. "Granted—and I'll be frank about this—nothing of what I say from this point on is proven by any means. It is speculation on my part—besides the fact that she lied about Luxa. But still, I implore you to hear me out."

Gregor felt a shiver from how dead serious Ripred sounded. He couldn't recall the last time he had spoken to him in this tone. He inhaled deeply, trying to compose himself, then nodded.

"Good." Ripred breathed out as well. "So, we've established that Henry understands he was in the wrong. He's used that understanding to grow, and he sought atonement. But in Solovet's own eyes . . . creating the plague was not a crime. It was her means to serve her people. Are you following so far?"

Gregor swallowed. It was hard to imagine anyone thinking like that, but yes, for Solovet, that made perfect sense. So, he nodded again.

"Good," Ripred repeated. "So, where does that leave her? As the traitor? No. In her eyes, Solovet is the betrayed. Arrested and locked up for something she herself considered a service by the very people whom she tried to serve. With whom she had her strongest connections."

Gregor's previously suppressed sense of unease returned and intensified, though now for a different reason. "That's . . . not good."

"It might be fatal, actually," concurred Ripred. "Because, see, this arrest, this one and a half year in custody, the constant fear of a trial . . . I am almost positive that it severed any emotional connection she's ever had to Regalia and its citizens. And that, dear boy, is what makes her so very dangerous."

Gregor desperately tried to swallow the lump in his throat. "But she seems so . . . normal," he mumbled. "And Luxa is her granddaughter . . . Would she really put her at risk? Her own family?"

"I told you I have no details," said Ripred. "I have only this gut feeling, this theory, and one piece of evidence now—her lie. Yet I have no inkling about her goals. And now, I will tell you two things, Gregor, and I want you to pay attention. Close attention. Got it?" When Gregor nodded, Ripred continued, "First, I need you to remain unsuspicious in her eyes, at any cost. You hear? Solovet is many things, but she is not stupid. You must promise that you won't let any part of this conversation leave this room. Outside, you pretend like it never happened. Got it?"

Gregor wiped his sweaty palms on his trousers. Could he just . . . do that? Go and see her again and act normal? Do . . . nothing? Then again . . . For lack of other options, he nodded again.

"And second," Ripred continued. "I want you to think carefully every time about whether you can blindly trust what she says from now on. If you're unsure, come to me. Or, actually, always come to me. She asks you to do something? Go somewhere? Double-check. We cannot afford to write off yet another crucial individual as "unaccounted for". Especially not the one who is supposed to kill the Bane."

Gregor chewed on his lip so hard that it hurt. "Okay," he heard himself say. Then another jolt of fear surged through him. "Do you think she'll come after my family? She wouldn't, right?" Her being after Luxa was bad enough—or whatever she planned with Luxa's disappearance.

"Well . . . she has informed me of the plans she has to exploit their talents if we win the war," said Ripred, to Gregor's horror. "The crawlers' affinity for Boots. And Lizzie . . . Well, if she is who I think she is, she'll be worth her weight in gold as well. And your father's ingenuity and intelligence are astounding, to say the least."

"No!" called Gregor, no longer able to subdue his trembling. "No, Ripred, I'm not giving her my family to use as she pleases. I'm—" He cut himself off, biting his lip before he could say, "I'm not giving her Regalia either". Who was he to say that? "We can't let her win," he mumbled instead. "Can't we do something about her?"

"Oh, we will," said Ripred without missing a beat. "You can count on that. I will personally be caught dead before I let her win." He paused. "Your fear stinks so pungently that even the rats outside the wall might catch it." He smacked his paw over Gregor's head. "Have courage, boy. Or whatever the lad might say in this situation. The one time his motivational speaking would be of use, he's not here!"

Ripred sighed dramatically, then he grew serious again. "But what are you even so scared of? What do you ask this question for? Do you really think that we'd let that happen? That thing with your family? Should I be offended at how little faith you have in everyone you supposedly trust down here?"

Gregor rubbed the back of his head, fighting a snort of laughter. "No, that's not it. I trust you." And he did. He looked at Ripred and thought about everyone else he trusted down here, feeling a slight surge of guilt. "I'm just . . . a bit anxious right now, I guess."

"Good," said Ripred. "That means your self-preservation is intact, no matter the prophecy. Keep it that way. And don't worry about your loved ones. Once we've resolved the Solovet issue, they will be cared for . . . by all those who genuinely care for them—and for you—down here."

Gregor nodded vehemently. "Thanks."

"Good," Ripred repeated, staring at him with narrowed eyes. "You really shouldn't doubt that we can handle Solovet. She may be powerful, with many connections still in tact, but do not make the mistake of thinking of her as invincible. Lest I tattle to the lad that he is doing a lousy job at instilling belief in you. I am not afraid to send him after you, you know? Then we can have a repeat of that time he told you not to define yourself by your rager power."

Gregor couldn't help it anymore; he snorted with laughter. "Feel free," he said to Ripred's astonishment. "That conversation changed my life. I'd be up for another one of those. I just don't want other people to concern themselves with my problems." He looked away. "But I guess if she's untrustworthy, Solovet is our all's problem."

"A problem that we will solve together," said Ripred. "I don't know how yet . . . but we'll figure it out. We'll figure something out. You'll see." He took a deep breath. "Anyway, that would be all." Ripred turned and took his first step toward the curtain.

"Wait!" Gregor called him back. "Can I tell Ares about all this?" He would not keep something like that from his bond.

"If you make sure nobody hears you," Ripred snarled. "And if he promises to follow the two rules . . . I can hardly stop you." With that, he stepped through the curtain, leaving Gregor alone in the dark room, apprehensive in an entirely different way than he had been when they had entered.

***

"I don't know. I still feel bad about this," said Gregor to Ares as they turned the corner toward the part of the palace that contained all living quarters. "Ripred said we should keep our heads down."

"If we keep our heads down, we let her win," said Ares, fluttering into place beside Gregor. "Did you not say earlier that you would risk it all for Luxa?"

Gregor swallowed. His hand flew to the pocket where he had recently stashed the photo of them dancing at Hazard's party, as well as the one Henry had taken in the Firelands. He would have taken them all had he had the pocket space . . . every photo they had taken on that quest. They all together. The last time Luxa and he had smiled together.

Agitated, Gregor shook his head. "Yeah." He tried to shove down the feelings of unease, of doing something forbidden. But sometimes you had to break the rules in order to do the right thing . . . right?

After he and Ripred had returned from their conversation earlier, the rat had announced that Luxa had run away again—with the Death Rider and Howard. But Solovet had insisted on keeping it a secret so that the Regalians would not think their queen had abandoned them.

"Don't worry, she's in good company," Ripred had assured them. "The Death Rider and my friend Kismet are with her, and they are two of the strongest warriors the Underland has ever seen. And Howard, who is a doctor. You'll all see her again soon."

He would see her again soon, thought Gregor. Soon . . . if they actually found a way to deal with Solovet. The moment he had seen the code team go back to their work, he had sent someone to call Ares. Together, they had retreated into the human cove, and Gregor had told him everything Ripred had said. Even repeating it had felt unreal . . . unimaginable.

Ares had initially shared in his disbelief. Then he had turned to anger. "And you will do this?" he had asked. "You will merely stand by while Luxa and Aurora are being kept out of Regalia? You will not at least try to gather . . . information? Evidence?"

Gregor hadn't known what he was referring to at first. But then, his bat had suggested in a hushed voice: "Overlander, For as long as the gnawers have not overcome it, Solovet will remain on the wall. We might never get such an excellent chance to seek evidence as this one. Not once you will be summoned for the next battle. Not once the gnawers may enter the city."

It was what they needed most, Gregor told himself as he took one step after another, trying to appear more confident than he was: information. As Ripred had said, they knew nothing about her actual plans or even whether she was really shady in that sense. Maybe all of this was a big misunderstanding? A voice insisted in Gregor's head. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe Luxa did really run off, and Solovet was trying to prevent a panic?

"It is here." Ares beckoned toward an—luckily unguarded, as they had hoped—arched doorway at the end of the hall.

"Should we really do this?" In front of the door, Gregor hesitated. "I don't know. I don't like her and all, but this feels wrong."

Ares scowled. "We will not disturb anything. But is it not to confirm an alarming suspicion? If Ripred's hunch is correct, we may save ourselves a lot of trouble if we find something of substance."

"And if she's innocent, we might be able to confirm that." Gregor took a deep breath. "Fine," he caved. "But if Ripred asks, this was your idea."

Ares nodded, and Gregor involuntarily ducked as he slipped into what Ares had confirmed to be Vikus' and Solovet's living quarters. If his parents knew that he was sneaking around in someone's home on the borderline crazy hunch of a rat, he'd be in deep trouble.

Luckily, everyone had bought the excuse that he and Ares were headed off to train again—even Ripred. At least he had let them go—not without telling Gregor to learn to rely less on his rager thing and practice his genuine combat.

"We'll be back before dinner," he had said to his dad. And as he gingerly moved past a pair of cluttered shelves toward a lavish seating ensemble in the middle of what appeared to be a living room, he urgently hoped that he actually could.

"Where do we start?" he asked Ares in a meek voice. To his surprise, his bat maneuvered between the furniture with remarkable—almost practiced—agility. "Have you ever done this before?" Gregor asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Have I ever visited these quarters uninvited? No," replied Ares. "Have . . . Henry and I done this elsewhere?" He paused. "Venture a guess."

Gregor suppressed a snort. "Right. You two were some kind of rebel pair." He had almost forgotten about that side of Ares; with Gregor, he had never acted particularly rebellious. Maybe it had to do with his recent alienation from his kind . . . or with Gregor's own aversion to rebellion . . . or both.

"Perhaps Henry is right when he claims that I should tell you more about my past," said Ares. "But either way, if we are looking for things she seeks to conceal from Vikus, we might start in her bedroom."

"They sleep separately?" asked Gregor, staring at the entrances to two rooms on the far side of the living room—both contained beds.

"Solovet was not permitted to leave these quarters for one and a half years," said Ares. "I have heard that Vikus relocated temporarily during her detainment and only moved back in when she was released to resume her role as commander."

The two of them stared at the rooms side by side for one moment, processing the implications and emotions that seemed to linger in the air. Gregor's scalp tingled uncomfortably; he didn't want to be here. He didn't want to see this . . . it was none of his business. But . . . he had no choice. Right?

At least that's what Gregor told himself as he swallowed the pungent discomfort and forced himself to look away from the room that he recognized as Vikus' by the council member's robe that hung across an arm chair. It was plainly obvious that the room had only recently been converted back into a bedroom—the bed did not fit the rest of the furniture, and several boxes stood neatly stacked in a corner. And yet it was also the more cluttered one of the two.

Solovet's room was somehow both oddly sterile and loaded to the brim with emotions. An imposing stone desk took center stage, making the space seem smaller in comparison, though it was no less spacious than Vikus' room. Her narrow bed was wedged into a corner, almost obscured by a jumble of papers and books. In contrast, the desk was immaculate, with all its contents neatly arranged in elegant leather folders.

Gregor turned uncertainly. "Where do we start?" He eyed the bed, fearing if they touched something there, they wouldn't be able to put it back in the same spot, and Solovet would notice the difference.

"Try the desk first," suggested Ares, as if he had guessed Gregor's fear. "If we are looking for evidence, she might have hidden it in plain sight."

But when Gregor gingerly sat down at the king-sized desk and went through folder by folder, all he found were transcripts of recent council meetings, council resolutions, and a bunch of army-related documents—applications, division lists, and even a folder that contained what had to be the Underland equivalent of CVs of every conscripted soldier.

"Perhaps in here?" Ares pointed at the lean wardrobe standing next to the bed. "Try these drawers. Perhaps if she is attempting to conceal secrets, she would not put them with the official documents."

Gregor swallowed his discomfort and stood up, approaching the wardrobe. He hated doing this with his every fiber, and yet . . . He had already done so many things he hated—he had even killed—all for the greater good. This should be laughable in comparison.

Determinedly, he pulled open the wardrobe, ignoring the assortment of robes and shirts hanging in plain sight and going right for a sectioned-off compartment. When he opened it, he thought for a moment that they had ended up in the wrong room because, at the very top of the clothing stack in the compartment, lay a folded-up dress. And what a dress! Gregor stared at the intricately laced embroidery atop the soft, warm yellow silk. This wasn't just any dress—it was a gown.

Gregor stared at it for another moment and still couldn't picture Solovet wearing anything even remotely comparable. Then he recomposed himself, forcing his gaze away from the stack that, other than the gown, consisted of mainly plain shirts and pants. There were a few sandals stacked at the bottom, that . . . Gregor frowned. These didn't look like Solovet's size; they were far closer to his own.

Without lingering, he shut the compartment, feeling slightly sick to his stomach. He took one deep breath, battling the feeling, before kneeling and opening the next compartment right underneath. Gregor blew out a relieved breath when he saw that this compartment was actually stuffed with papers. And these looked aged, almost gilded. The vines from which they were made had begun to come apart at the edges.

Gregor exchanged one look with Ares, then he pulled the stack out. To his surprise, he discovered something squeezed behind it, wedged against the back wall of the wardrobe. When he reached for it, he retrieved a handful of black, singed . . . letters.

Down here, most letters were delivered in protective casings, but these ones were enveloped. Gregor ran a finger along a singed edge. Most of them were entirely blackened by an evidently unsuccessful attempt to burn them. But a handful were intact enough to discern the names calligraphed into the old paper in faded ink.

The moment Gregor read the names and processed them, he dropped the letters as if they were still scorching from the fire that had attempted to destroy them. He shoved them back into the wardrobe, trying desperately to contain his trembling.

"Think you these were love letters?" asked Ares.

Gregor shook his head. "I don't know." He was almost certain of it, but what was the point in admitting it? He'd only feel even worse about violating someone's privacy.

"This is . . ."

Gregor followed Ares' gaze to the stack of papers he had removed earlier and found on top . . . Gregor's mouth stood ajar as he took in the painting that was so lifelike it almost looked like a photo. And Gregor knew that it might as well have been, because his parents had a photo like this too. Except theirs hung on their kitchen wall for everyone to see—it wasn't crammed into a wardrobe and locked away.

The sickness in his stomach increased with every moment, yet Gregor couldn't tear his gaze away from the smiling faces of Vikus and Solovet, the way they had been . . . what? thirty? forty years ago? However long ago had been their wedding day.

"It's her wedding dress," whispered Gregor, staring at the face of a Solovet who had the kind of young and carefree face to match the stunning yellow gown she wore in the painting—the same one in the other compartment. "It's . . . yellow?"

"In the Underland, one wears yellow on their wedding day, so that the marriage may be blessed by light," said Ares. "Both in the sense that the couple may live long and happily but also produce new life."

Gregor swallowed multiple times, shoving the wedding portrait off the stack of papers. Beneath it, he found something akin to birth certificates—three of them. And beneath those . . . Gregor picked up the paper with trembling fingers.

***

To Lord Commander and the Council,

I deliver dire news. Hours ago, our party was struck by a coordinated gnawer ambush near the jungle border, on its way to the Fount. It is evident that Longclaw knew of our coming, and we find ourselves cornered, with little hope for escape without reinforcement. Vars, Mire, and my Hecate have fallen. Kelley and our beloved Judith suffer grave injuries.

I have my suspicions that Longclaw is after my life and Judith's. Her condition is precarious; without swift medical intervention, I fear the worst.

It is with utmost urgency that I command the dispatch of a battalion to the jungle at once. And see to it that the shiner receives a rich feast of her choosing in exchange for delivering this letter to you.

Time is light, and ours is running out. We will hold as long as we can, but without aid, I fear this communication may well be my final decree.

By My Hand,

His Royal Majesty, King Nicholas of Regalia

***

Gregor lowered the letter, his hand shaking so violently that he nearly knocked over the entire stack. Without aid, I fear this communication may well be my final decree.

He hesitated only for one moment, then he jerked the letter back up and folded it repeatedly until it became too small for him to fold any further. Then he shoved it into his belt pocket.

"Are you taking it for Luxa?" asked Ares.

Gregor nodded. "That was her dad," he said tonelessly. "Her dad and her mom. Their . . . final communication." He swallowed hard, wondering if Solovet had ever shown her this letter. Honestly, he would be surprised if so.

"I barely recall this day," mumbled Ares. "Hecate . . . So was the name of King Nicholas' bond. I do not know who the others were."

Gregor kneaded his hands, then picked the stack of papers back up, shoving them into the wardrobe. To his own surprise, he found himself fighting back tears. How many letters like these were being sent at this very moment? He suddenly wondered. How many were sending their final pieces of communication because . . . they had war?

"Ares, can we leave? I'm feeling a little sick."

Ares hesitated, then nodded. "I wager this search was doomed to be fruitless," he said, throwing Gregor a concerned look.

"I'll be fine," Gregor forced himself to say. "Let's just—"

"Halt—what is this?"

Gregor swallowed again, trying to calm his churning stomach. Honestly, he just wanted to bolt out of here without looking back, but when Ares dragged out of the stack a leather notebook that did not look like anything else in there, Gregor froze. He picked it up and twisted it, but found no name or title on the cover. The edges were singed, as the letters had been, but before he could properly register this implication, Gregor had already turned the frail leather cover open . . . and frozen to ice.

"Hamnet," whispered Ares, stunned. "It is . . . Hamnet's."

Holding the brittle book in his hands, Gregor fought a battle against himself. On one hand, he thought he had emotionally scarred himself enough in this room already. On the other hand . . . His mind flew to the letter he had stashed. What if this was something to bring to Hazard? He had nothing to remind him of his dad at all. And this . . .

Gregor bit his lip, looking up at Ares. "Do we . . . ?"

Ares looked as uncertain as Gregor. "I don't know." He fidgeted on the spot, accidentally knocking open with his wing another case that stood next to the wardrobe.

Gregor quickly shoved the rest of the papers back into the compartment and closed it, then the wardrobe too. He rose to his feet and stepped over to the case Ares had bumped into. Inside was, to his astonishment, a neatly polished . . . suit of armor. Gregor stared at it for a moment, taking in the striking black color. Was this Solovet's? But when he looked at it more closely, he thought that it seemed too small for her, as though it had been custom-tailored for someone . . . close to his own size.

Agitatedly, Gregor shut the case, then turned. "We have to decide what we do." He brandished the book that had apparently belonged to Hamnet.

"Hazard might be interested in its contents," Ares voiced his own earlier thought, and Gregor groaned.

"Let's just . . . take a peak. Just to see if we should take it." Gregor swallowed all his inhibitions, along with the sick feeling in his stomach. He sat on Solovet's chair, then decided to flip to where the very last uninterrupted text began.

He didn't really know what he had expected, but when Gregor read, with Ares reading along with him over his shoulder, he quickly realized that what they had stumbled upon here was far more substantial than even a final communication.

***

To the Vault of My Innermost Thoughts,

I sought the shelter of a secluded alcove within the palace's walls, not far from the dungeon, to pen this entry far away from them all, who might have disturbed me. For, I am plentifully disturbed as I am.

It's the dead of what we consider 'night'. All lights have been dimmed, and nothing but silence blankets the palace corridors. Which is ideal, quite frankly. It mirrors the shadow of today's defiance that I cannot escape. Mother's command was clear—I was not to leave the field until I mastered slicing ten blood balls. I have hit nine, yet it did not suffice. One day, I am to hit all fifteen . . . Quite frankly, I would much rather practice flight maneuvers.

Mareth, ever the ally in matters of both heart and duty, your aid today will not be forgotten; such acts of loyalty are rare and precious. Although—would I have even accepted his aid in meeting with Arya, had I known the grave words she would carry? I shudder, imagining that I might not have. Have I not longed to be alone with her by that glittering lake, day in and day out? Have I not gone on and on to Persephone about my feelings until she begged me to cease?

"That girl is a commoner, so she is not fit for you," says Mother.

I say who is fit for me, and I alone!

Mother's approval is a rare gem, which I crave, yet not so much that I shall be deterred when it comes to Arya. I shall not let her take from me the girl whose presence has been my light in the rigorous, monotonous routine.

I hear Persephone in my ear, telling me that I am dancing around the issue again. I have already filled most pages in this Vault with these inexplicable feelings for Arya. Today I am not penning for that reason. Not for the reason of relieving my withheld frustration with this unanticipated weight that came with Mother's announcement last year that I should succeed her, either. I am brimming with pride, as I have, believe me! Yet now that it is no longer just about mastering the skills anymore but rather about leading by example, making decisions that could affect many, the expectation of being infallible is suffocating.

I try to remind myself of this pride whenever I observe Judith, who seems so unburdened compared to me, with envy. Yet no matter my pride, seeing my sisters live relatively unscathed by our mother's expectations has not ceased to be a constant source of turmoil. While I am subjected to an incessant barrage of critiques and demands, they seem to float above it all, untouched and free.

Sometimes I loathe myself for the resentment it seems to be fostering. I must lock it away, let it simmer quietly beneath my surface. The quest for our mother's approval is a lonely one—at least I may call myself her clear favorite. If I complain no more, perhaps it will all become better.

I am once again distracting myself, I know. But my mind is ringing with Arya's words—the secret she revealed, which should not be a secret at all. It is not a secret among others. When I confronted Mother and Father with it, they were unsurprised. I wager Mother was even proud. Why did they keep this from me? Did they presume I was too fainthearted to carry this knowledge?

When I told Mother about my disgust, she said that I am. Is she right? But how can anyone take pride in carrying a name like "The Killers"?

By that lake, Arya asked whether I had overheard this history our people have buried. Not many call us humans by this name, she said; our allies do not because we despise it, and our enemies do not because it makes us appear too threatening.

I despise it too!

The meeting ended with more questions than answers, but it seems that our people's legacy is entangled in complexities far beyond what I had known. I could not even go to Mareth and thank him for helping me sneak away after that. I could only seek out Persephone and weep. Although Mother came into my quarters not long after, I suspect she might have seen that I had wept.

This is why I have retreated here, where she might take longer to find me. I know she is searching for me at this moment, and if she finds me and discovers my disobedience and my weakness, I wish not to imagine what she might do. The consequences of my actions loom, yet in this moment of quiet before the reckoning, I find a strange solace. For in defying one command, one expectation, I followed another, truer to the heart.

I shall not be told that I am too fainthearted for something ever again. I shall endure, and I shall rise above my sisters and even my mother one day. For that, must I become . . . a killer? If so, I might ignore my heart's protests against the idea. For, our enemies are right—a killer is strong. A killer is feared. A killer is neither threatened nor contained. And so shall I be.

If Mother does not find

***

"Oh, no. Have I left this old thing lying around? How careless of me."

Both Ares and Gregor jerked up when a frigid voice spoke behind them, and before he knew it, Solovet had snatched the . . . diary? out of Gregor's hand. She placed it down on the stone table and then produced two fire stones from her pocket. Mouth ajar, Gregor watched the leather book catch fire and slowly crumple and blacken until it disintegrated into ashes.

"Look not so stunned." Solovet turned to them, her face unsettlingly calm. "I honestly should have burned the contents of that compartment a decade ago. No one will miss it. Or were you contemplating bringing it to his son?" She strode toward them and Gregor jumped to his feet instinctively. "Now come. Your father is asking about you. He seems under the impression that you are in training."

Neither Ares nor Gregor said a word as she escorted them out of her bedroom. Gregor's heart pounded so hard that he feared she might hear.

Why was Solovet not saying anything? They had snuck into her room and snooped around in her things. He had expected her to yell at him, have him detained, or something. But neither happened. Although she did not once remove her rigid hand from his shoulder—the only sign that she was not as relaxed as she would have liked to appear.

"Perhaps we should indeed go train," mumbled Ares.

"Now?" Solovet stopped. "It is past dinner time already. Tomorrow, you may train. Now, you need rest. You are staying in the code room, yes?" When Gregor did not reply, she faced him directly. "You may ask about what you have read there," she said conversationally. Now, the only evidence that she was not, in fact, as calm as she could be were her eyes—they were as impenetrable as stones, staring down at him with unbearable intensity.

A shiver slid down Gregor's spine. He didn't know if there was a right or wrong question to ask, but there was one thing that had etched itself into his mind, leaving him no peace since he had read it—faded ink on brittle paper: "There was . . ." He had to clear his throat. "There was a name . . . for the humans. It was . . ."

"The killers?" Solovet spoke the horrific term with such unsettling calmness that another shiver slid down Gregor's spine. "Oh, be unconcerned with that. It is a very old name and generally not well-liked, so no one uses it to our faces. Although perhaps that is a shame."

"A shame?" called Gregor, glancing at Ares, who had averted his gaze to the floor. He flashed back to how all the creatures in the Underland had two names: the bats were the fliers, the cockroaches the crawlers, the spiders the spinners, and so on. They were all named by . . . what they did. What they were known for. But if the humans were really called "killers" . . .

Sure, they had done plenty of killing, but so had all the others too. Gregor gritted his teeth, thinking that he wouldn't use a term like this even on the rats after they had nearly extinguished the mice.

Not all rats were killers, even if some did kill a lot. And that same thing applied to the humans. To every species. It was . . . like presuming all rats were evil, except with the humans—a generalization. And what an awful one! It was one thing to call the spiders spinners, even if some of them did not spin for a living. But to call someone a killer was inherently negative. Even though he didn't live in Regalia, Gregor felt a pang of offense in his heart on behalf of all his friends here.

Momentarily, he thought about the battle that was still going on outside and then about Luxa's words to Hamnet—they were all fighting, yet no one enjoyed it. No one enjoyed killing. Not even Henry, the invincible warrior, or Gregor, the rager, who had apparently smiled as he had slain those snakes in the jungle. How was it in any way okay to give such a name to an entire species?

"Why?" he finally blurted out. "What . . . Why are the humans called that?"

Solovet gave him a smile that exuded both pity and an odd, almost unsettling, sense of . . . pride. "Because we have earned it . . . or, should I say, Sandwich has earned it for us. You see—" She strode over to the table that stood amid the living room ensemble, then turned back. "When Sandwich arrived here, this land where Regalia now stands was not unoccupied. Yet it was the best land. It was rich and fertile, with ideal access to water and resources. And so, Sandwich sought to claim it. When a war over it broke out, one might think that the humans of ancient should have been vastly inferior—they had come here with nothing. They had only what they claimed. What they were strong enough to claim for themselves," said Solovet with something like . . . reverence. "And yet, even under those circumstances, they were victorious."

Gregor felt his stomach somersault. He suppressed the urge to tell Solovet to stop speaking . . . Briefly, he flashed back to Ripred, telling them about the Garden of the Hesperides—the last time he'd had this kind of sick feeling about a story.

"They were on the cusp of loss, and yet in the end, they were victorious," Solovet continued, slowly fixing her iron gaze on him. "Because they had the strength to make use of every means available. If you would like, I might show it to you—the decree with which Bartholomew of Sandwich ordered to contaminate the enemy's water supply with poison. This was not a tactic they had any knowledge of. Only a few of that species were thought to have escaped, none to have survived."

Gregor stared at her, his mouth ajar. His mind reeled . . . pieces falling into place where he didn't actually want them to fit. So, Sandwich, the founder of Regalia, the eerily accurate visionary who had created this new world far below the surface of the earth, had . . . committed an atrocity to achieve this feat.

Gregor's hand instinctively found the handle of his . . . Sandwich's sword. The sword Sandwich had wanted him to have. In the next heartbeat, his hand jerked away from the hilt as if it were a hot ember.

"And that is why we humans are killers," said Solovet, the corner of her mouth lifting into a lifeless smile. "Be not so disheartened by the seemingly negative connotation. Why do our enemies not use this name if it is so negative?"

"Because it makes the humans seem strong," mumbled Ares.

"Because it reminds them of our strength," amended Solovet. "Because it makes us someone to fear."

Gregor forced himself to shut his mouth and hold Solovet's gaze, even though the way she was looking at him chilled him to the bone. Because while her story had upset his already churning stomach further, he saw in her eyes . . . admiration. Of course. If anyone would admire something such as conquest by poisoning someone's water, it would be the same person who had tried to use a plague as a weapon.

Gregor crossed his arms, glancing over at Ares, whose eyes were still lowered. "Why . . . would Sandwich do that?" asked Gregor, mostly because he didn't know what else to say.

Immediately as he uttered it, part of him thought the question was naive, and Solovet looked at him like she thought the same. "Because if he had not, they would have been driven back to the Overland," she said incredulously. "Only a fool retreats to a place he deems unsafe when they have the means to still win. Bartholomew of Sandwich was no fool." And neither am I, echoed along, sending another cold shiver down Gregor's spine.

They stood there for a ceaseless time, and the longer he stared at her, the more Gregor realized that he found himself more frightened by the look in her eyes than by anything she had just revealed.

Whatever Sandwich had done, it had happened hundreds of years ago. But here was someone who looked like she might do the same thing again if they let her. And they couldn't let her. Gregor gritted his teeth; whatever else might happen, they could never let it escalate to a point where it would be justified to label humans—or any species—as something like "killers" again.