Even though he was famished, Gregor nibbled on his fish with little interest. The cockroaches were generous hosts, offering plenty of food that they could even grill—they had the fuel now. Yet he had eaten so much fish in the past few weeks that he was frankly sick of it.

The tale Henry had recounted to Gregor refused to leave his thoughts too. Kismet—or Whitespur, as Henry had disclosed was her real name—was a former general of Gorger's, betrayed and abandoned by him after leading the defense of the Garden of the Hesperides. Gregor instinctively glanced around the cave where the bats had found shelter and where they were eating now, finding neither her nor Henry anywhere. Instead, he found the bats and Howard by the back wall, Luxa on the far side, and Ripred loafing in a corner, a little away from everyone.

He seemed deep in thought, and for the first time, Gregor realized he knew next to nothing about his backstory. Henry had left the way in which he knew Kismet out of the story, and suddenly, Gregor wondered why. What if they were similar? Mrs. Cormaci's words came to mind: The rat, what's he got? No real home, no family, and he has to fight all the time. You know, everybody needs a little joy in their life. And when he then took him in, Gregor thought he actually understood what she had meant for the first time.

"Well then, we depart at once." Gregor flinched as Luxa's voice cut into his thoughts. She took one step into the center of the cave and assessed them coldly.

"Not so fast," Howard interjected from where he sat on the other side, close by the bats. "Nike cannot fly, and Hera is still not at full strength. We should rest for at least another day."

A deep crease appeared on Luxa's forehead, emphasized by her tightly tied-back hair. Gregor thought the braid looked almost too tight, leaving no strand of her hair to fall freely. "Then you shall stay, or head back," she commanded, straightening her crown that gleamed golden in the torchlight. "I have a mission, and I shall not be delayed."

"Luxa, be reasonable!" urged Howard, but Gregor saw that she was beyond reason.

"I already said that I have no need for any of you."

"Why would you say this to those who wish to help you?" asked Nike earnestly, and Luxa flinched.

"I have not spoken to you much, yet I have heard only good things about you," said Hera incredulously. "The queen is just, they say. The queen is kind."

Stifling silence followed her words, and Gregor felt his gut clump together at the bottom of his stomach cavity.

"War and . . . kindness do not get along," said Luxa stiffly. "You slow me down. I have a mission. A mission . . ." She drifted off, and Gregor almost chewed his lip bloody out of anxiety that the bats, who clustered around Nike and Hera, exchanging apprehensive glances, would start hating her for her rudeness.

It wasn't just that she was rude, Gregor would have loved to proclaim. But apparently, he wasn't brave enough to stand up for Luxa either anymore. Luxa could be pushy and stubborn, but this . . . He stared over at Ares and urgently hoped that they understood something was wrong with her. That what Hera had heard was true and that she wasn't usually like this.

One moment of silence passed before an unexpected voice broke it: "Whatever your stance is on the others, you have need for me." All heads whipped around to Aurora, who had perked up, staring at Luxa with an unreadable face. Gregor couldn't see Luxa's expression, but she had frozen in place. "You have need for me," repeated Aurora. "And I am not allowing you to abandon them. You may beg all you like."

Luxa stood silently for one more moment, holding the unyielding gaze of her bond.

"We're staying then," concluded Ripred, stretching theatrically.

Luxa turned slowly, staring at them all with utter disbelief. As though they had betrayed her, thought Gregor, feeling a spear pierce his heart. He couldn't say anything. He couldn't even look her in the eyes. He had told her . . . that they could forget each other, he forced himself to remember and gritted his teeth. And she hadn't even flinched.

He only dared look up when he heard her enraged footsteps bolt out of the cave without another word. Looking after her, an awful thought suddenly crossed his mind: What if everything was okay with her after all? What if it was all wishful thinking on his part? His brain told him that something had to be wrong if she was fine with pushing people away like that, or . . . forgetting him. But what if it wasn't? What if she was doing all of this because she wanted to do it? What if this was just . . . her growing up? Like when she had told him that she didn't want to get sentimental over Henry anymore?

Gregor gritted his teeth, fighting an unexpected swell of despair. On one hand, he wanted to approach and talk to her, apologize for what he had said, and maybe figure out if she was feeling well. But on the other . . . Had Luxa ever hated him more than now?

Gregor thought he was seconds from drowning in the whirlpool of his despair when an unexpected voice suddenly cut in: "I implore your aid, Overlander."

When he whipped around, convinced that he must have misheard, Gregor stared into the uncharacteristically expressive—concerned—face of . . . "Aurora?"

Luxa's bond nodded, and Gregor swallowed, looking her over and finally meeting her astonishingly pale blue eyes. It was rare enough that Aurora talked to anyone, but . . . "Hey, what do you need help with?"

For one more moment, she held his gaze, then turned away, pulling her wings tighter around herself. "I have barely been able to convince them of Luxa's inherent goodness earlier," she mumbled, glancing back at Nike and Hera, who were averting their gazes. "And what is most disheartening is that, with how things are now, I cannot even fault them for their scorn."

"Nike too?" asked Gregor, his frown deepening.

"She wonders if she has misjudged Luxa because they have not interacted much, and . . . one's true face is only revealed in times of strife," mumbled Aurora. "As if the nibblers' strife was not enough. Thanatos has made an effort to speak with her, but . . . really, who could blame the crawlers if they started whispering behind Luxa's back that she is unkind and domineering soon?" Aurora scoffed.

Gregor clasped his hands together. "I'm sorry. I know something's wrong. It is, right?" He suddenly looked up. "Something's . . . wrong with her."

"Oh, it is," said Aurora, and Gregor couldn't help but feel an unwarranted wave of relief. His earlier fear was unjustified; she wasn't behaving like this consciously. But . . . "And I have come to you because you are the only one whom she cherishes and who cherishes her back yet, still," declared Aurora, and Gregor's mouth dropped open.

"Y-You mean she doesn't hate me?" he exclaimed a little too loudly.

Aurora shook her head.

"But I said that awful thing about . . . about . . . I'm sorry," he mumbled. "I know I should be saying this to her, but . . ."

"I appreciate your apology," said Aurora, yet her next words nipped Gregor's joy in the bud: "Although I know not if Luxa even remembers what you said anymore."

Gregor stared at her, aghast. "What?"

Aurora sighed. "She has . . . something is wrong with her," she repeated urgently. "Something . . . grave. So grave that I question whether we—whether I—can still trust her judgment." The look in her eyes told Gregor that this had never happened before. Immediately, his own worry increased until it was almost unbearable. Aurora had to know Luxa better than anyone, and if even she said this . . . ?

"It has to do with Henry, right?" he asked on impulse.

Aurora nodded. "Ever since she uncovered his identity, she has not been . . . well. She has been secretive, even with me. She has been unkind and demanding, negligent of all the things that have always mattered to her. Yet the part that concerns me the most is that her memory seems to have become . . . unreliable."

"M-Memory?"

"It is difficult to put into words," hissed Aurora, shaking her head. "I know not what is wrong with her, Overlander. I know not how to help her. I know not what to do, besides pacify the others over and over! As if I truly know that this will pass!"

She sounded so desperate that Gregor felt a wave of sympathy for her, so much so that he could even give her an earnest smile. She did not like speaking in general, and yet here she was, imploring someone who was hardly more than a stranger to help her. In that moment, Gregor found himself regretting for the first time that he hadn't yet gotten to know her better. Maybe, when all of this was over, he should try.

"You wonder if I feel any resentment toward him as well, no?" asked Aurora suddenly, staring at Gregor as though she had just had the same thought. "Toward Henry?"

"W-Well, I—" Gregor stammered, then cleared his throat. "He doesn't deserve any hostility," he said with conviction. Even if he was frightened out of his mind, it might make her mad. He had let too many opportunities to say it slide.

Aurora threw him a pensive look. Then she surprised him again. "I had an inkling that he was Henry ever since we first met him on the waterway," she said, and Gregor's eyes widened in shock. "Although many things didn't add up," she continued. "Only now, not least due to the things Thanatos has said, do I see the truth about the ways in which he has transformed unrecognizably."

Gregor stared at her, his mouth agape. "But you didn't say anything to Luxa," he mumbled. "Or any of us."

"I had no proof," said Aurora. "And even so, I sensed that Luxa had the same inkling, at least after the jungle. Although she never brought it up to me. Now I question whether it may be because something within her feared this kind of breaking of her mind if she acknowledged it."

"Ares didn't know," mumbled Gregor.

"Ares has never been particularly perceptive of individuals," said Aurora. "I do not blame him for leaving Henry in his past. I admire their lack of bad blood, in fact. How much resentment they hold for outdated misdeeds says much about someone."

"I wish Howard would understand that."

"Howard will have let out all his pent-up frustration eventually," said Aurora dismissively. "He is not worth arguing with."

Gregor almost laughed. If only he could be as casual about this as her, he thought, clenching his hands together again. "You don't stand up for Henry, but you don't resent him anymore." Gregor managed a smile, suddenly certain that he was right.

"I used to resent Henry very much," said Aurora, with no hint of guilt in her voice. "I do not anymore, yet I do not stand up for him . . ." she mumbled, as though she had only now realized that this was an option. "Would you like to know when the last drop of doubt that he was indeed Henry—and the last ounce of resentment—left me?" she asked instead, after a moment's pause.

Gregor nodded wordlessly.

"When I witnessed him cross hands with Luxa for the Vow to the Dead," replied Aurora. "Only Henry has ever looked at her the way he did then."

"I admit the thought crossed my mind upon that scene too." Ares suddenly came up beside Gregor. "Although I dismissed it, musing that Henry could never come close to being anything like the Death Rider."

"I am unsurprised," said Aurora shamelessly. "You have always underestimated him. Although I suppose this was mutual."

Ares looked back and forth between Aurora and Gregor. "A conversation long overdue, as Luxa would say." He paused. "Well . . ."

"This was what I originally came to talk to him about," said Aurora in a grave voice. "She is . . . confused. I believe she does not fully understand what happened or how she should feel or act, and so she acts unkindly to conceal her inner turmoil. Someone ought to speak to her, someone whom she cherishes. And I have already failed."

Gregor gritted his teeth, giving Aurora an apologetic look. Suddenly, it occurred to him that he was partially responsible for all this too—he'd kept Henry's identity secret. And now . . .

"I'll try," he said, and Aurora breathed out in relief. Ares threw him a concerned look, but at that moment, all Gregor could think was that he was a coward for avoiding Luxa all this time. He had kept this from her and then left her to deal with it all by herself. He got to his feet. "I promise. While we still have time."

Both Aurora and Ares looked at him like they knew that he wasn't only meaning time here at the citadel. Time—as Gregor took large steps toward the exit without looking back, it suddenly struck him that there was nothing more fleeting or precious. And it was running out so fast.

***

"Hey . . . There you are." Gregor aimed his flashlight beam toward the ceiling to avoid blinding Luxa. "Can I sit with you for a bit?"

She didn't react, and a fresh wave of anxiety rose in Gregor. He had only found her thanks to the roaches; apparently, she hadn't returned to the cave where they camped at all. Instead, she'd retreated here, all alone and without light, where she must have thought no one would follow.

"Luxa, we were worried about you," he said, clutching his hand tightly around the handle of his sword. He didn't need it now, but . . . something about having it here with him felt comforting. "Are you . . . mad at me?" He finally took one more step and sat beside her, his sword wedged in between his pulled-up knees.

A few more agonizing seconds of silence passed, and Gregor slowly put the flashlight down, standing it up between them. Only then, when he looked up again, Luxa was meeting his gaze.

"I . . ." Although she was looking at him, Gregor thought she wasn't really seeing him. Her eyes were blank, like she was staring right through him. "I was . . . angry with you," she said slowly. "Was I not?"

"Did you forget?" asked Gregor, only then noticing that she was holding something in her hand. Something that looked like . . .

"I was angry with you; I remember," mumbled Luxa. "I had a reason . . . I have reason to be angry with all of you."

Gregor vehemently shook his head. "No," he urged. Kismet's words from earlier flashed through his mind: You are surrounded by people who would lay down their lives for you in a heartbeat. "Luxa, we're all here because we care about you. All of us. We are not leaving because we care about you."

"You lied to me."

"I'm sorry." Gregor swallowed, averting his gaze back to the jeweled handle of his sword. He picked at one of the gems with his nail, staring as if it were the most riveting sight imaginable. "F-For saying that we could forget each other as well. I could never forget you. Never."

There was a pause. "I will forget you," said Luxa, and she might as well have slapped him in the face. "Or so I hope," she continued. "When the warrior has been killed."

Gregor's mouth snapped shut. An odd emotion washed over him, and he looked back at her, his brow creasing determinedly. "That could mean anything," said Gregor. "It could mean . . . someone else could be the warrior here, Luxa. It could mean that only the "warrior" in me dies, or something. That I'll have fulfilled my role," he spoke and spoke, listing one after another option like he actually believed in any of them. It was what Henry would want him to do, it suddenly crossed his mind. "We don't know what that means, Luxa," he said, trying to mean it. Really trying his best.

"I never knew why Vikus was so reluctant about letting me read this prophecy," said Luxa, as though she had not heard a word he had said. "I have read it a long time ago, when I was a child. And I remembered nothing off about it."

"You're still a child."

She looked at him like she wanted to correct him, but then turned away again. "He has not let me anywhere near it since my return from the jungle. I grew more and more impatient, so I snuck into the room to read it. This was a few days before Hazard's party."

Gregor swallowed repeatedly. He didn't even want to imagine what it had to have been like for her. "It could really mean anything," he said, twisting his sword between his knees, nails dragging across a row of tiny jewels lining the crossguard. Then he suddenly stopped, keeping his finger right there at the base of the hilt, frowning.

"I am not angry with you."

It took Gregor one moment to process Luxa's words because he felt there, at the base, right above a large gem—something had been etched into the hilt. He ran his fingertip over it a few times but couldn't make out what it was without the light.

"I am not angry, even if I should be," said Luxa, and his head flew back around to her. "Should I be?" She looked up, and a shiver slithered down Gregor's spine when he realized the mist in her eyes was back. "Why . . . should I be?" asked Luxa in a weak voice. "There was something . . . A lie. Gregor, why would you lie to me?"

Gregor pressed his fingertip into the odd engraving. "For the same reason you lied to me about the Prophecy of Time," he whispered. "To . . . shield you."

"Shield me? From what?"

When he dared look back at her, her eyes were round. For one moment, she held his gaze, then slowly raised her left hand to her face, holding . . . That's right! Earlier, he had spotted it in her hand: one of his Polaroid photos.

"Gregor . . ." She slowly turned her hand. "Do I . . . know him?"

Gregor stared incredulously at the photo . . . The one he had taken of Henry throwing her in the air. It was a bit blurry, and her hair was flying all over the place, but they were both laughing. For some reason, the sight almost drove tears into Gregor's eyes.

"I feel like I know his face," whispered Luxa. "Like I know him. Not as the Death Rider, Gregor; I know him . . . as someone else. I think . . . I do. Yet whenever I try to recall, every time I think I might force myself to, I . . . cannot. As though I am catching smoke with my hands. Something is there, yet I cannot hold on. Why can I not, Gregor?" she whimpered. "Why? Why?"

Gregor stared at her trembling shoulders, feeling his own hand around the hilt of his sword shake. He tried desperately to calm his reeling mind, yet he was terrified to death. He stole one glance at Luxa and could tell she was too.

"Did you not say that this device captures reality? Why has it captured a dream, then?" she asked, barely audible. "Why has it captured the dream that I cannot recall clearly, no matter how much I try? Gregor . . . where am I? Why is it so dark?"

The flashlight toppled, and so did his sword, when Gregor slid over and pulled her into a tight hug. Her icy hands pressed into his back.

"What am I doing here?" she whispered. "Why am I feeling this? Why am I feeling so much fury? And so much sorrow at the same time? I do not understand . . ."

Gregor's heart hammered out of his chest as he held her close. It was all he could do—that and say, "You're okay," over and over. "You're okay. You're safe." But she wasn't okay. The thought pried his chest open and nestled inside. "We need to get you home." Goodness . . . what had he done?

"No!" He barely caught himself when she shoved him back, sliding away. His sword hit the ground beside him with a loud crash, making him twitch. Luxa looked at him with wild eyes. "No!" she screamed. "I must stay here. I must . . . I have a mission. Because we have war. We have war, no?"

Gregor nodded mechanically.

"I cannot quit." She pressed her palms into the stone floor. "I cannot . . . fail. I cannot fail!"

Despite how terrified he was of saying anything that might make whatever was wrong with her even worse, Gregor found her staring at the picture that had slipped out of her hand, lying between them on the ground. "You know who he is," said Gregor, pointing at the picture. "He's not a dream. He's real."

She did not look up, and he didn't dare embrace her again.

"Luxa, that's Henry. Your cousin, Henry," urged Gregor. "You know it's him. You really knew all along, didn't you?"

One moment of silence passed, then she slowly raised her gaze. "Gregor, quit making such unfunny jokes," she said, and he flinched back from the fresh blankness in her eyes. Her face was hard, as though etched in stone. "Henry is dead," she said. "He has been dead for two years. You were there when he died. How can you make such ridiculous claims?"

"B-But you—" Gregor broke off, forcing himself to hold her blank stare. "You got his message. You called him out for knowing the turtle tunnel yourself."

"Henry is dead, Gregor," she interrupted him, scooping the photo up. "He cannot be here. Or . . . do you believe in ghosts, Gregor?"

Gregor had no idea where he found the strength to stand up or move his legs, but he knew one thing for sure: he couldn't stay there a second longer. Without another word, he rose and bolted out of the cave, managing to grab only his sword.

The lone light of the flashlight remained behind, yet he did not glance back. He just couldn't bring himself to look at her anymore. His head was spinning; he felt like he was about to pass out. Luxa . . . something was more than wrong with her. She was . . . sick or something. She wasn't—

"What happened?" Gregor almost ran into a wall as he heard the snarling voice to his left. He just managed to process that it was . . . "You smell of fear, Overland-pup. What has you so scared?"

Gregor could barely see Kismet's silhouette in the light coming from their camp cave, just ahead, and realized that he had somehow made it back here—the same cave where she and Ripred had talked earlier.

He squinted at her, making out the genuinely concerned look in her eye, and . . . caved. Gregor slid against the wall, sat with his knees to his chest, and then all his problems, which he had been keeping at bay for so long, poured from his mouth: the Prophecy of Time, the war, his prophesied death, his split family, the drama around Henry's identity, Luxa's concerning state . . . He thought if he had kept it all in for a moment longer, he might have burst apart.

Kismet listened without interrupting once, and when his torrent of words finally abated, Gregor realized with horror that he was sobbing. He wiped a sleeve across his face. "S-Sorry," he mumbled. "I don't know why that happened. I shouldn't—"

"It happened," she cut him off, "because you too cannot seem to find a healthy balance of burdens. You will kill yourself before any prophecy can if you keep this up." When Gregor looked up, she gave him a crooked smile. "You have a big heart, pup, and maturity far beyond your age. What you ought to do is listen to Henry more."

Gregor choked out a laugh. "He told me that I couldn't beat myself up over it. That I should . . . share my problems. But it feels so selfish. Everyone's got so much on their plate as well, and I—"

"Don't bother yourself worrying for Henry as well." She scoffed. "Bet you that it will take him no more than a month to call this entire episode "yet another excellent lesson" and tell you exactly what positives it amounted to."

Gregor sniffed. "Yeah . . . I wish I could do that too."

"Oh, I am certain that he can help you," she said. "With getting over your fears regarding that prophecy too. You know that those prophecies do not actually let you share in Sandwich's visions, yes? We may truly never know what they mean until they happen. And there is little use in believing in the worst outcome in a situation such as this."

Gregor nodded mechanically.

"Oh, pup, you know that Henry will be upset if he finds out that you did not speak to him about any of this," she snarled. "And I will tattle without a second thought if that is what it takes."

"Okay, okay." Gregor made a face. "Soon."

"Excellent." He expected Kismet to leave, or tell him to sleep, yet to Gregor's surprise, she sat in front of him on her haunches instead. "However, when it comes to what you said about your child queen . . . the problem may not be so simple."