"So, what do you think? What kind of substitution could it be?"

Gregor hadn't moved from his spot in a corner of the code room, watching Daedalus inch closer to inspect the scroll of code in front of Lizzie. Three days had passed since he had broken into Solovet's quarters and then listened to Lizzie's and Ripred's conversation—three days of tedious waiting for something to happen. Someone to call him into battle, Gregor thought and shuddered. Now he was even anticipating it. Three days of . . . not touching Sandwich's sword once. Of knowing that Luxa was not in Regalia.

His gaze trailed to where the sword still leaned on the wall before he quickly averted his gaze. The longer he had thought about it, the more certain he had become that Ripred had been right. This changed nothing about his loyalty or his reason to fight. The only thing he dreaded was the moment he'd have to pick that sword back up.

And Gregor had thought about it all a lot. He had used the quiet of the last three days to ask Horatio and Marcus to take him to the archives where the Regalians kept their records, and the guards had complied. Something in him just hadn't been able to let that mental image of a formal decree that Solovet had painted before him go. He had to see for himself, Gregor had decided. If he had nothing better to do, he might as well.

Surprisingly, that trip to the archives hadn't been very fruitful. He had even asked the archivist—a peculiar old woman who reminded him a little of an older version of Nerissa—to help him search for records from Sandwich's time. In this manner, he had found the decree Solovet had spoken about . . . but not really much else.

He didn't even know what species Sandwich had killed for the sake of this land—the decree had called them "diggers", but neither the archivist nor the guards had been able to tell him what their other name was, and there was no physical description of them either.

All in all, he hadn't really found . . . anything. Nothing about how long after Sandwich's arrival the war had broken out or about how exactly it had started. Only the final outcome was detailed, although "detailed" wasn't a particularly accurate term. More like "mentioned". Two paragraphs in what the archivist called the first "annal".

These were apparently supposed to be summaries of one year's events, although that first one spanned many years, supposedly documenting the earliest days of the humans here until Sandwich's death. Considering this, it had surprised Gregor greatly that it was far thinner than all the others. A whole bunch of pages at the start seemed to have been torn out, actually.

When he had asked the archivist why, she had said that old pages sometimes became damaged over time. Gregor had no idea if that was what had happened here, but he had no means of finding out more either.

All in all, that annal hadn't contained anything Gregor hadn't already known. There had been a war between the humans and the diggers over the land where Regalia would be built. The humans had been on the cusp of losing—apparently, they had sustained over two hundred casualties, which was substantial considering that Sandwich had only brought eight hundred down here. Then, Sandwich had ordered the poisoning of the diggers' water, and none of them had supposedly survived.

Gregor sighed, musing why he was even still digging into that old history. It could do nothing for him right now. He supposed it had been his way to distract himself from the tedious waiting . . . and from the frightening images in his dreams. Every night since his breaking into Solovet's quarters, he had dreamed of the stone knight, and every night he had inched closer, making Gregor feel more powerless. He almost felt haunted by the image, as if the knight were silently screaming something at him, yet Gregor could not hear. He didn't want to hear anything, quite frankly.

Or maybe . . . he was also trying to escape from thoughts of Luxa. The fact that she was out there, potentially in danger, was always there in the back of his mind. And even though he knew that she would most likely be safe with Henry and Kismet, he still felt uneasy at the thought of her not being here. Unaccounted for.

Even uneasier he felt about Solovet. When he wasn't overthinking Sandwich's legacy or worrying about Luxa, he was paranoid about her. The only good thing was that, with so many things to overthink, he had less time to be scared of the Prophecy of Time . . . or so he told himself.

Well, and that his mom was doing better with the day. He had finally gotten Lizzie out of the code room to see her the day after her talk with Ripred—and, to his surprise, found her out of bed, playing checkers with a brown tabby bat with a splinted wing. The bat had introduced herself as Demeter; she had been injured in battle and placed in the room of Gregor's mom.

"They say I could use some company now that I am not contagious anymore," his mom had said with a smile, and Gregor thought she was happy to finally have a proper roommate. Most importantly, ever since his declaration after returning from his trip, she had not spoken of going home, only thrown him more of those unreadable glances that he thought held resignation but also an ounce of pride and sadness.

Gregor's dad and Boots had been there too—she had recently moved with them into the code room since the hospital was getting more crowded the longer the war went on. And even though his dad visited the hospital frequently, Gregor also saw that he greatly enjoyed spending his days in a corner of the code room with Teslas and occasionally some other code team members, engaging in vivid conversations.

And there he now was—for a moment, Gregor watched him gesticulating wildly, with Boots on his lap, who evidently tried to contribute to the conversation. Then he went back to watching Lizzie as she ran her fingers over the leather of a code scroll. "I'm not sure . . . It seems so complicated."

"But the thing is, we haven't much time to crack it," Ripred snarled behind her. "Tick, tock, tick, tock. Oh, now I'm hungry again." He tilted his head but spotted no food in sight.

"Didn't you get the cookies I helped make?" asked Lizzie without looking up from the code.

Ripred stopped in his tracks. "No, I did not get the cookies you helped make." His yellow eyes instantly found Gregor. "Where are my cookies?"

"In my backpack in the . . ." Gregor cut himself off and frowned. "Wait, no, I took them on the quest and gave them to . . . the Death Rider. He wanted to carry all food items in one bag." Gregor shrugged. "He's not given them back."

"Oh, that lad. Of course he's not given them back," grumbled Ripred.

"The Death Rider?" Lizzie raised her head toward Gregor. "The outcast who helped you in the jungle last year? Oh right, you said he is somewhere with your friends now."

Gregor nodded, realizing he had not told her anything about his most recent trips yet, aside from what had happened to the mice. He hadn't told Ripred he had figured out the echolocation either, but . . . he wasn't in any particular hurry to do so. The rat was not his teacher anymore, and what reason did he have to tell him? He would probably only force him into more lessons, and Gregor was entirely content practicing on his own.

Being my friend also entails that you let no one pick on you or kick your ass. He smiled at the memory of Henry's words and his hug. Not that overgrown white rat pup, not any prophecy, and not Ripred the bully either.

Oh, don't worry, Gregor thought. I'm over that. He stood up and sat beside Lizzie, opening his mouth to explain that the Death Rider had guided them on both the quest to save the mice and the one to gather allies, when Ripred's ear twitched. Moments later, Horatio and Marcus charged into the code room, scaring Lizzie so much that she dropped her scroll of code and shrieked, ducking behind Daedalus' wing.

"Overlander?"

"Yeah?" asked Gregor apprehensively. Had he done something to upset Solovet after all? Were they here to arrest him? His gaze flew toward the sword, and he felt the first urge to pick it back up in days. Would they actually arrest him here, in front of Lizzie, and—

"You are being summoned to the front," proclaimed Marcus, throwing a glance at Ripred. "You too, Solovet commands."

"Oh!" Gregor jumped to his feet, feeling an uncalled-for wave of relief. He shouldn't be happy about this, he thought, but . . . at least he was not being arrested. If he fought now, wouldn't the war be over sooner?

He threw a last glance back at Lizzie and his dad, who stared at him with concern, then looked at Sandwich's sword. With one quick step, he had reached it and closed his hand around the hilt. "I'm coming."

***

Silently, Gregor followed the two guards and Ripred to an uncertain destination, holding onto Sandwich's sword more tightly than he really wanted to.

Soldiers frequently passed by them, most in full armor, hurrying in all directions. The only full suit of armor Gregor had seen in the Underland had been that one in Solovet's cupboard, which had been made out of metal, yet most of their suits were leather. Maybe there were different kinds, he wondered, for different ranks.

He stared at the soldiers and battled against thoughts such as "Any of them might die today". He could die too, it suddenly hit Gregor. What if they summoned him now because the Bane was here and this wasn't just his first proper but also his . . . last battle?

His head swirled, making it difficult for Gregor to keep pace. Because then and there, reality came right up and slapped him in the face. He had gone on and on about Sandwich and what kind of things he had done besides having visions and writing prophecies—yet he suddenly realized that he had neglected to . . . prepare for actually dying. Was there even something he could do to prepare? He already had confirmation that his family would be safe. That was really the only thing Gregor cared about. Well, that and . . . Luxa's face appeared before his inner eye and he tightened his jaw. If he died today, she would never know about his feelings.

Maybe he shouldn't waste these moments of time he still had with stressing himself about all this, Gregor thought. Maybe he should avoid thinking about the future—or, more specifically, how he wasn't going to have much of one. He didn't really see any other way to keep functioning. There was nothing to do but keep moving forward, make the moments count . . . and remind himself of what he was fighting—dying for.

His vow to Lizzie swam before his inner eye, and he tried to evoke within himself the determination to die for the sake of ensuring the Bane couldn't kill more innocents. And yet—despite knowing that it was the right thing to do, despite being as resolved as he had been before—it was still hard.

As he walked through the halls, Gregor could see his resolve reflected on many other faces, as well as the undeniable truth that these soldiers didn't need a prophecy to know there was a good chance they wouldn't make it out alive. Most of them must have family and friends to worry about, too. Some were barely older than he. A girl stormed past him, donning a clunky helmet as she ran—she couldn't have been older than fifteen, yet she looked just as dire. As resolved. To Gregor's dismay, seeing them and seeing that their emotions were the same as his made him not feel horrified or concerned. It made him feel . . . less alone. Less alone, but no better.

Then, before he could properly evaluate what this feeling meant, Horatio and Marcus stopped. "Here is where you receive your armor," Horatio announced, pointing in the direction of an arched doorway, directly ahead. Soldiers hurried in and out of what appeared to be an armory.

Gregor flinched when Marcus ushered him forward. "Go on, lest you be late." Then he looked over at Ripred. "You do not need anything, I assume?"

"Just anyone try and put me in armor." Ripred giggled. "See you on the field, boy," he said to Gregor before disappearing out of sight.

Gregor nodded and, somewhat timidly, followed the guards through the arch. "We brought him, Miravet!" Horatio called as he maneuvered through the crowd toward the back of the room before he and Marcus made their way out, presumably to acquire some armor for themselves. When Gregor finally emerged into the open space in the back of the room, he nearly collided with an elderly woman carrying something.

"Sorry," he mumbled, quickly picking up the four heavy breastplates she had dropped.

"Overlander, at last!" she exclaimed, not even a little upset. Her face was stern, yet the smile she gave was warm, and he instantly found himself returning it.

She set the breastplates aside before eyeing him up and down. "I have been awaiting you. Then again, I have been told that you had spent much of your time out gathering allies with the queen." To his surprise, she extended a hand to him, and Gregor shook it gingerly. "It is good to finally meet you," she repeated.

"Oh, um, good to meet you too," said Gregor, although he had no idea who she was. Only when she turned to pick up a measuring tape did he realize that her silver hair was not tied but cut short, about the length of his own.

"Alright, let us see . . ." She whipped the measuring tape around him. "You fight how? With only the sword? In the right hand?"

It took Gregor a second to understand that she was trying to fit him for armor, and he nodded. "You're . . . Miravet, right?" He could have sworn one of the guards had dropped the name.

Her smile reappeared. "I am." Then the professional expression returned as she eyed him pensively. "What does your left hand do?"

Gregor opened his mouth to explain that he sometimes held a flashlight in it when he remembered Solovet's dagger. "I . . . actually have a dagger for it now. I left it in the code room . . . Oh no . . ."

"It is good to see that you value my gift so highly," a voice behind him chimed in, and Gregor jumped around to face Solovet in full armor. She donned a billowing cape and pinned to her chest was the same crest with the two crossed arrows that he had noticed the first time—Mareth had mentioned something about it indicating her status as commander.

She halted in front of him, holding out his backpack and the dagger. Despite her words, she was smiling, and despite her smile, Gregor gritted his teeth at the sight of her. He inevitably asked himself if she secretly wanted his armor to be bad. For him to get killed sooner rather than later.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled, taking the stuff from her, then dropped the backpack in a corner and fastened the dagger to his belt. "I'm not used to having it yet, I think."

"You will soon enough." Solovet strode past him to the far back of the room. "At least when it saves your life for the first time."

Miravet eyed Gregor with great interest. "This . . . A dagger, then." She nodded and began mumbling something to herself as she led him over to a wall covered in breastplates hanging from hooks. "For the chest," she said, taking down a stunning and highly polished number made of silver metal and mother-of-pearl.

"No, Miravet. I want him entirely in black."

Gregor whipped around to Solovet, who held out a breastplate as well; only this one was . . . He swallowed. The breastplate was of black metal and some kind of shiny ebony-like shell, and . . . he had seen it before.

"You know the suit I mean," said Solovet, brandishing the breastplate, and Gregor dared not breathe out, unsure whether she was talking to Miravet or to him. But she couldn't be talking to him. She didn't know he had opened that cabinet—the one with the black suit of armor that had been eerily his size. Had she commissioned it specifically for him? And if so, how early?

As soon as Miravet spotted the breastplate in Solovet's hand, she made a face. "Why this one?" she asked, and Gregor found himself liking her even more for not immediately jumping to do whatever Solovet suggested.

"To blend with his flier and give an overall impression of darkness." Solovet stepped closer and held the breastplate to Gregor's chest to confirm the size.

"The gnawers will not be impressed by an impression of darkness," Miravet replied, still stubbornly holding the breastplate she had chosen.

"No, but the humans will." Solovet shot her a stern gaze. "It implies deadliness and strength and will give them confidence to follow him."

For one more moment, Miravet teetered, then she turned away. "As you wish." She returned her breastplate to the wall and accepted the one Solovet had brought.

Gregor felt slightly unnerved by the prospect of putting this particular suit of armor on, but he didn't bother protesting. At the end of the day, if it had been custom-made, at least it would be the perfect size.

He wordlessly changed into a black shirt and pants and then let Miravet take some five minutes to help him strap on the whole suit of armor. As she stepped away to fetch the helmet, Gregor caught sight of himself in a mirror. For one moment, the look startled him because it conjured images of the knight statue that had slowly but surely begun to frighten him.

Then he chased the recollection, thinking instead that if he saw himself in a movie, dressed like this, his first thought would be "That's the bad guy." Gregor didn't want to be the bad guy—not even mistaken for it.

Then again, the longer he stared, the more he also thought it looked . . . pretty cool. If the Bane was the villain and his color was white, wouldn't that suggest that black had a positive implication for Gregor?

But when Miravet examined him, she shook her head. "You only emphasize his youth by dressing him so," she said to Solovet, who had watched silently. "He has not the hardness of countenance to wear this."

Gregor frowned; his freshly risen confidence evaporated at once, even though he was not sure what she meant. Hadn't countenance something to do with your face?

"He will." Solovet eyed him like an artist inspecting her finished masterpiece. "If this will be all—then come, Gregor. We have a war to fight."

He sighed, accepted the helmet from Miravet with a quick "Bye, thanks," then followed Solovet through the now much less crowded armory and out through the arched entrance.

Solovet cannot be trusted, Ripred's words rang in his head, and he wondered if there was really anything they could do against her. She had to be incredibly influential to get away with something like the plague. But if they all worked together, maybe they stood a chance . . . ? Gregor didn't know; all he knew was that he didn't want to be alone with her for longer than necessary.

Just then, she turned back to him. "Do not look so dire. My sister is an expert in armor but not in character."

Her words took Gregor by surprise. Her sister? He glanced back, thinking about how sympathetic Miravet had been, not only in comparison to Solovet. Then he thought about their names—Solovet and Miravet. They sounded alike. And it explained why Miravet was not afraid to stand up to her.

"I see," he mumbled as she led him through the palace. He didn't want to talk to her, but when she asked, he reluctantly told her about Lizzie and how Ripred thought she was the princess.

After what felt like way too long, they finally arrived in the High Hall, where Ajax and Ares waited. "We depart for the wall," announced Solovet as she mounted Ajax and Gregor approached Ares. He found the armor at least not hindering as he mounted up, and his bond lifted off to follow Ajax.

Gregor tugged at Sandwich's sword apprehensively as he watched the city fly by beneath them. He'd be fighting soon, and . . .

Instead of spiraling into thoughts of his potential death again, Gregor looked ahead just as they crossed over the high wall that signaled the end of the city. Then they headed over the farmlands, where the fields already lay barren. Those ended on another wall in the distance, which was thick and sturdy, providing a strong base from which to launch the army. It was visible because of the evenly spaced braziers mounted on it, and already swarming with humans and bats.

"Do . . . you think Luxa is okay, wherever she is?" he asked Ares, swallowing the lump that had risen in his throat. "Do you think . . . she'll come home soon?"

"At least she has good company," Ares assured, then added, "You worry for her more than for Howard, for Henry, for them all."

Gregor swallowed again. He knew Ares was right; what he didn't know was whether he should talk about this to anyone yet. Then again—if not to his bond, to whom else?

He pictured Luxa smiling at him and then wondered when he had last actually seen that smile. Instinctively, Gregor tugged at his backpack and opened the back pocket, taking out the . . . She was smiling. Gregor found a smile spread on his own face as he stared at the photo—the one Henry had taken back when they had camped with the scorpions.

"I do," he finally responded, folding the photo until he could fit it beneath his breastplate. Who knew, maybe it would bring him luck?

As he turned his attention forward again, he saw the battle was already in progress. It was similar to the one the questers had joined on their return, in that the rats seemed to be positioned in a formation on the field below. But in that earlier encounter, they had never come within twenty yards of the command center. Now they were fighting right up to the base of the city wall.

Then, Ares landed beside Ajax on the little area the soldiers had cleared for Solovet, and Gregor inspected the wall closer. It was about thirty feet tall, too high for a rat to leap onto. But—Gregor's chest tightened as he peeked down—some were attempting to climb it. The surface was covered in big slabs of polished stone, but between the slabs was a network of thin seams. Using these, the more agile rats were able to get a foothold.

Before he could ask if they planned to do something about that, he heard a scoffing laugh behind him. "Oh, no. Who are you supposed to be?!"

Gregor whipped around and was greeted with the sight of a giggling Ripred pointing a claw at him.

"I ordered his armor myself," said Solovet sourly. "Do you not approve of it?"

"You cannot be serious! He looks like he fell off of a chessboard!"

Gregor pressed his lips together tightly, unsure what to say. He really didn't think it had looked bad, especially as a contrast to the Bane, but leave it to Ripred to ruin everything! Not that overgrown white rat pup, not any prophecy, and not Ripred the bully either, he heard Henry's voice in his ear again and defiantly turned away from the rat, crossing his arms.

Luckily, before he could poke more fun, one particular rat caught Ripred's attention as it made it about halfway up the wall. A human on a bat swept up and ran it through. The rat fell, but it didn't satisfy Ripred.

"Hmm . . . all strange attires aside," he said. "We must focus on the more pressing issue. Now that she has discovered that route, they will all know it can be used."

Gregor moved away from Ripred and instead scrambled up to the side of the wall to glance down. As if to prove Ripred's point, a second rat scurried directly up the wall, using the same path as the first. It got a few feet higher before a soldier took it out.

"It is time, then," said Solovet, who hadn't left his side. Then she turned and gave a signal.

"Time for what?" asked Gregor.

"Time to pour," replied Ares grimly.

For a moment, Gregor was confused, but then he remembered the prophecy—the one everyone had mistaken for a children's song but had actually predicted the horrific fate of the mice. He couldn't remember the exact wording, but there had been something there about pouring. For centuries, the Underlanders had thought the words were just harmless nonsense and somehow referred to a tea party where cake was sliced and tea was poured.

Now everyone knew better. The rats were the "guests" at the door. They were already being sliced open with swords. And so . . . it was time to pour.

Gregor turned to see what exactly that entailed and instantly spotted them—the cauldrons must have been ready to go at a moment's notice, crafted from thick, black iron with arched metal handles like baskets. Bats now flew them up onto the wall, only for teams of humans, wearing protective gloves and goggles, to tip them forward, releasing gallons of boiling oil onto the rats below.

Gregor flinched and covered his ears against the horrible shrieks piercing the air as the oil hit. He instinctively shut his eyes too, before opening them again, if only a little. The entire enemy line had fallen back, leaving a half-dozen scalded rats writhing at the base of the wall.

"Shall we torch them?" a soldier asked Solovet.

"Just two, I think," she replied. "I do not want the smoke to interfere with our sight lines."

Burning torches were promptly dropped on the two most unfortunate rats, and Gregor squinted as they transformed into fireballs, scurrying in frantic circles and eventually rolling to extinguish the flames. Yet it was futile, as their coats were already soaked in oil.

No matter how hard he squeezed his eyes shut, Gregor could not ignore the smell of burnt fur, then burnt flesh. So, he stopped trying. He stared in horror at the scene, finding it to be one of the worst things he had witnessed in the Underland. Not as bad as the mice being suffocated in the pit, or maybe that moment when mites had eaten Howard's bat, Pandora, down to a skeleton in seconds. But this was right up there, and he felt the urge to gag. From the smell, the atrocity he had witnessed—or both, he didn't know.

Combating the sensation, he looked around at the others to see Ripred's face . . . expressionless. "That should discourage them for a while," was all he said. Solovet made a sound of agreement, focusing her attention already back on the battle.

Gregor took a deep breath and registered that there was no sense of either triumph or revulsion along the wall in general. The Regalians must have seen stuff like this a hundred times, although no one—not even Solovet—looked particularly happy. They looked like they viewed the act as necessary, albeit unpleasant.

At least it had had the desired effect, as the rats had fallen back from the wall. Gregor clenched the hilts of his weapons to steady the shaking of his hands. Maybe he was just green. Maybe, after a while, this was everyday stuff. Maybe that old saying was true—maybe all was indeed fair in love and war.

But then Gregor thought about Vikus' words and restraint in war and found himself agreeing with that much more. He glanced around, thinking that even if all was fair right now, it shouldn't be.

Gregor had just thought to himself that nothing would change as long as Solovet was in power—and that there was another reason to find some way to put her out of it—when a deafening screech permeated his ears from below. Gregor didn't even have to turn or wait for Ripred's "Ah, so there's my little charge at last!" to know who that was.

The rest of the assembled soldiers fell into incredulous murmurs as the enormous mountain of white fur finally came into view. Rearing back on his haunches and giving another earsplitting roar was . . . the Bane.