The Bane had grown several feet since Gregor had last seen him up close a few months ago—by now, he had to be eleven or twelve feet long. He towered over the largest rats in the field, his coat glittering with an iridescent white that sparkled with hints of pink and blue in the torchlight, causing Gregor to swallow nervously.

Once again, the thought crossed his mind that he may have averted all of this—the entire war, perhaps?—if he had killed him when he had first discovered him back in the rat's maze as he had nuzzled his mother's dead body.

"Henry told me that all my choices were correct so far," Gregor whispered to Ares. "Do you think he's right? Like, did I . . ." He trailed off, staring at the Bane.

"Your choices were correct," said Ares, as if he had read Gregor's mind. "We would have committed the same crime the Bane did when he murdered the mouse pups in the pit."

"Even though the prophecy said he would be evil?"

"We decided that sparing his life was the actual fulfillment of the prophecy," said Ares. "And even if you had killed him, I do not think a war would have been avoided, merely been fought by other individuals."

"Yeah . . . and "killed my heart", or what the prophecy says about that," mumbled Gregor. "Hey, why do you think Sandwich even wrote that warning into the prophecy?" he asked suddenly. "Why did he include that line and not just hope that I would actually kill the baby and my heart, or whatnot?" If that was what Sandwich had wanted for him anyway . . . Gregor grimaced. He could've had it much faster.

"I do not know," said Ares. "Perhaps he did not want you to kill the Bane as a pup? Or perhaps he saw both outcomes and believed this one to be the more favorable one," he suggested.

"Oh, yeah." Gregor scoffed. "He wasn't even a good guy. Why should we care about what he believed?"

Suddenly, Gregor was hit with an overwhelming urge to prove Sandwich wrong, even more so than before. Ripred's words about how Sandwich's ability to see the future had nothing to do with whether he had been a good guy or not appeared before his inner eye. But this wasn't about whether Sandwich's visions were accurate, thought Gregor. It was about whether he should follow the guidance of his prophecies, however accurate or not. And Gregor had no reason to still do that. He wasn't some kind of puppet to blindly follow the guidance of someone with the same priorities as Solovet. Who just came here and declared that the land was his, killing anyone standing in his way.

He shoved aside all thoughts of how, technically, Sandwich's insight might show him something he would overlook by himself and turned to Ares. "Hey, Ares? Can't we just forget what Sandwich said and do what we think is right?"

"Have we ever not done that?"

"Well, I mean more in the technical sense," amended Gregor. "I've always tried to do what I think is right, just—"

Ares threw him a knowing look. "Just now, you have an urge within yourself to resist this particular guidance."

Gregor nodded, crossing his arms. "I make my own choices," he said defiantly. "I couldn't care less about what the likes of Sandwich say I should do or become. Okay?"

"Okay." Ares gave him a smile that indicated he knew exactly the kind of feeling that washed over Gregor at that moment.

"And about the Bane," Gregor continued, "even knowing what I know now, I couldn't have killed him. He was completely innocent as a baby. I—"

"He is even larger than I was led to believe," Solovet cut Gregor off as she stepped to his side, making him flinch.

Gregor pivoted back around to the Bane, seeing that the other rats seemed to form a wide circle around him, as though they were scared of their own leader. The one closest to him was a rat with deep black fur, in exact contrast to the Bane himself.

Solovet stood taller, straightening out her cape. "What know you of this?" she asked Ripred.

"I hear he's been gorging himself on dead nibblers in the Firelands. Feed him and he will grow." Ripred shrugged, seemingly carefree, but he too didn't leave the Bane out of sight once.

"Can he fight?"

"They say he can. But we haven't seen much of him. The rats have been keeping him somewhat under wraps. He's not even shown up to the last attack."

"Can . . . he beat you?" Gregor asked Ripred. On one hand, he had seen the Bane attack Ripred and come out on the bad end of it before. On the other hand . . . they had found Ripred in a pit after losing to the Bane. He had gossiped about Henry's challenge to Mareth and Perdita, but suddenly, a shiver slid down Gregor's spine at the thought that Ripred might not be undefeatable. As long as it was either Henry or Ripred, Gregor thought, it was fine. As long as it wasn't the Bane.

Ripred flinched. "Luckily, the question isn't if he can beat me. It is if he can beat you."

Gregor made a face when he realized what this meant. His hand flew up to the top of his breastplate, where he had put the photo of Luxa, and then he exchanged a glance with Ares. "Is it time to find out?"

Yet before Ripred could respond, a different voice reached them from below, calm yet clear and striking, cutting through the frenzied cries of the Bane and the murmur of the rats: "How curious. I've always envisioned the mythical Bane more . . . Well, how do I put this nicely? Less of a sniveling crybaby. But I suppose legends have a way of embellishing things. What a pity."

In the silence that descended over the battlefield as the words rang out, Gregor believed he could have heard a pin drop. He staggered back as Solovet dashed past him towards the wall, now teeming with soldiers eager to discover who had spoken.

Gregor was certain he couldn't find a way to get past them until a paw snatched him and sat him directly on the rim of the wall. "Whatever she thinks she's doing," mumbled Ripred next to his ear, yet despite his words, he smiled widely.

Only when Gregor scanned the area did he see who Ripred meant—who had spoken. Perched about twenty feet up in a tunnel, all he could make out was her silhouette, yet the light gray fur and the posture that still reminded him too much of Ripred were unmistakable.

After he managed to squeeze his way toward them, Ares stared as well. "Kismet," he said, and Gregor nodded.

Yet before anyone else could speak, a roar sounded from below: "What did you just say?!" The giant mass of the Bane whipped around so quickly that he mowed down two of his rats who didn't move out of the way fast enough.

The silhouette in the tunnel remained still. "You understood me perfectly well. And understand me now when I say that I do not care for the color of your fur or some old foretellings. You will never be our king. Not of any gnawer who has retained even a last bit of dignity."

A confused murmur broke out on top of the wall. "Who is that?!" yelled Solovet, leaning precariously over the edge.

The rats below began to whisper with each other as well; only the Bane howled in rage. "You do not speak like that!" You cannot speak like that!" he roared, rising to his hind legs in preparation to lunge.

But a different voice chimed in: "It cannot be—!" The Bane stopped in his tracks and turned to the black rat Gregor had seen at his side previously, who now moved past his king and toward Kismet. "You—"

Kismet took him in, then finally leaped down and landed in his way so that he was compelled to freeze in his tracks. "It is you!" he cried, retreating a few steps.

"It is who? Who is that? Will someone finally speak?!" yelled Solovet, angrily shoving aside soldiers to get to Ripred.

"It is . . . Whitespur!" exclaimed the black rat, and upon this name, all rats present froze as though lightning had struck in their mid. The name echoed through the rows silently at first but soon grew in intensity until it even drowned out the cries of the Bane.

"Whitespur!" they called. "Whitespur!" Some were frantic, some unbelieving, and some overjoyed, though Gregor also saw some who stared at Kismet . . . Whitespur with contempt.

"It is Whitespur," she finally confirmed, facing the black rat boldly. "And Whitespur thinks you must have gone mad, Bonebreak, to fight at the side of such a crude, overgrown pup. I know borderline crazy was always your thing, but this has far crossed the borderline, don't you think?"

"W-Whitespur?" Solovet grabbed Ripred by the shoulder. "Are they saying Whitespur?!" The sheer contempt in Solovet's expression as she observed the scene below was unlike anything Gregor had ever seen before. However, he could have sworn that hidden beneath it was also a subtle but unmistakable trace of . . . fear.

"What?! What?!" yelped the Bane, violently shoving the black rat—Bonebreak—aside to face Kismet . . . No, it was Whitespur, thought Gregor. For one moment, he flashed back to that conversation between her and Ripred, which he had overheard but not processed so far. She had refused to be Whitespur again back then. But now? Gregor stared at her and realized that he was looking not at a hermit but at a general. The general, if Henry's tale was accurate. The single good one.

"What?!" aped Whitespur, niftily dodging the enormous paw the Bane flung at her haphazardly. "Of course, you are far too young to have heard of me, although I am certain that more than half the miserable creatures who have joined your ranks and still somehow dare call themselves gnawers can tell you much about me. Is it not so?" she dared, earning more murmurs.

Gregor stared at her and suddenly turned his eyes to the tunnel she had come from. If she was here, did that mean they were all here? Henry, Howard, and . . . Luxa?

Before he could give this more thought, he nearly fell off the wall as someone dashed past him and . . . down. Gregor clung to the rim of the wall to stabilize himself, and only then did he discover that it was Ripred. Ripred, who had . . . Gregor stared at the crouched rat below, avoiding the remnants of oil with surprising ease. Had he really just jumped from the wall? All thirty feet?

Solovet sternly called for order, but Gregor's focus was solely on Ripred, who undauntedly closed in on the Bane from the opposite side. "In all honesty, I should have told you about her, as the fact that I did not makes me seem like a bad guardian. Then again, everything about you kind of does."

"You!" The Bane whipped around, sounding a furious shriek. "You should be dead!" He worked the ground with his claws. "I sentenced you to death!"

"Oh, you did, and today you learn that it takes much to kill me." Ripred crept even closer, and yet not a single one of the Bane's followers dared to attack. "Much more than that pit, at least."

Had it been anyone else, they would have been dead the moment the Bane leaped and landed with bare claws, but Ripred dodged and lashed the Bane with his tail, making the white rat shriek in pain and humiliation.

"She is oh so right!" called Ripred, scrambling up to stand by Whitespur's side. "Even in my insignificant opinion, you all who follow this overgrown pup are fools! Let's be honest here." He turned to face Whitespur, and the way they looked at each other confused Gregor . . . until he remembered Ripred's conversation with Lizzie, and the name hit him properly at last: Whitespur.

Gregor's eyes widened as he stared down, realizing he knew the name Whitespur not only from Henry. Whitespur—she was never my wife, not officially. It was not . . . She would have never been my wife. Not her. Ripred spoke in his ear, sending an apprehensive shiver down Gregor's spine. He held his focus on the two rats—scarred, old, but standing tall and proud by each other's sides. For a moment, an image flashed through Gregor's mind—of them uniting to overthrow the Bane right there and then, of freeing their kind together, of . . . the true king and queen that the rats deserved. Under whose leadership there would be peace, and who—

"Let's be honest here," Ripred repeated and laughed. "Weren't you all saying it behind Gorger's back? Who truly held and deserved your loyalty?"

Whitespur stared at him silently; in her eye, Gregor thought to make out something like disbelieving awe. Yet the murmur around them grew louder, both among the rats below and the humans above. A lot clearly recognized her, although some were as confused as the Bane. Gregor exchanged a glance with Ares and . . . smiled.

"They could win over him together," said Ares, as if he had read his mind yet again.

Gregor nodded eagerly, yet before he could properly settle to watch, he nearly fell off the wall again as someone grabbed his arm. "What are you waiting for?! Go to fight him, at last!"

Gregor stared into Solovet's tense face confusedly, and from the corner of his eye, he saw that he wasn't the only one among the soldiers around them. ". . . Now?" he asked. "But they—"

"Solovet!" Gregor flinched when he heard Mareth—in full armor and with a billowing cape—making his way over to them. "Solovet!" he repeated when he had reached her, staring down at Ripred and Whitespur, now slowly circling the enraged Bane. They dodged all his spasmodic attempts to fight, although they were not attacking themselves yet. "Maybe he does not have to battle him at all," said Mareth.

Yet Solovet undauntedly dragged Gregor off the rim and shoved him toward Ares. "Of course he must fight. This is clearly a distraction by Ripred. You must go now, Gregor, so that you may catch him off guard."

Mareth's frown remained, and though Gregor could see where she was coming from, he too found it to be a strange moment for an attack.

"Think you not that we can get out of this without a fight?" asked Ares tentatively.

"Nonsense. This was never an option," retorted Solovet.

Why was she so insistent? Gregor gingerly mounted up, his eyes still on Solovet. She never let the Bane and the two rats out of sight, and her face was tense, almost . . . nervous. Ripred's warning flashed before his inner eye, and the dreadful thought overcame him that she might be trying to get him killed or something.

Yet before Gregor could try to resist or even overthink further, Ares had already lifted off, and an uproar went through the assembly of soldiers like a cheer. Gregor took a deep breath and drew Sandwich's sword as Ares gained altitude, then pulled in his wings and shot downward, directly at the unsuspecting Bane.

Then again, maybe Solovet was right, Gregor thought. Maybe this was the best moment to attack, as distracted as the Bane was. But then Ripred spotted him, throwing him an infinitely frustrated look . . . and making Gregor certain that his hunch had been right. This wasn't what Ripred had intended.

Gregor didn't even have the time to reconsider or feel bad because, at that moment, Ares came within attack distance, and Gregor instantly caught the giant white rat from behind. As Sandwich's sword landed, the Bane screamed with fury and pain.

Ripred and Whitespur dove out of the way, and the Bane whipped around, snagging the edge of Ares' wing and swinging them in toward his teeth. But before his mouth, there was his nose. Sandwich's sword sliced through a nostril, and the Bane jerked his head back with a roar. Ares ripped his wing free, and the fight began in earnest.

It was hard to break down the moments; they came so thick and fast. They stayed almost entirely in the Bane's range, with Ares twisting, diving, and flipping as Gregor took on the claws and fangs. What seemed to throw the rat the most were assaults on his face, so Ares began to fly at his eyes repeatedly.

If they got in close enough, Gregor could use the dagger to attack as well as defend, and he had just ripped open a foot-long gash over the Bane's eye when it happened. The white rat dropped onto his forelegs and whipped his tail over his head, catching Gregor on the left side of his back.

He screamed as the unexpected blow knocked him off of Ares and sent him headfirst toward the ground. Yet before he could hit the floor, a tail wrapped around his torso, breaking his fall, only to drop him instantly. "What do you think you are doing?"

No, Gregor thought dazedly, it was not Ripred. His eyes opened, and he stared straight at a murky, reddish eye and a scar. Whitespur whipped her tail out from under him, lifting him to his feet and pulling him away just as the Bane's claws scraped the ground where he had been standing. Blood was pouring down over his face, staining the pure-white fur crimson. With both his nose and eye damaged, the Bane was becoming disoriented.

"S-Solovet sent me to—" Gregor barely formed coherent words. He gripped Sandwich's sword desperately, trying not to drop it, and searched for Ares above their heads.

"Of course she did," snarled Ripred on his other side. Then he wrapped his tail around Gregor's waist, lifting him in the air. "The tail," he hissed into Gregor's ear. "Take out the tail." And with that, he tossed him straight up.

Gregor barely had the mind to spread his legs; as soon as he did, Ares was under him, darting out of the reach of the Bane. "Are you well?"

"Yeah." Gregor tried to steady the shaking of his sword arm, staring down at the two allied rats who had darted apart to dodge the enraged Bane. "The . . . tail," he mumbled, processing Ripred's words. The tail . . . of course! His eyes met the fleshy whip that the Bane now swung at them again. "The tail!" Gregor cried louder. "The tail!"

Ares understood and dove straight down over the Bane's head. As the tail came up in reflexive defense, Gregor mustered every ounce of strength he had left and swung. His blow cut the tail off cleanly, leaving just a two-foot stump. A fountain of blood spurted from the wound, and the sickening liquid drenched Gregor from head to toe, causing him to writhe in disgust despite the success.

He wiped the soaked hair out of his eyes, trying not to gag, before tentatively looking around to make sure he had not imagined it. But no—he caught sight of the Bane confused, circling around to find his tail, and when he finally spotted the severed part on the ground, he pawed at it for a full thirty seconds as if he could bring it back to life.

Gregor stared down, even lowering Sandwich's sword, as Ares circled around the Bane's head in . . . dead silence. No one made a sound—not the rats and not the humans. Only when the Bane had at last processed what had happened—that the tail was gone—did he tilt back his head and give a harrowing wail, unlike anything Gregor had ever heard from a rat.

That's when Gregor realized what he had done. His head swiveled to Ripred; previously, he had thought he'd meant for him to take out the tail because it was such a powerful weapon, but of course, it was so much more than that to the Bane.

Gregor held his gaze on Ripred, who now approached his former charge with a knowing gleam in his eyes, and flashed back to the time he had watched the Bane nearly have a nervous breakdown in the tunnels beneath Regalia. To calm himself, the Bane had first sucked, then gnawed on his tail until it was a bloody mess. It was his comfort, his security blanket—the thing he reached for when he could not cope. And, man, was he ever not coping well without it!

A shiver ran down Gregor's spine when he processed the true cunning of Ripred's plan. Before he could decide how to feel about it, the Bane went completely mad. He spun in a circle, snapping at anything in his path. Then he caught sight of Ares, who had turned to head for the wall and lunged.

Yet before he could intercept them, Ripred had dug a claw into his ear and slammed his head into the ground. "You're not going anywhere."

The Bane shrieked and shook Ripred off, yet before he could move, Whitespur was on his other side. "No!" howled the Bane, and Ares managed to weave out of the way and land on the wall. He was instantly swarmed by soldiers, who dragged Gregor off his back, seeking to check if they were injured, but Gregor swatted the hands away. He was not hurt. He wanted to watch.

The Bane's army appeared to be in denial about the situation, much like Bane himself. They stood still, not making any movements. Gregor peered over the wall and wondered whether they might be afraid of him.

Only Ripred and Whitespur were not. "Aww . . . has the pup lost his favorite toy?" mocked Ripred, slapping a paw across the Bane's cheek.

"My tail? My tail?" the Bane whimpered again and began to flail in circles, searching for it. "My tail!"

"Look at him!" Whitespur addressed the crowd. "Is this sorry pile really the king you want?"

Suppressed murmur ensued among the Bane's army, and Gregor registered that not all of it was hostile. They'll do it, he thought meekly. Go Whitespur, go Ripred. Go, convince them. You can do it.

But just as the Bane seemed too distraught and not in control of himself, someone else suddenly stepped in to take control: "Oh, fret not. In what way does a king need a tail?"

All heads flew around as a small, silvery figure slipped out in between two of the Bane's followers and niftily leaped on his back, whispering something into his ear.

"What?!" cried the Bane and fixed all his attention on Whitespur, disregarding even Ripred.

"A king does not need a tail." Whitespur stood proud and tall, even before the looming white giant. "Yet apparently, the overgrown pup does."

Twirltongue's eyes narrowed before she leaped to the floor and faced Whitespur. The two rats eyed each other cautiously. "White . . . spur," Twirltongue said slowly. "Whitespur. And what does Whitespur think she is doing here?" She regarded Ripred. "With scoundrels and outcasts by her side, no less? Do you honestly believe you stand a chance? I can only presume you came to be killed, as we all thought you were, long ago."

She turned back and strolled over to Bonebreak. "Do you honestly think they will . . . what? Follow you?" Her melodious laugh felt like nails on a chalkboard. "Someone who has hidden from them the truth that she was alive for a decade? Who abandoned them?"

On the side, Gregor registered that the flavor of the murmur among the Bane's army had shifted to apprehensive and hostile. Some yelled out questions, and some even bared their teeth, growling. Gregor's heart sank instantly. This was not good. If nothing happened, Twirltongue would turn them; of course, she would. She could turn anyone.

"She lied to you!" called Twirltongue, pointing a claw at Whitespur. "She is no leader. Not any leader you can follow or even trust! Only a coward, who comes out when she feels like it, not when her people need her most."

An uproar went through the rows of the Bane's army, and Gregor clutched his hands around the rim of the wall. "We have to do something," he mumbled to Ares.

"You cannot," a different voice cut him off, and Gregor whipped around to catch a glimpse of Solovet's satisfied expression. "You did your part, and you did it well. If the gnawers desire to fight their political quarrels out now, allow them. Any death among their rows will aid us."

Gregor scowled, about to remind her that Ripred was still down there as well when Twirltongue spoke again: "You talk of honor, Whitespur? You call those who follow our rightful king unworthy? Yet look at yourself—at the size of your own army . . . Oh, wait, you cannot, as you have none."

"She's a fraud!" barked the Bane behind Twirltongue, gnashing his teeth so hard that Gregor squinted. "I will kill her!"

It is over, Gregor thought, feeling a wave of despair. They won't question Twirltongue. Who ever questioned Twirltongue?

"No army, you say?"

Gregor's eyes flew open when he heard a different voice scream from below—a voice he hadn't heard in . . .

"Who are we, then?"

Another uproar went through the Bane's army, and Gregor had to blink a few times before his brain registered who that was, next to Whitespur and Ripred. Yet before the name came to him, the Bane yelled it out: "Lapblood!"

"That is correct!" The cream-colored rat stood tall between Ripred and Whitespur. "And I am not alone."

Beside Gregor, Solovet gasped as the number of rats below multiplied significantly. From all sides, more of them streamed in, and soon a second rat Gregor had never seen before took his place next to Whitespur, Ripred, and Lapblood. "Is this army enough for you?" he yelled, baring his teeth at Twirltongue.

The silver rat actually hesitated before running back to the Bane, who looked around in confusion. "Who are they?" he asked. "Who are they and how—?" Then he spotted Lapblood again. "You!" he screamed and rose, almost knocking Twirltongue off his back. "You scum! Traitor scum!"

Twirltongue barely held on to his ear and urgently spoke into it, likely in an attempt to soothe him, yet the Bane's army began falling into disarray. Some of them even broke the formation to approach the four renegade rats, exchanging words.

"Your forces are crumbling, white pup!" Whitespur called at last. "Or should I say Twirltongue?" She gave a laugh, exchanging glances with Ripred. "You are Twirltongue, are you not? We have never engaged, but I've heard tales of you and your late mother!"

For the first time, Twirltongue actually froze, gawking down at Whitespur. "My . . . mother?"

"She was struck down by the Death Rider. Have you not heard?" Upon the new voice, Gregor's heart skipped a beat. This voice and the figure that now emerged between Whitespur and Ripred . . . "He sends his regards to you as well."

Audible gasps ran through the rows of soldiers around him, growing more excited with the second. They all stared down at the slender girl with her torn shirt, her tousled braid, and her carelessly draped cape—and the shimmering, golden crown resting on her head that made a wide grin spread on Gregor's face. His hand flew to where he had stored the picture of . . .

"Queen Luxa!" Cries erupted around him, and momentarily, everyone broke into cheers: "The queen! It is Queen Luxa!"

Just then, Luxa raised her sword, and Gregor saw there was something fastened to the handle—something with a lever that she swiftly pulled. In a sizzling jet of flame, her sword . . . ignited. "Charge!"