Watching Gregor finally settle down, Henry let out a sigh, mentally bracing himself to stay awake and keep watch. He had tried to be encouraging, but in truth, he had his own concerns. The actuality of war was beyond mere theory.

At least his fears regarding what war might mean for the Underland and for Regalia gave him an excuse not to linger on everything he had overheard from Ripred and Kismet. He had only caught the very end of their argument, and yet . . .

Why do you keep running? Even now? What are you so scared of?!

The worst part might be that Henry couldn't tell. Perhaps if he knew, he might help her overcome it.

And you? You are still refusing me.

He gritted his teeth.

Because you are still asking me for things I cannot give. I cannot . . . give you Whitespur back.

Why not? He almost wanted to get to his feet and search for her to ask why she was so adamant about this. Was she running from Whitespur, as Ripred had claimed, or was there more to it? And you are running from Luxa, whispered a voice in his head.

Crossly, he rose to his feet. Overthinking this wouldn't amount to anything. Perhaps now that he felt no longer limited by his injury—it stung on occasion, yet not so much that it couldn't be ignored—he should do something useful, such as preemptively fetch water. He could hear better than any ordinary human; he would hear it should they be attacked, whether he was down at the river or here.

So, Henry picked up a water bag and finally extinguished the torch before making his way to the water. He was already almost by the river when he realized the space was occupied. How had she even snuck past him?

"It is . . . strange. I look at him and feel as though his sight should prompt memories—impossible memories."

Henry froze at the sight of Luxa's silhouette, dark against the glow of the river, and next to her—

"You . . . May you not tell me why I seem to recall, and at the same time, not?" she pleaded. "You know him, no?"

"That is not my job," replied Kismet, facing Luxa. "But if you wish to recall, you might ask him yourself."

"But I cannot just walk up to him and . . . Why am I like this?" Luxa wrung her hands. "What is happening to me? Why feel I as though my own mind is slipping out of my control? It is—" She broke off, embracing herself. "I despise it."

"I know, pup," said Kismet soothingly. "It is an unkind fate that you suffer now. Yet, do not let it paralyze you or prevent you from moving forward. You may have fear, yet you must not let it rule you. Look at him, pup, and tell me earnestly that you don't know who he is."

For one moment, Luxa remained still. Then she gingerly raised something small, square-shaped. Against the light of the river, Henry couldn't make out what it was, only that the hand holding it trembled. "I . . . I . . ." she stammered. "He is . . ." She inhaled deeply. "Dead. He must be. Must be unattainable."

Kismet flinched. Then she pivoted slowly. "Is he now?"

Henry jumped when Kismet suddenly sat in front of him. Luxa whipped around too, and both of them stared at him as though he really were an apparition.

Then Kismet's gaze grew sympathetic. "You need something?"

"I . . . merely wanted—" Henry raised the water bag.

"Very well, then," said Kismet. "I have done all that I could anyway. Now it is your turn." And just like that, she vanished into the tunnel, robbing Henry of any further opportunity to run because she left him alone with . . . Luxa.

The silence that hung over them felt stifling; all Henry could do was stare at her and both thank and curse Kismet for doing this. They would part ways when they reached Regalia tomorrow. This was . . . his last chance. He inhaled deeply. It was time to stop running now.

Momentarily, he was distracted when Luxa raised the square shape again. Only then did he realize that it was one of Gregor's photos. Had they overlooked it earlier?

"You . . ." Her voice was so uncertain and meek that it almost didn't sound like Luxa. "Are you really . . . here?"

"Can you see me? Can you hear me?" asked Henry. "How could I not be here?"

Luxa frowned, then lowered her hand with the picture. "Are you . . ." She hesitated. "Are you a . . . ghost?"

The question caught Henry off guard at first, but the more he considered it, the clearer it became—to her, that might be exactly what he was. He wasn't the Henry she had once known anymore. Even he had asked himself numerous times what exactly he was in relation to the Henry of Old—the prince yet to fall. Or had he, even then, already fallen too deep?

He might be his reanimated remains or his rebirth. He might be his memory or . . . his ghost. Why actually not?

So Henry gave her a crooked smile. "I am a ghost indeed—come to . . . help you face what is troubling you. So, have no fear of telling me everything. This is what I am here for."

Luxa followed him with her eyes as he sat at the bank of the river, gesturing for her to join him. "Come, let my visit not have been in vain." He attempted to sound upbeat. "You do not get an opportunity like this every day."

After a brief moment of hesitation, Luxa sat beside him. Although her gaze remained on the shimmering water, she was here. "I . . . you came to see me, to hear my troubles?"

"That is what I always do."

Luxa bit down on her lip, yet Henry noticed that she did it in order to suppress a smile. "I . . . cannot seem to let the dead rest in peace."

"The dead? Is there . . . someone specific?" asked Henry, as if he didn't already know the answer.

"He was . . . my cousin," mumbled Luxa. "Once, I loved him like the older brother I never had. We looked out for each other, confided in each other, and exchanged secrets, escapades, and cherished moments. In our youth, he was the one I turned to first with news or thoughts, and he turned to me. Rarely was there an "I"—it was always "we". Because he was always . . . there. Until . . . he was not."

Henry forced himself to unclench his jaw when it began to hurt.

"He . . ." Luxa cut herself off, her head swaying back toward the water. "He betrayed me. He made a deal with King Gorger to capture Gregor in exchange for . . . I never even learned for what exactly. Was it for power? For an alliance? Or possibly to overthrow me?" Before Henry could interject, she continued, "I lay awake many nights, you know? Asking myself . . . why? What had gone so horribly wrong that he would? What . . . had I done wrong? I would ask, but he can no longer tell me. Know you why? Because he is dead," she answered her own question before Henry could reply. "He died with Gorger two years ago. And even so . . ." Luxa took a deep breath and then, for the first time, met his gaze. "He still cannot cease to haunt me. He cannot let me go . . . and neither can I."

They stared at each other for what could have been seconds or hours.

"Know you what his name was?" she whispered.

"I do."

". . . It was Henry."

Although she had only whispered it, his name in her voice resonated in his ears, making the following silence unbearable. "Do you . . . Are you happy that he is dead?" he finally asked, and Luxa flinched.

"W-Why would you say that?" she asked, appalled.

"Because I am."

"Why would you say that?" she urged. "Why would you be happy?"

"Because he deserved it," said Henry frigidly. "For the harm he caused you and others. His foolishness and arrogance led to suffering, and that is unforgivable. You said it yourself, no?" He held her disbelieving stare resolutely. "Nothing is ever forgotten."

Luxa did not reply. She continued to stare with her mouth slightly agape.

Henry turned to the river, gathering strength to voice his sudden idea. "I cannot undo what he did. Yet, I might do something else."

"Like what?"

"Know you how he died without having the chance to . . . say goodbye?" Henry inhaled deeply. "Despite his inexcusable actions, there were many whom he cherished—now he is asking for a chance at closure. May you . . . relay to them in his stead what he could never say?"

When Henry looked up, Luxa was staring at him with the round eyes of a child. One moment of silence passed before she finally whispered, "I . . . may."

Henry held her gaze, scraping together all the courage he possessed. "First, tell Nerissa . . ." He hesitated. Whether she would ever deliver it or not, this was a chance to create a message for his beloved sister . . . and he had not thought this through. "That . . . well, that he is very proud of her, and that she is always in his thoughts. He has confidence in her well-being, he will never forget her, and . . . Tell her that she is one of the strongest individuals he has ever known and that she shouldn't let anyone's premature judgments affect her."

Before his inner eye, he vividly pictured Nerissa's narrow face and her large, anxious eyes, and it struck him that he would likely never see her again. He blinked to clear the tear that had formed in his eye.

"I may tell her," whispered Luxa, without averting her eyes from him.

"He would be grateful." Henry miserably attempted to smile, yet his mind was already on his next message. "For Mareth," he began, "tell him . . . Tell him that serpents are assholes . . . and that losing a leg makes him not an ounce less capable." He managed a laugh. "Tell him that he will come out on top and that he still has the capability to cut all of you down to size, even without his leg."

Luxa nodded, and this time, it was she who let out a weak laugh. Only then did Henry realize that she was eagerly awaiting more. He made a face, trying to think of more people to leave a message for; he already knew that he'd delude himself that she would actually deliver them until someone proved him wrong.

"Tell Vikus . . ." Henry clenched his fist around a pebble, feeling the old shame when he recalled how he and Vikus had parted ways in the Dead Land. "Tell him that he regrets the way in which they parted. That he would have forgiven him, were there anything to forgive, for leaving us . . . them with Ripred. Tell him . . . Perhaps only tell him, "Fly you high"."

"I . . . may tell him."

When he looked back at Luxa, a tear glistened in her eye. He looked away, reaching deep into his usually inexhaustible pool of strength and bravery, now perilously finite, to find the words for the final goodbye weighing on his chest—the only one he knew for certain would be heard.

"Tell . . . Luxa," whispered Henry, "he knows this may sound foolish, but he never meant to . . . hurt her. It was . . . He wanted . . ." Henry swallowed hard, staring at the ground. "Tell her that she is always on his mind, that she will make her people proud as queen, and to share stories with her and Gregor's future children about their uncle Henry, so they may remember him as more than a traitor, so they may also remember the good things. If that's not too much to ask."

He dared a glimpse at her, just in time to watch the tear roll down her cheek.

"Tell her that he loved her. And that he still loves her. Always."

When he forced himself to look at her properly, she had wrapped her arms around herself, trembling miserably. She could only hold his gaze for a moment before she looked away. "May you . . . relay something back to him?" she whispered.

"Anything."

Luxa unclenched her hands and wiped her face, still without looking up. "May you tell him, tell Henry . . . that Luxa—that I—also still love him?"

The words struck him like a shock of cold water, resonating in his ears and causing his still-aching chest to hurt more. "You . . . what?"

"I . . . you . . ." Luxa looked up at him again, and for the first time in what had now been two years, Henry thought she was actually looking at . . . him. Not the Death Rider, not whoever she had seen during her period of denial, but at Henry.

"You . . . came back to me," she stammered, and her eyes darted around as if she didn't know where to look before she rose to her feet, staggering back. "You came . . . back!"

Henry rose too, taking a step in her direction. "As I had to. You know I did."

She stared silently, then took a first, uncertain step toward him. Toward . . . Henry. "Are . . . are you . . . real?"

He couldn't recall the last time Luxa had sounded so much like a child. She didn't look like a child anymore. She had grown so much over the last two years, and her almost emaciated face, unkempt hair, and the dark purple bags under her eyes indicated that she carried the burdens of an adult too. Yet now at him stared the same little girl he had known . . . and abandoned two years ago.

Henry had already opened his mouth to assure her that he was when she took one step back. "You . . . are not."

With his mouth open, Henry froze.

"You said it yourself," she said desperately, like she was moments from bursting into tears. "That you are a ghost. So, at last, cease haunting me!" she yelled, whipping around and rushing out of the cave toward the camp, leaving Henry by the river . . . alone.