"You both know what you must do, right?"

Henry watched Whitespur from the corner of his eye and couldn't help but smile at the newly-found confidence in her voice as she addressed Splintleg and Lapblood.

Henry and Whitespur had decided they would send them to gather followers in Whitespur's name. Splintleg had some friends among the Bane's followers he might convince, and Lapblood was acquainted with Ripred's gang. Twitchtip would have to come with them to Regalia, though, as she was not in any shape to fight. Whitespur herself had announced she would come too.

"We do," Lapblood responded.

"Me too," Sixclaw announced, gazing up at Whitespur. "I will do my part also, I promise!"

Tenderness flashed across Whitespur's face before she nodded. "I am certain of that."

Lapblood, Sixclaw, and Splintleg gave the assembly of questers a last look, nodding at Twitchtip, then at Luxa, and then disappearing in opposite directions. Their departure was followed by a moment of silence before they all mounted up to press on.

Henry and Howard flew with Nike, and Aurora insisted that she was fit to fly, as Twitchtip had to ride with Thanatos, with no space for them both. All in all, she kept up well, although Henry saw Luxa—on Thanatos' back, too—fidget and turn back to keep an eye on her over and over.

Whitespur confidently led the way through the unfamiliar tunnels, yet Henry couldn't help but find the silence unnerving. He had no idea how long they flew; all he registered was that eventually, Whitespur below them stopped and ducked. The fliers instantly lost altitude and landed beside her.

Before anyone could ask what had happened, she crept forward until she perched at the tunnel exit, mounding into what his echolocation showed to be a vast cave. Henry perceived that all fliers had peaked their ears, and he focused his own hearing, stepping at Whitespur's side, only to freeze in horror.

The cave ahead stretched for over two hundred yards, and below them, some hundred feet down, squirmed and shifted countless rats.

"What lies there?" asked Howard.

"The Bane's army," replied Henry. "We found them."

Whitespur nodded, and Thanatos appeared on his other side, yet before any of them could speak, a voice Henry thought he would never forget anymore roared beneath them: "What?!"

Everyone jumped; even Luxa now pushed forward, despite being unable to see in the dark. Henry inevitably drew back as her shoulder brushed his arm. He kneeled and focused his perception downward, though he could understand the Bane's screeching voice even without his enhanced hearing.

"I am so very sorry, Your Majesty." Henry recognized the submissive voice as Bonebreak's. "It seems as though the prisoners have escaped. They all, including . . . Splintleg."

The Bane gave a livid shriek, and Henry perceived his looming body over Bonebreak, who was only around half his size. "How dare he!" the white rat howled, beginning to chase his own tail on the spot. "How dare he, how dare he, how—!"

"Now, now, we must not lose our heads over this, Your Majesty."

Henry had only briefly heard that particular voice before, yet it created an unmistakable image in his head: silver fur, he thought, and blue eyes. Blue, pleasant, and oh-so-deceitful eyes.

"It is her," Thanatos beside him whispered.

"Twirltongue," Whitespur confirmed. "None of you have engaged her yet, have you?"

The party shook their heads, and Whitespur shifted. "You do know her mother, Tonguetwist, though?"

Henry perceived Luxa and Howard nodding. They had seen her only once, in Longclaw's arena, and Henry thought it was better this way.

Then Twirltongue spoke again: "They were of no use to us anyway. They were not worth your time. And what harm can they do, by only themselves? Even if they somehow reach Regalia before us, what information could they possibly pass on? That we are marching on the city? The humans will be prepared for this either way. Our own informant is much more knowledgeable."

There it was—Henry gritted his teeth and felt the tension of his party so intensely that he found himself looking out for a physical discharge—the confirmation that there was indeed another traitor in Regalia. And a knowledgeable one too, apparently.

Twirltongue's speech indeed soothed the Bane, and he sat upright, still glaring down at Bonebreak. "I don't care," he yelled, pointing a claw at the general. "You will rectify your mistake. You will go and recapture them, and if you fail, you will take their place!"

Bonebreak inched back, crouching down. "O-Of course, Your Majesty."

"Hold on!" Twirltongue fearlessly approached the taller Bonebreak. "Maybe that can wait until after the attack. We could use his strength in the upcoming battle." Her tail briefly brushed Bonebreak's shoulder.

"Oh!" the Bane called, falling back to all fours. "Fine, fine. Your task is suspended until after the battle. But then you will find them, and you will do so fast, for your own sake!" he yelled, rising again. "We march on!"

Twirltongue niftily leaped onto the Bane's shoulder as he strolled forward through the rows of his army, knocking over those who didn't move out of the way fast enough. Henry realized that a lot of them had been sleeping; this must have been their camp for the night.

"We must follow them." Luxa's voice made him jump. "We must intercept them at Regalia."

"So we shall do it," Howard finally concurred, and nobody objected, although Henry and Whitespur exchanged a glance, silently deciding that they should bring their concerns about the traitor and Luxa up at a later point.

***

In this manner, they pursued the Bane's army for another six hours. However, they found themselves falling behind after a while since Aurora needed frequent breaks. Henry thought perhaps this was for the better—like this, they would not accidentally run into them if they stopped unexpectedly.

Most of their time in the air was passed silently, and Henry both welcomed and dreaded having so much time to himself. He yearned to finally speak with Thanatos about his decision to never return, yet they had no time. No . . . time for anything other than pursuit and dread.

What would their lives be like after the war? For a while, Henry amused himself with imagining it. Dreaming about being tethered to nothing—free in the truest sense of the word. Perhaps even leaving for the uncharted lands . . . and never returning. Just be careful you are not merely running away from what is difficult, Whitespur's words, which she had uttered right after his announcement, rang in his ears, but he shoved them aside. He wasn't running away. He was setting out to . . . start anew.

Then the fliers touched down yet again, and he wondered if he should perhaps ask if there was any food. He had run out of leftovers yesterday, and there were no food sources nearby. Henry took one step toward the fliers and opened his mouth to ask if they had any ideas . . . then shut it again, taking in the image of his bond and Nike, lying so close by each other that he could almost not keep them apart.

For one moment, he stood there, smiling contentedly. And then the sight sank in properly, and his flawless, free dream, which had brought him so much delight earlier, on the flight . . . shattered.

Another moment passed as he stood there, taking in the sight and feeling the truth crash into him. It landed in the pit of his stomach, lying heavily and making him feel a little sick. For him, leaving it all behind was a dream, an act of liberation. But for Thanatos?

Henry took one step back, feeling a wave of disgust sweeping over him. He had made his decision to leave—even proclaimed it to others—without considering that he was not leaving by himself. That . . . his bond might not want to leave at all considering the connection he had found.

Leaving was right for Henry, and yet . . . he clenched his fist so tightly that it hurt. We are one, he thought. Our dreams, and goals, and paths . . . should be one. Yet now, what was good for him was not good for his bond. And so . . . were they no longer?

Hit by a powerful surge of sickness, Henry staggered back. He dug his nails into the stone wall behind him to counter the sudden, painful tightness in his chest. How could this be? He stared at his bond dazedly. How could . . .

"Are you alright?" asked Howard beside him, making him jump.

Henry inhaled, swallowing down the sick feeling. "I am. Is Aurora fit to fly on?"

Howard nodded, and Henry looked back at Thanatos, trying to comprehend what this truth meant. What it entailed. As he mounted Nike again, all he knew with certainty was that expecting Thanatos to leave with him, just because he fancied it, was disgustingly selfish. It was the kind of thing he would have done last year when he had still acted like a parasite with no regard for the harm he caused others.

But he was no longer a parasite. He had sworn to himself that he would never sacrifice the happiness of others for his own sake again. He had gone out of his way to become an uplifter—a hero. This was why he had tried so desperately to make himself into a hero—to become the opposite of what he had been.

Before, Henry had thought to be steadfast in his decision, but it wasn't quite so easy anymore. As Nike took flight, he couldn't help but look back at Thanatos, understanding that he had to think all of this through more, despite how digging deeper frightened him out of his mind. He could do it later, he thought. After the war was actually over.

But then he reprehended himself—he had almost messed this up. He would not run away from it now. Then again—what was there to think over? For him, there was no alternative, no . . . place with them. Not in their city, and not in their civilization.

For one moment, he wondered—what if he did somehow make it so that Luxa pardoned him? What if she . . . really only needed time?

Nike took a turn out of the mound of the tunnel into a cave lined with bubbling and smoking miniature volcanoes, and as Henry glanced back, he caught his first actual glimpse at Luxa. He allowed his gaze to linger, giving it conscious thought. What would happen? Were she to offer him his place with them back, would he . . . accept?

As soon as the thought sank in, Henry made a face. It was not about what Luxa said or thought of him. He had not lied to Howard about how it was not her disdain that he found unbearable—or more so, not only hers. Were he to go back, he would have to tell all of Regalia the truth about him. And if he did that . . . no matter what he or anyone else did or said, there would always be those pointing fingers, whispering, and disapproving. Henry scowled, thinking no—he would not go back. Not back into expectations, into judgment, into unfreedom.

Dalia has done it, a voice in his head suddenly whispered. I want you to take me back.

Henry gritted his teeth, trying to shove Dalia out of his thoughts. Her choice had been foolish—that was what he had told himself. Except . . . He shuddered. Dalia had not gone back to live among the people she had betrayed. She had gone back to . . . die.

"How is . . . Dalia doing?" Henry mumbled, only half-aware he was speaking the words aloud.

Howard, behind him, perked up. "Dalia? Oh, she is well enough. She cannot leave the residence unaccompanied, but she hardly wishes to do so. She is fully occupied with Stellovet."

"They get along now?"

"Believe it or not, they do. I have never seen Stellovet so considerate before. It is like she has realized what she's had all along only by almost losing it. I suppose there is some truth to that saying."

"You can say that again," mumbled Henry, nearly breaking into laughter at how many times he had felt this for himself. Over the last two years, he had lost—or nearly lost—everything he had ever taken for granted, and that had been essentially everything: his safety and sheltered life in Regalia, his family and friends, both his bonds, and so much else he could barely count it.

To Henry's relief, Howard said nothing else, evidently deciding not to bring up what else Henry had in common with Dalia.

In this situation—Henry suddenly asked himself as he stared into Nike's striped fur—what would Dalia have done? As soon as the thought manifested, he reprimanded himself. Why would he care what Dalia would have done? Dalia was not Henry, and that was a good thing. He could only ever do what made him happy, he thought. He could . . .

No. Henry scowled. It had to be that he could never let others suffer for his happiness. And this truth, paired with the truth that he could not stay no matter what, left him with only one choice.

Henry swallowed repeatedly to quench his ensuing sickness. It was a dreadful realization that had dawned on him there. More dreadful than any he'd had in years. And yet it was . . . the only choice he could see himself living with.

He allowed himself to feel the searing pain in his chest that it evoked, forcing himself to come to terms with what he had to do. Perhaps I could go back after all, it slipped into his mind. It couldn't possibly be as dreadful as this. But then he made himself aware that even the possibility of going back hinged on Luxa's forgiveness and a pardon, neither of which was attainable for him now.

No—going back had never been more than a fantasy. And his reality was . . . Henry swallowed again. It seemed so foreign, so surreal, that he barely forced himself to imagine it, formulate words to say it . . . if he could even ever bring himself to.

But he had to . . . Henry blew out a breath. At least he had the entire flight to do it.

***

He had almost been asleep, yet when he felt steps approaching, Thanatos raised his head. Those steps were familiar. They were . . .

"I must talk to you," said Henry quietly, halting in front of where he lay with Nike, staring down at them with a look that sent an unwanted shiver down Thanatos' spine.

Only then did he feel Nike stir beside him, and once again, he had to remind himself that he no longer had to pretend to not crave her closeness. Because . . . He loved her. He had to think it consciously to believe it. For how long had he denied it? Kept up his stern demeanor against her endless adulation, her floods of questions, of tales, of remarks, or whatever else she was going on about? He smiled. She was always going on about something. He usually found himself drained after so much social interaction, yet strangely enough, never with her.

It was a little like back with the girl . . . with Arya. It was . . . Arya, he thought, attempting to keep the name in his grasp. She had often babbled on for hours in a similar manner, and he had been content listening. Only his affection for Arya had been of a different kind. If only he had admitted to it sooner. Then they would have had more time, then they would . . .

"I might give you space," said Nike, looking up at Henry.

"No," replied Henry, to their both surprise. He looked over his shoulder toward the rest of the questers; after pursuing the gnawers for another six hours and then watching them make camp some half a mile ahead, they had retreated into this side tunnel to spend the night. Then, when he had made certain that they were all sleeping soundly, Henry looked back at the fliers. "What I have to say concerns you too," he said to Nike, hesitating. "Because it concerns what I announced to you a few days ago."

A surge of apprehension ran through Thanatos when he understood what Henry meant. Having to . . . choose between the two individuals most precious to him now was utterly dreadful, yet he had always known his answer. Part of him meant to ask why Henry had declared it to Nike before he had spoken to him, but then he looked up into his face, barely visible in the light that streamed into their cave from the river that they had reached at last—the same one that passed by Regalia—and felt a surge of . . . fear. He flashed back to the only time he had ever seen his boy look like this and shuddered.

"Henry . . ."

"I declared that I could never return to Regalia," Henry cut him off, speaking quietly yet with so much resolve that it sent a shiver down Thanatos' spine. "Know you why? Because I have no place there anymore. Because I could never belong there again."

"You have mentioned this," said Thanatos. "And I already told you—"

"But this only applies . . . to me," Henry cut him off again, and Thanatos' mouth snapped shut. "To me, and not to you. Because—" Henry inhaled, crossing his arms, yet Thanatos made out his trembling either way. "Recall you what you told me once—that I was all you had left to live for? That I had hope while you were lost? That I had a future, and that you had none? You told me this, and I told you that it wasn't true. That we . . . that our paths and dreams and lives were one . . . forevermore."

"And . . . they are," mumbled Thanatos.

"Perhaps no longer."

Those words cut the flier like a knife to the heart. Honestly, he looked down and wondered why he saw no blood—there, where his boy was . . . making an attempt to sever the unbreakable yet so vulnerable string that tied them together.

"It is . . . alright," said Henry in a stale voice, yet all his words did was deliver another stab to that thread that tied them. A wave of panic that it might actually become severed somehow overcame Thanatos, and he rose. Yet before he could speak, Henry continued, "I wish you would not allow me to hinder your happiness or drag you down with my inability to reconcile . . . to face my past. I have vowed to myself that I will never be someone like that—a parasite—anymore. Yet here I am—all that holds you back. I only hold you back." Henry uncrossed his arms, taking a step back. "I am all that is keeping you out here. It is alright," he repeated, although his voice gave away that he was hurting as much as his flier was. "Stay," said Henry. "Have . . . a future. With everyone else you cherish in Regalia. With her."

Thanatos stared up at his boy, feeling his pain as if it were his own . . . because it was. It was their pain, and yet Henry was inflicting it willingly. Henry, who had once selfishly taken him for granted and whom he had once accused of never truly caring about him. That very same Henry was now . . . going back on his own request.

Please do not leave me, Henry spoke in Thanatos' mind. I cannot be selfish, I know, and . . . if this is selfish, forgive me. But . . . but you must not leave me! Please do not leave me!

Henry could barely keep himself standing tall. All he honestly craved was to collapse and weep, but . . . this would contradict his announcement. He would not go back on it. He could not . . . He hugged himself again, breathing out. If only his flier would say something—accept—at last. Perhaps it would make the severing of this tie between them that he cherished more than anything easier. Wouldn't it ease the pain if it finally came undone?

But then, as he was still looking at his flier, Nike raised her voice instead: "I can fathom what might have compelled you to offer something like this and . . . mean it. Yet, earlier, it was I who told him that I knew he could only choose to stay with you." Warmth shone in her eyes as she regarded him, then Thanatos. "Tell him what you told me," mumbled Nike to Thanatos. "I cannot stand the look of dread in his eyes."

"Henry . . ." Thanatos rose at last, shaking his head. "You . . . are right when you say that, in some regard, it has reversed, although I've never thought of it that way. And do not speak about parasites. Recall you not what we determined about them—that they would not make sacrifices for others. Especially not a sacrifice such as this. Not that I have since grown to condone you sacrificing yourself . . . You are not a parasite."

"But I—"

"You were the one who brought me back to life," said Thanatos undauntedly. "And while it is true that you are no longer my whole world, you are . . . the brightest light I have. If you were missing, my life would be very dark. It would make it so that all you tell me to embrace would not actually bring me happiness. Not without you."

"But what of your future?" asked Henry. The dread in his eyes became so heavy that Thanatos thought he might collapse in his place soon. "Why does this keep happening to me?" Henry raised his hands to his face and pivoted away. "Why must I break every connection that I cross apart? What is wrong with me?"

"You did not break anything," said Nike incredulously.

"I broke the questers, and now I am breaking you. I cannot—"

"Henry, nothing is broken," said Thanatos. "Nothing is broken between anyone. Not between Nike and I either." He glanced back at her, finding her eyes brimming with a kind of affection he had long given up on seeing in anyone's eyes ever again. A part of him still found it hard to comprehend that she—or anyone—would . . . feel this way about him, but all he had to do was look at her to be reminded.

"We have known all along that it would not last forever," Thanatos said. "Nike has told me that she would never expect me to abandon you for her or anyone. It is true that I . . . love her," he said without meeting her gaze. "In a way that differs greatly from the way in which I love you. And I am glad that things with her were the way they were, at least for a short time. Yet, although I loathe making this choice, I could not be more certain: Not for her, not for anyone, would I ever abandon you. We are bonds—with all that entails. I implore you to cease trying to . . . break us apart now."

Looking at his flier, Henry could no longer suppress his sob. "I just . . . I do not want to break anything," he whispered, taking another step back. "I cannot fathom the thought that you might be unhappy because of—"

"It is my decision, no? Is that not why you came to me?" When Henry stared at him wordlessly, he exchanged a glance with Nike, then rose, stretching his wings before finally landing in front of Henry. "Did you not come here to ask what I might choose?"

"I . . . did," mumbled Henry.

"Then hear my choice—I am leaving with you," Thanatos cut him off. "Yes, I am doing it for you, yet not out of fear or obligation. Out of love. Recall you how we once spoke about the difference?"

Henry nodded.

"Then cease trying to sway my decision," said Thanatos in a mellow voice. "Feel no guilt, and let me stay with you so that you must never again attempt to shine alone."

One moment passed silently, then Henry caved, throwing himself into the embrace of his bond. "I feel so alone," he mumbled. "I feel . . . like I am doing something wrong. I cannot save them, Death. I did not save the nibblers, and I broke the questers apart. What am I doing wrong?"

"Nothing," said Thanatos soothingly as he lay down to cradle his boy.

"Howard once said something like this—that sometimes we fail without doing anything wrong."

"It is true," said Thanatos. "You are not to blame for any of these recent failures. On the contrary, you do so much to minimize all pain."

"My younger self would laugh at me," said Henry. "For doing what he said he never would—tearing himself apart for the sake of others. What if I no longer want to? I just want to go home." His hand tightened around Thanatos' claw. "Death, when have we last been at home?"

"When the war is over, we will be at home," mumbled Thanatos. "This, I swear. No matter what happens, you and I will never be anything other than what we have always been. My fears are still your fears, as are my enemies and my pains."

"We are . . . one."

"And do not ever question that again."

Countless uncertainties and sorrows lay ahead. In the air hung an overwhelming amount of anguish, and he was certain that there would be even more to come. There would be loss, and death, and pain . . . and who knew what else? Nothing about the future was certain—except that they had each other. And maybe this knowledge was enough to have no fear either way.