Gregor fidgeted back and forth on the uncomfortable chair, allowing his gaze to wander around the nursery. One day—one single day—had passed since their arrival back in Regalia.

Everyone who had traveled with him had been admitted to the hospital immediately—first and foremost, Teslas and Cartesian. Howard had insisted on returning to his job there and had not left since. Luxa had been confined to her quarters immediately. And Gregor . . . Gregor had gone straight for the room of prophecies.

Well, first he had visited his mom. He'd anticipated a tirade for sneaking away again, but there had been nothing of the sort. All she had done was give him a strange look and grip his hand tightly; her bony yet firm hand in his had almost made him cry. "You're safe now," was all she had said. "And soon, we'll all be home together. How does that sound?"

Gregor gave it an honest thought. Home together . . . He had expected a wave of relief at the words, but all he felt was uncertainty and worry—for Henry and Ripred, out on their own, and for Luxa, alone in her quarters. For everyone he cared about, who would soon shed blood in this war. And he hadn't had an answer. On the contrary, he'd had to suppress the urge to ask which home she meant.

She had not stopped throwing him strange looks as he had made his way out, but Gregor hadn't had the mind to ponder the oddity of not knowing where his home was anymore.

Returning to Regalia had been like returning to the real world in a lot of ways. He was no longer on any unsupervised trip with his friends, where he may be in danger but where he had also felt belonging for the first time in . . . Gregor made a face when he couldn't remember when he had last felt it. But it didn't matter because he was back in the real world, where he had real problems. Problems . . . Answers that he had told himself he'd confront.

No more moping about wanting to have taken the long way back. Because he was back. And answers were what he had come here for. So, he had made his way to the place where he would find them.

He hadn't allowed anyone to enter the room with him. He'd wanted to be completely alone when he first read this prophecy. Everyone had taken such pains to keep its contents from him in the last year that he knew it had to say something awful. And he had wanted to be able to react to the awfulness without anyone watching him. Cry if he needed to cry. Scream if he needed to scream. However, it ultimately didn't matter because, when he had lain on his back and received his answers, he had hardly reacted at all.

He had read the whole thing twice, and he didn't think he had entirely comprehended it yet. Or maybe it was that he didn't want to comprehend it.

When the warrior has been killed.

The words had been knocking against the numbness Gregor had constructed around his mind. As they slowly began to break through, he rose from his seat.

When the warrior . . .

He stopped himself there. No one had told him, thought Gregor. Not even Ripred, who had to be used to breaking bad news to people after all those years of fighting.

Not even Luxa, who had said to him on the flight back something that had astonished him at the time: If you were to return home after you read the prophecy, I would not hold it against you. And in reply, he had assured her that they'd fight this war together. That he would not leave, no matter what.

They had not told him . . . Gregor inevitably wondered if this was yet another instance of trying to shield. To shield . . . him? But they could not shield him. They had sent him back to find out the truth. Then he considered that he wouldn't have been able to say anything either, had he been in their place.

Prophecy of Time . . . I recall . . . something. Not much. Only about a war, and something about a code. Many pointless words. Gregor almost snorted, thinking that only Henry could describe a prophecy that foretold his death like that.

He replayed Henry's "Many pointless words" in his head instead of the line about the warrior. Because . . . he had made a promise. Fly to Regalia and make your choice the way that you wish to make it . . . And do not beat yourself up over it. Will you promise that?

For the first time since coming back, Gregor forced himself to acknowledge what he had promised Henry. He had promised. And yet . . . what kind of choice was he supposed to make here? There was no choice, thought Gregor. Back in the prophecy room, he had already decided that he couldn't just abandon everyone here. There was no question, no real choice, about this.

Then Gregor abruptly ceased pacing.

And beat yourself up over no prophecies or consider yourself choiceless.

He groaned, practically feeling Henry's judgmental stare on him. "Don't consider myself choiceless," mumbled Gregor under his breath. Creasing his brow, he sat back down and crossed his arms. But . . . the longer he pondered it, the more certain he became that he had no choice to still make here. Not really. He knew that he would never forgive himself if he abandoned his friends. And he also knew what the words said—what would happen if he stayed. And that he would stay anyway.

Gregor groaned. More than anything, he wished he had someone to talk to about the whole thing. He briefly pondered why he hadn't talked to Vikus when he had come, right after Gregor had read the prophecy. Prophecies are easily misinterpreted, Vikus had even said. And yet, Gregor hadn't been able to bring himself to add to Vikus' worries.

Inadvertently, his gaze searched for Sandwich's . . . his sword, but he hadn't thought it was a particularly good idea to bring it to the nursery. It was in his quarters with the rest of his things . . . and to his astonishment, Gregor realized he missed feeling it in his belt.

For a moment, this struck him as odd. Vikus had been right that he had refused it two years ago and that he hadn't wanted anything to do with it or the role it assigned him. And the more he thought about it, the more certain Gregor became that his attitude hadn't changed—he still agreed with Vikus that even in war there was a time for restraint. Maybe especially in war.

For one moment, the old thought tried to surface that he was as unrestrained a fighter as you get. That if anyone was prone to losing control and turning into a senseless killing machine, it was him. That he shouldn't be making such promises. But whenever he thought in that manner, in recent times, he always saw Henry's bloodied yet smiling face and felt that hug. All of those things were choices that say so much more about your character than some . . . inborn power. And even if you make errors in judgment, you are only a child. You have never done anything malicious.

He hadn't, thought Gregor defiantly, clutching his fists. He had never done anything malicious. And maybe Henry was right, even about the child thing. Gregor was fourteen; he hadn't felt or acted like a child in ages, he reminded himself yet again. Only then did it suddenly occur to him that maybe he . . . should. That maybe he was entitled to it, only a little bit. Only sometimes, when he could actually afford it.

Know you what my final takeaway from you was when you first met me as the Death Rider on the waterway? That you had unconditional kindness. Kindness, unlike anything I had ever been shown at the time. Like every time he thought about those words, Gregor wiped a hand across his face, sniffing. No one has really ever encouraged you to show this kindness more, have they?

He would be kind, thought Gregor adamantly. If it was the last choice he ever got to make, he would be kind. In every way that he still could.

And when he then thought about the sword again, he pondered that it may just be that he was ready for it now. Maybe he had been ready since he had lain there on his back with it in hand, thinking about the knight statue he had seen in those Cloisters.

He hadn't been able to talk to Mareth either after he had woken him up today. He had only confirmed with him that Boots and Hazard were okay—although the latter had to be hospitalized. Briefly, he had contemplated Henry's words about how it wasn't burdensome to confide in others . . . But then he hadn't been able to do it regardless. Instead, he had excused himself to come here and see Boots.

Gregor pressed his lips together, thinking he should try to see if he could visit Luxa. He didn't imagine she was having a nice time all by herself, with guards at her door at all times. He recalled the fit that she had thrown when Solovet had announced this arrangement, and Gregor hadn't said anything about how he had actually felt relieved that they protected her so diligently. The way he knew Luxa, she would have snuck out on the first occasion again.

Briefly, he wondered why Solovet hadn't assigned him guards either . . . Well, maybe that was still coming. Gregor made a face, recalling seeing her again and realizing that they had put her back in charge of the army. They had only met briefly, yet he'd noticed immediately that she had lost weight and that her tight braid was much thinner than before. He didn't feel sorry for her, though, considering that she was to blame for the deaths of all plague victims and the condition of his mom.

Mareth had mentioned that she had been in custody for a year and a half because of this, but there had been no trial. When he'd asked why she had been reinstated, he had explained that she was the only one experienced enough to lead the army now that they had war. Apparently, her deputy had died from the plague. The irony of this could be funny if Gregor weren't disgusted by the idea of laughing at someone's death.

Gregor shook his head, trying to clear his clustered mind, and forced himself to remain in his seat while he waited for Boots. He'd wait for Boots, and then he'd go see Luxa.

To help himself stop overthinking, he fished the letter from Mrs. Cormaci out of his pocket, which had apparently arrived a few days ago, and kneaded it in his hands without actually reading it. His thoughts carried him to Vikus' proposal about sending his mom to the Fount for the duration of the war. Wouldn't she be safer there? And it was nice—well, in times of peace. The thought that rats might soon actually attack the palace sent a shiver down his spine.

Without making a decision, Gregor got to his feet after all and surveyed the nursery. In the far corner, he made out the empty nest that had once harbored the mouse babies they had rescued from the river. They had apparently relocated them to the hospital to be with Cartesian and Teslas.

When would Dulcet be back with Boots? Maybe before he went to see Luxa, he could take Boots to see their mom. Thoughtlessly, Gregor scooped up the batted but still functioning princess scepter she had dropped, and it occurred to him that he could send Boots to the Fount too. And then it also occurred to him that he wasn't entitled to actually make decisions for any of his family members. His mom would refuse to travel anywhere, and she wouldn't allow Boots to go either. In her books, she was nearly cured, and she had long made up her mind that they would all go back up as soon as she was.

But . . . Gregor finally straightened out the letter from Mrs. Cormaci, his eyes drawn to one particular line that he had avoided confronting since he had read the prophecy.

Don't let yourself get killed, or you'll have an awful lot of explaining to do.

If he got killed, they would never be home all together again.

When the warrior has been killed.

Gregor shook his head, attempting to chase the unanticipated wave of fear. He crumpled the letter up and stuffed it into his belt pocket, twirling the scepter. But as it spun in his hand, so did the words in his head: When the monster's blood is spilled / When the warrior has been killed / You must not ignore the rapping / Or the tapping, tapping, tapping.

But he couldn't beat himself up over prophecies. Gregor desperately fought against the voice. It didn't have to mean anything. It didn't have to dictate his fate. It didn't have to be what they all thought it was. He had promised—

When the warrior has been killed.

When the warrior has been—

"Overlander!

Gregor jumped when Dulcet stepped through the entrance, with Boots in her arms. "You're back!" He spun toward her to give the scepter back but froze as he saw the expression on Dulcet's face. "What happened?"

Boots immediately reached for the scepter. "I bath!" Her curls were still damp, emitting a clean, soapy fragrance that helped alleviate Gregor's distress, even if only a little.

"I encountered the queen on my way here," said Dulcet, setting her down and turning to Gregor. "She seemed to have . . . escaped the watch of her guards, and she summoned you. About . . . a message she had received."

"Was it bad news?" Gregor took in Dulcet's frown and briefly pondered how unsurprised he was by the fact that Luxa had escaped her guards.

"I doubt she had read it yet," replied Dulcet. "But . . . Overlander . . ." Her gaze suddenly became somber. "I know it is not my place to ask this, but please do not allow her to run into any danger again. We all care for her greatly."

Gregor bit down on his lip, grappling with the implications of this message. Could it be from Henry? And if it was, what did it mean for him? For Luxa? For the others? Was this a promise he could make?

Despite his doubts, he nodded. "I know. Thanks."

Dulcet's expression softened. "Then go. I will look after your sister."

"Have fun with Dulcet, Boots." He handed her the scepter. "See you soon."

"Bye, Gre-go!" called Boots, waving with her scepter. "See you soon!"

Stepping out of the nursery, he hoped with all his might that he would indeed see her soon again.

***

All the way to Luxa's quarters, Gregor couldn't stop thinking about how much bravery it must have cost Dulcet to ask something like that of him and how likely it was that he might have to break that promise. At least he didn't think about the prophecy or the war, thought Gregor, and made a face.

Then he nearly collided with Howard, just outside Luxa's quarters. It seemed that he had been called as well. Gregor examined him and instantly noticed the tension in his expression. His eyes were surrounded by purple bags and he looked like he hadn't slept in days.

"You were also summoned?"

Gregor nodded. "Must be some message."

The two guards outside of Luxa's quarters exchanged a glance but let Howard and Gregor pass. Howard confidently guided the way through Luxa's living room, and it wasn't until they arrived at her bedroom that they finally saw her. Luxa sat on her bed in what Gregor presumed was her nightgown. Her hair was disheveled, and she wasn't facing their way.

"Hey!" He approached, circling around the bed. "You wanted to see us?"

Only then did Gregor realize that he was actually in Luxa's bedroom. He froze in place so that Howard bumped into him again. When Gregor staggered forward, trying to regain his balance, his foot brushed against something on the floor—a crumpled piece of paper.

Had Mrs. Cormaci's letter fallen out of his pocket? Gregor wondered as he scooped it up. But when he straightened out the page, he immediately noticed the crossed scythe. "Oh, it's from the Death Rider!"

When he looked up, he found Howard next to Luxa, who still hadn't moved. Gregor opened his mouth to ask if something was wrong, but closed it again when he took his first good look at her.

Luxa sat with her legs pulled to her chest, her chin resting on top of her knees. Strands of hair hung in her face, almost like she was trying to hide behind them. The fraction of her expression that Gregor could see appeared blank yet unyielding, like that of a statue. The skin on her clenched hands reminded him of the delicate tissue paper they had once used in art class, and Gregor couldn't help but fear that her knuckles might puncture through it. Her eyes were fixed on . . . the paper in his hand.

"What happened?" Gregor clenched the letter tighter, suddenly fighting panic. What kind of news was this to put her in such a state?

With shaking hands, he flattened it out. Before he could start reading, Howard grabbed his arm and pulled him to sit beside him and Luxa on her bed, allowing him to peer over Gregor's shoulder. And so they read together.

You are all in danger. The Bane knows we have war, and he is not sitting idle. He is digging his way through the ice below the waterway to direct a flood into your canalization and submerge Regalia. You must convince the council to seal all connections between Regalia and the waterway. Bring the army here as soon as you can; perhaps we can surprise them before they surprise us.

Meet me by the Spout, near the exit of the turtle tunnel, past lights out, the day after you receive this message. Then, details will follow.

Gregor's head spun as he attempted to process what he had just read. Canalization? The Bane wanted to flood—

"Halt." Howard's voice, filled with both concern and confusion, made Gregor jump. "What by Sandwich's own spirit is the "turtle tunnel"?"

Gregor instantly turned to stone where he sat. Henry knew a way. The memory of Ares' words, spoken not too long ago but feeling like an eternity, echoed in his mind. Luxa's tale about the turtle with the switch in its mouth, which had allowed them to slip out of the palace unnoticed . . . The kids avoided it, except for Henry, who rode on its back and made up fearsome tales about it. And one day, while the others napped, he found the courage to . . .

"Gregor, do you know what this means? Is it a code?"

Gregor couldn't bring himself to answer Howard's question. He couldn't look away from Luxa either, because suddenly, her expression made terrible sense. He showed me this when I was eight. It was our special secret, Henry and I. Henry and her . . .

"Could anyone tell me what—"

"Did you tell him?" Luxa cut Howard off, asking Gregor directly. Barely ever had he seen her eyes so pleading; she clung visibly to this last bit of oblivion, as though attempting to compel her eyes closed again. To unsee. To un-know . . .

Briefly, Gregor contemplated indulging her plea, just to make the desperate expression go away. But . . . he couldn't. He couldn't bring himself to lie anymore. He had kept Henry's secret so as not to endanger their mission, but the guilt he had tucked away so far inundated him all of a sudden. Thanatos' grave face flashed before his inner eye, and Henry's disbelief. His fear. Yet at that moment, all Gregor could do, despite it all, was shake his head. "No, Luxa. I didn't tell him anything."

The last bit of color faded from Luxa's face, and she lowered her gaze. "I see."

Howard inhaled, presumably to once again ask what was going on, but Luxa spoke first: "Howard, you must bring this to Vikus' attention. Show him the message, tell him we can trust—" She cut herself off, leaving her mouth hanging open.

Yet Howard was already rising to his feet. "I will," he said. "If you tell me about this turtle tunnel later."

Luxa nodded, and so, Howard took the letter from Gregor. With it, he stepped out of the room, but not without throwing a few skeptical glances back.

"You knew." It wasn't a question. There was no doubt left in Luxa as she stared past him, more than ever trying to shield herself with a curtain of hair.

"I . . ." Gregor swallowed, lamenting that no one else was here. Aurora, Ares, or even Vikus. Just someone better suited. His mouth opened again, but he could neither bring himself to lie nor to tell the truth.

"Leave!"

Gregor nearly fell off the bed when Luxa suddenly sprung to her feet. Her nightgown trailed behind her as she stormed toward her closet.

"But I—" He got up and took a few steps, then stopped when she whipped back around to him, glaring so viciously that his stomach clumped. "Are . . . we meeting him or not?"

"I said leave!" yelled Luxa, and Gregor dared not repeat his question. To himself, he thought that at least he had to go and hear what Henry had to say. Regalia was at stake . . . Somehow, he had to get Ares on board and sneak out alone if Luxa wouldn't join them. And with the way things were now . . . Man! Gregor turned and began retreating toward the exit. The further he went, the more his worry for her mounted.

"Thanks for keeping an eye on her," he said to the guards at the entrance, returning the smile they gave him.

Once he was out of earshot, Gregor leaned on the wall, breathing in and out. His first impulse had been to go back to the nursery, but suddenly he wondered if he should fetch his sword and look for Ares instead. Gregor blew out a frustrated breath. Why did Henry write about the turtle tunnel? He knew perfectly well that no one was supposed to know about that, didn't he?

It took everything out of Gregor not to collapse where he stood and begin crying. Only then did he realize that he had been on the verge of it for a while now.

Was this it? Was his odd numbness finally crumbling? Gregor swallowed repeatedly, observing a trio of soldiers hurrying past him and pulling himself together. Maybe feeling and acting like a child sometimes wasn't so bad. But right now, he could definitely not afford it.