"I want," Henry said. I want you to take me back. "To stay."

Had he really just said that?

"I want to stay," he repeated, and it had its desired effect: they all gawked in disbelief: Luxa, Gregor, Thanatos, even Vikus . . . and especially Solovet. No, Solovet didn't look unbelieving; she looked terrified. Henry smiled. The mist that had veiled his mind earlier—all hunger, thirst, and pain—dissipated, allowing his light back in. Henry took a step forward.

And so he was center stage again. But this time, he did not kneel; he stood taller than he had ever imagined standing in this hall again. In the lone light's shine, he felt many eyes burn on him with emotions that ranged from livid hatred to unconditional support. But he didn't look at any of them. Not even at Luxa, who stood a few paces behind him; in her hand, he could have sworn he made out a familiar golden, shimmering dagger.

"I won't run," said Henry into the merciless silence. "It is what she wants me to do." His eyes were on Solovet; she trembled visibly, her hand at the hilt of her sword. "I did not commit anything she accused me of today . . . except the plot with Gorger." Henry didn't mind the murmur that rose from the crowd. He pressed his lips together. "I did that, and I shall admit to it here and now, so that you may know that I do not wish to keep secrets any longer. I know you have never been informed of it." He waved toward the council. "You may blame them for this misinformation. At ease!" Henry yelled when swords clashed somewhere in the back. "You all! Be at ease, for Sandwich's sake!"

Instantly, Ruvin and one of his lieutenants, who had been keeping one council member who was still tauntingly waving his blade in check, drew back. "Aye, Lord Commander," said Ruvin, eyes still on the council member who had frozen as well.

At the mention of this title, the murmur grew. Even Vikus stirred now. Henry wanted to watch him, but he didn't allow himself to. "Yes, two years ago, I conspired with Gorger." He said it like the truth it was. "I was foolish and scared, and in my strive to end the nonsensical conflict between gnawers and humans," Henry spoke louder to be heard over the crowd, "I misjudged Gorger's reliability. Some whom he had on his side were very . . . convincing. Judge me for that if you like. Any of you . . . except for her." Henry took a step forward and pointed a finger at Solovet. "She may not judge me, for she did the same. She was the one who conspired with the Bane."

An uproar went through the assembly, but Henry disregarded it. He stared at Solovet and found it hard not to allow all the hurt she had caused to gush out of his mouth. His hurt and that of everyone he loved. But he could not. If he started accusing her carelessly, he would not be heard.

He was not looking at an eager crowd. For a heartbeat, Henry allowed his gaze to wander and met Luxa's eyes; in them, he saw a silent offer for support. More friendly faces piled up behind her, and for a moment he considered it—letting her take over and turn this trial into Solovet's own. But . . .

Henry whipped back around to Solovet. Was that what terrified her so? He stared into her livid eyes. That he had the means and grounds upon which to turn her accusations against her?

This was not quite the same as back with Cleaver, it struck Henry suddenly. So many emotions of the last hour had taken him back to the arena and to the gnawer with the cream fur who had orchestrated a witch hunt to punish Henry for allegedly killing Gorger—a crime he hadn't committed. Just like on that day, the last hour had been viciousness that cared not about the truth. He hadn't been able to save himself from Cleaver by speaking the truth, but . . .

This crowd—he took them in once more—was not a flock of Gorger's loyal followers, looking for a scapegoat.

Solovet was not Cleaver.

For a heartbeat, a different image that he had fought desperately to keep out of his mind so far flashed before his inner eye: his nightmare from before the quest to save the nibblers. It had been so similar to the scene he found himself in that it unnerved him greatly. But . . . this was not his nightmare either.

In his nightmare, he'd had no advocate and no agency.

He felt the presence of Thanatos and Luxa behind him and of everyone who had come with them, but he did not look back. This was not his nightmare because he may not have an advocate, but not because no one supported him. He had no advocate because he had a voice of his own. And he would not succumb to his fear—not this time.

I want to stay.

Henry almost broke into laughter. What would his younger self, who had been so terrified of Dalia's "I want you to take me back", and of this very situation, say if he could see him now? Now that he had uttered his own version of the phrase? Now that he had made the choice that had horrified him so much?

For a moment he pondered, then a grin broke on Henry's face because he realized that he would be . . . proud.

"I could tell you in great detail why and how Solovet has conspired with Twirltongue and the Bane," said Henry conversationally. "But this is not her trial; it is mine. She told you that I refused a questioning, yes?"

More murmurs rose from the crowd, but Henry heard immediately that his tactic was working . . . because the sharp hostility was no longer there. He swallowed. They were not Cleaver's gnawers, he repeated to himself. They were not here to punish a scapegoat. They would listen to the truth . . . if he presented it to them in a palatable enough way.

His only disadvantage was that he was facing a crowd who despised him . . . and so what? Henry mobilized every ounce of hope he still had—the last remain that Solovet and her guards had not beaten out of him yet and that he felt swelling anew now. Henry raised his chin, standing taller. This was a . . . challenge, Henry suddenly thought. When had been the last time he had motivated himself in such a manner?

He smiled. His challenge was to . . . survive? No. To win—to prove himself. Henry's smile widened. Had that not always been the essence of that very first challenge, anyway? Except now, he was ready for it. Now that he had finally proven himself to himself, now that he was no longer desperate but proud . . . Technically, he didn't have to prove himself to anyone, he thought.

But he would do it anyway. He allowed his aching body to relax. He would prove himself to them . . . Not because he had to, but because he wanted to.

And so he would take this stage that Solovet had built for him. It was his stage, not hers. To outperform her on it would be an uphill battle, but not an unwinnable one. If only he could convince them that he was not the villain whom they despised so . . . he could win.

He would.

But if he was not a villain, he could not start throwing out accusations. No matter how hostile the crowd, he had to be benign.

"I understand that you have questions, and I am more than willing to answer them all," said Henry in a voice that was both mellow and unyielding—undeniable. "Would you like to know why I did not say so earlier?"

"Speak!" shouted a council member.

"I would, but I am not suitable to speak about this," replied Henry, turning to Thanatos and the people behind him. "Which one of you madlads is responsible for bringing him here?" he shouted into the crowd.

"I am," said Nike, pushing forward, still with Gregor on her back. "Howard and Nerissa were with me." The moment she reached Thanatos, she pressed her face into his; Henry felt them both tremble.

"Nike, Howard, Nerissa," he called the names. "Would you be so kind as to answer this good sir's question? Why did I not speak in my defense earlier?"

"Because we found his bond under the control of Solovet's guards," said Howard, appearing beside Nike. His hand was around the upper arm of a guard, miserably allowing himself to be dragged along. "What was your command?" asked Howard icily.

"To . . . kill him," said the guard pitifully, pointing at Thanatos. "Should there be resistance, we were to kill the flier."

With delight, Henry registered that the next uproar running through the crowd brimmed with shock and disgust . . . but not at his expense.

"This is not true . . ." said Vikus, aghast.

"But it is." Henry spun around to him, speaking with so much iron conviction that Vikus winced back.

"And so," said Henry, taking a step forward and spreading his arms, "now that I am once again free of will . . . Who has a question?" he dared. "Go on. Ask anything you like."

But no one spoke. The silence lasted for less than a minute, but to Henry, each second felt like a year.

"Ask!" he finally exclaimed. "Is this not a trial? Are you not here because you thought yourself fit to judge me?"

"I have a question," said a lone voice after a few more heartbeats of silence. Henry turned his gaze on the council member who had helped Solovet to her feet earlier. He had since released her and stared at Thanatos with an unreadable expression. "Is your name not Thanatos?"

"So it is," said the flier.

"But is Thanatos not . . . the Death Rider's bond?" asked the council member.

"I am the Death Rider," said Henry, causing another wave of murmurs. "When you told them about my many deeds, did you not think to mention this?" he asked Solovet, who hadn't said a word yet.

"You are nothing," hissed Solovet between clenched teeth. "You should have died the day that you fell."

"And yet I did not die," said Henry.

"Tell us why you conspired with Gorger," sounded a new voice from the crowd, and to Henry's—and everyone else's—astonishment, it was Dalia who advanced to stand beside Luxa, with a gentle smile gracing her narrow face and her sword still clutched firmly in hand. With the wave of a hand, Luxa silenced the offended whispers at Dalia's audacity to speak, even though she was a servant.

Henry smiled, and so he told them everything. The deal he had struck with Tonguetwist and their promise for peace between humans and gnawers. Then he spoke about his delusions regarding strength and his feelings of insecurity and envy. He spoke as though he were in a room of friends and family and not strangers who had come here to see him die today. He could speak in this manner because the fears he laid bare were no longer his. It was the first time he felt this with absolute certainty.

"And so, it was decided," said Henry at last. "But, of course, it was not. The last who would die had not decided where he stood yet."

"His life was reaped by Death," said Thanatos. "By me. Because he had yet to decide."

A moment of utter stillness elapsed.

"Well," said Henry, breaking into a crooked grin. "When I made myself into the Death Rider," he raised his voice to be understood over the agitatedly whispering crowd. "I have decided."

"You have," said Luxa. "When you lost your eye for Aurora and my sake, against the serpents."

"When you saved Twitchtip and me!" cried Gregor. "From the whirlpool!"

"When you guided us through the Vineyard of Eyes," said Nike.

"When he has made himself into our Wielder of Light, he has." To everyone's astonishment, Temp scurried out from behind Nike and rose to his hind legs. "The savior of ours, and the savior of yours, is he not, is he?"

"Hear! Hear!" All heads flew in Ripred's direction, who had retreated into a corner after his memorable entrance. "Y'all better listen to the crawler. He is wiser than so many of you that it is almost embarrassing."

"Ripred, you are not helping," said Luxa, and the rat chuckled.

"Oh, but I am just getting—"

"He rescued me from that fiend, Longclaw!" Henry whipped around and stared in shock at . . . Stellovet. Both because she had dared to cut Ripred off and because she was here at all. She had shoved Howard aside and stared directly at Henry; her face flushed purple, and she clutched her sword so hard that her knuckles shone whiter than her skin. "Is it not so?" she cried, her voice cracking. "Is that not what you did?"

"He did," said Dalia by Stellovet's side, with a smile.

"He has also slain Longclaw," said Howard. His smile was less sweet than that of his sister. "And he has ensured . . . our safety many times."

"Mustn't that have been difficult to say for you?" Henry laughed.

"Be still," hissed Howard. "I will not commit perjury."

"He and Aurora flew me and Ares out of the Firelands!" cried Gregor. "After our fight against the Bane! We might have died without them. Don't you get it?"

The Overlander made an attempt to slide off of Nike's back; Ruvin sprung to his side before he would have fallen and supported him easily with one arm. "He saved us!" yelled Gregor. "All of us! Luxa! Me! Every one in your whole army! He made one mistake years ago." By this point, the Overlander's face was red with fury. "He's done so much more good at this point than bad! Don't you get it?"

"The Overlander speaks the truth," said Aurora. "He has also protected Luxa when she could not return to the palace, as she had to fear for her life."

"He has spoken the Vow to the Dead with me." Luxa ignored the fresh array of disbelieving faces. "And he has fought by my side to fulfill it."

"He is our elected Lord Commander," said Ruvin simply, indicating a salute.

"He stood with us when our once Commander did not. It was his plan that saved our soldiers when Solovet would have us run into certain deaths," said Mareth.

"And the Ignifer was his invention too." Teslas appeared beside him.

"Well, the two of yours." Miravet smiled. "But no matter."

"He is the Death Rider," said Thanatos simply.

"We are," amended Henry. "The one and only."

There was another moment of unbroken silence. "So," said Ripred from the shade. "So, so, so, so. I suppose, since you others have already mentioned the rest, I should maybe tell you that he also prevented Longclaw from flooding your city last year, in the same manner as the Bane tried to repeat. All without your knowledge. Or will that inflate his ego too much? What do you think?" Ripred glanced around eagerly, and Henry saw Luxa roll her eyes.

"It is true that once he was a condemner," said Nerissa with a knowing smile. "But now . . . Condemner, savior has become."

"There we go!" exclaimed Ripred. "That's the finisher I was looking for. And that, my dears," he said, strolling forward and positioning himself in front of Henry, "is how one rewrites his fate. Why, I don't think I've ever encountered a more impressive example." Ripred paused, and for a moment, the spark vanished from his eyes. "That is . . . what I wager Whitespur would say, were she here. Or, you know, something like that."

Henry held his gaze, and for a moment, they were alone in the room. Then he slowly nodded. "I wager too . . . Prometheus."

Ripred twitched, staring at Henry in a way that he had never looked at him before. Almost . . . desperately. But he said nothing.

The following silence was heavy, like a stifling blanket—with what exactly, Henry couldn't tell. Eventually, he turned around to Solovet again, who hadn't spoken this entire time. He found her with her drawn sword in hand by her podium . . . alone.

"All of this," said Henry, directly in her face. "I told you so that your judgment might be fair." He glanced around. "You saw for yourself that I could have simply fled and never been caught. I did not. I stayed so that you may judge me!" he cried. "So that we may rectify every lie and misinformation that has ever been spread in the name of concealing my deeds—the good and the bad. No matter what my fate may be . . . I will not tolerate any more lies. So, judge me!" Henry exclaimed. "But do it not based on lies and misinformation. Do it fairly."

"I . . . have one more question."

Henry flinched when a voice that hadn't spoken yet broke the silence. And his gaze met that of . . . Vikus. He was trembling, leaning on Euripedes for support.

"If . . . you have not conspired with the Bane," he said in a brittle voice. "If you have not attempted to kill Luxa or Gregor or conspired with the army . . ." His eyes darted over to Solovet as though he couldn't bring himself to add "If everything she told us was a lie". He took a deep breath. "If that is so . . . what has become of Ajax?"

For a moment, no one spoke. A sick feeling attempted to creep up in Henry's gut, but he shoved it down. "That is not something you should ask me," he said, casting his eyes down.

"No—"

"You should ask her." He cut Solovet off, pointing a finger at her.

"No!" she wailed.

"What has become of him?" asked Henry somberly. "Is that not the message that I asked you to deliver when we last parted?"

Solovet stilled. Her hand flew up to her chest, and her eyes were round, as though he had said something utterly outrageous. "You . . ." She glanced around the room, aghast. "You all . . ." Her gaze finally latched onto Vikus. "You have forsaken me," she said, disbelievingly. "You would forsake me for his sake?" She pointed the tip of her sword at Henry. "You all . . . all . . ."

"You have forsaken yourself," said Henry. "Yourself . . . and Ajax. Is it not so?"

"No—"

"Tell them the truth!" cried Henry, taking a step toward her. "I said no more lies! So tell them the truth!" He grabbed her by the shoulders. "Or have you not the strength to face the truth?"

Solovet looked at him, mouth agape. There, in his grip, she felt almost frail. She stared, but she said . . . nothing. And with every moment she said nothing, the crowd around them grew more restless.

"You sacrificed everything," said Henry resolutely, "for the sake of a cause that you have deemed strong. For the sake of feeling strong, because, in truth, you are not. Not anymore." Henry gritted his teeth. "For the same sake that I did it two years ago. It is not too late," he said urgently, not knowing whether he believed his own words anymore. But he had to try. "You are . . . Once, you were Solovet of Great. Is that not what he said?"

Solovet twitched.

"Solovet of—"

"Release me," she spat, swatting away his hands. "I do not need your pity! I am not like you!" The finger she pointed at him trembled. "I am not . . . not weak! I am not the traitor!" Her piteous cry reverberated through the hall, and Henry thought that, by this point, everyone knew that it was a lie. "You all!" she screamed. "You have all betrayed me! You have all . . . Why have you betrayed me?" she wailed. "Vikus, why?"

Henry could not avert his eyes from her, not even to look at Vikus. Because all of a sudden, on her battle-hardened, iron face, which he had once presumed to be so unyielding, glistened . . . tears.

"Vikus!" she screamed. In the next moment, the sword slipped from her hand. It clanked melodiously against the floor. "All I have ever done was for your sake! For all of yours! I have given my life to serve you. To ensure your survival. I have given you everything that I could. I have not been unreasonable!" Her voice cracked. "Has it all . . . Have I not been . . . Am I not good enough? What have I done wrong?" She asked so earnestly, as though she truly didn't know. For some reason, the notion speared Henry's heart.

"Solovet . . ." Henry did not stop him when Vikus approached her. He took her trembling hands in his. "You know what you have done. What have you done?" He asked so quietly that it would have gone unheard if the hall wasn't deathly still.

"I have not conspired with anyone!" Solovet cried. "I have only given the gnawer information so that she may think that I did! So that we may win this war and be rid of them all! So that we may be free!"

"Under . . . your rule?" asked Luxa against the ensuing enraged whispers.

"I am the only one fit to rule!" hissed Solovet. "I am the only one who could have brought true peace! I wanted to be at peace," she whispered. "We wanted to be . . ." Her gaze trailed away from Vikus and fixed on Henry, and she yanked her hands out of Vikus' grip. In two steps, she was in front of Henry. "What has he done that I have not?" she yelled. "Why has he failed so miserably, and yet you all stand with him? He is no commander! He is the traitor! The traitor!" she screamed. "The condemner!"

No one spoke. No one said it aloud, but everyone knew that her words did not refer to Henry.

"Solovet . . ." Vikus repeated. When he reached for her, her hand jerked in his direction as though she were suppressing the urge to accept him. A moment elapsed, and then he finally enclosed her hands in his again. Vikus did not look at her or anyone when he said with a brittle voice: "Arrest her."

"No!"

Solovet broke away from him and staggered backward. She collected her sword off the floor and waved it at the guards who approached her upon Vikus' command; he had wrapped his arms around himself, weeping quietly.

"Traitor!" Solovet wailed. "Traitors! You all! You all!" She lashed at the first guard, but he blocked her strike easily. Solovet retreated until she could no longer retreat without coming too close to one of the High Hall's tall windows. Her hand found one of the pillars that framed the opening, and she clung to it; the sword in her other hand tauntingly pointed at the crowd . . . at the guards, at Vikus, at Henry. Strands of hair had come undone from her tight braid, falling in her face, and her white robe billowed in an ensuing current.

"Ajax," she whispered into the brewing silence. "He did not betray me. He was the only one who never betrayed me." A single tear rolled down her cheek, hitting the glistening metal of her blade. Moments later, it hit the ground. "Ajax," she whimpered. "Forgive me. Forgive me!"

Then she scrambled up onto the ledge and . . . dropped.

One second of utter silence, of inactivity, passed. That this second would have made the crucial difference would only become clear in hindsight. Because then, panic broke loose.

"Death!" Henry screamed, vaulting forward and scrambling up onto the ledge. Vikus behind him gave a harrowing wail. From behind him shot Thanatos, Euripedes, and Aurora at the same time. Henry teetered precariously over the edge. But he could not do anything except watch Solovet fall . . . Watch the fliers close in on her—among them Henry's flier, whom she had condemned; he now drew in his wings and shot toward her, passing the two others.

. . . And watch him not make it either way.

Henry did not close his eyes. He forced himself to watch Solovet's body impact, and all he could think was that this would have been his fate had Thanatos not saved him two years ago.

Henry knew not for how long he sat there in the high window, staring at the ground . . . Guards and doctors made their way down eventually, but he did not move.

Only when Thanatos pulled him back by the hem of his shirt did Henry look up. "It was not your fault," his bond said quietly. And Henry knew he was right. He knew it, and yet . . .

"It was not yours either," was all he said.

"The last who will die."

Henry whipped around and spotted Nerissa by another window, gazing down.

"Is that not a stretch?" asked Luxa with a trembling voice. She was still clutching Henry's former golden blade, and Aurora supported her.

"A little," admitted Nerissa. "But is she not the last who has died?"

"Let's make it so." Henry barely recognized his own voice. "Let's do everything in our power to make it so." His head spun, and all of a sudden, he felt incredibly powerless. Every weakness that he hadn't allowed himself to feel for the sake of appearing convincing suddenly crashed into him all at once, and he staggered forward. "I—"

"Henry!" cried Luxa, grabbing him by the arm.

"But what of the trial?" said Henry weakly.

"It wasn't a trial!" Before Henry knew what hit him, a pair of unexpected arms had encircled him. "We thought you were dead!" cried Gregor, tightening his grip. "You can't die yet," he sobbed. "Not yet. Not you too."

"I'm not dead," said Henry with a weak smile, locking his arms around the Overlander as well. "Did you forget? I have no plans to die."

All Gregor did in response was sob.

"I know it was not a trial," said Henry eventually, releasing Gregor. "But a decision has to be made either way. I want this," he said sternly. "I stayed because I want this decided once and for all. I want my fair judgment."

"I'm sure they will find time for that later," said a new voice, and another pair of arms suddenly had him under the arms. "More fairly and civilly. Now, we must get you to the hospital."

"No!" whined Henry. "Release me!" But Howard did not yield.

"Henry . . ."

They all froze in their tracks when, on his left, a voice spoke that sounded like that of a corpse. Luxa, who had lingered by his side as well, sprinted toward its bearer, locking onto his arm. "Vikus, it is Henry," she said quietly. "It is Henry!"

For a moment, he was almost scared to look Vikus in the eyes again. But Henry did not allow the fear to rule him; he looked up and found a look of utter disbelief, as though he had only just now realized that he was here. That he was alive.

"It is . . . Henry," he repeated, aghast.

"It is," said Henry with a weak smile. "Hey, Vikus." He ripped his arm out of Howard's grip and staggered a few steps toward Vikus. "Fly you high."

The last impression Henry could register was that of Vikus' tear-streaked, disbelieving face. Then his body succumbed to the pains and negligences of the last week in prison; his legs gave way, and he fell into the black oblivion of unconsciousness.