She reaches for Killian. He steps back, leaving her alone with her agony. Then she’s gone, no hint of her anywhere.

“Where did she go?” I demand, only to fight a torrent of shame. Her absence is a gift, the temptation to harm her gone. I should let her go, not chase after her.

“Where else? Myriad.” Deacon shackles my biceps in a firm grip and tugs me in the opposite direction. “You need to head to Troika. You’re vulnerable here.”

The war still rages, soldiers cutting each other down with fiery swords, shooting each other with laser guns. Shells are disintegrating left and right, the sight devastating.

“I’m staying,” I croak. Running away is cowardly. I am the cause of the battle. I will ensure it ends.

“What do you think you can do, Ten?” Deacon’s grip tightens. “You’re riding an emotional roller coaster right now.”

“How do you—”

“I’ve been where you are. I know the Grid is exposing aspects of yourself you may not like. I also know you cannot help anyone but yourself right now. No speech, no matter how inspired, is going to penetrate the bloodlust currently plaguing these soldiers.” He wrenches me to the side, startling and tripping me.

An arrow soars past me as I flail.

“See!” he shouts. “You’re in danger.”

“Go, Ten. Now!” Killian spins and swings the spear, stabbing a Troikan in the process of sneaking up behind him. “If you’re killed, everything we’ve done to help you will be in vain.”

I should be thrilled he’s avoided injury, but his actions only feed the fury Sloan unearthed. I step toward him, intending to...what? I don’t want to hurt him, but I can’t allow him to kill another Troikan, either. These people...they’re my brothers and sisters now.

Whoa. Such affinity for individuals I’ve never met?

Deacon tightens his hold. “I can’t escort you to Troika without your permission. Say yes.”

Free will matters, even in a war zone?

I struggle with duty and desire as more and more Troikans gather around Killian, attacking him en masse. He’s strong and skilled, but is he skilled enough to survive this?

Fear for him—for everyone he’s fighting—leaves me ice-cold.

A group of his comrades rush over to aid him, and I’m as relieved as I am ashamed. The group could harm my people.

More arrows zoom in my direction. Deacon uses a sword to deflect them, saving me from injury. Or worse.

Zero! If I throw myself into the fray, I can help Troika or I can help Killian, but not both.

No need to ponder. I have to help Killian. I recently lost my mom and brother. Earlier today I watched as my dad was gunned down. I lost Archer. I can’t lose Killian, too.

Already lost him...

No. Absolutely not! And yet, hot tears blur my vision and streak down my cheeks. The Grid, whatever it is, has turned me into an emotional wreck.

Forget emotion. I need to act. Now or never.

Now! With a roar, I plow into the chaos. Grunts and groans. Limbs fly, some with purpose, a target in sight, others because they’ve been severed. The scent of blood saturates the air and zings with tension. Determined, I swipe up a sword.

The weapon is ten times heavier than I expected, and my arm shakes as I assume a battle stance.

“Stop,” I shout. “Troikans love, forgive. Let’s walk away and save lives. No one else has to die today.”

I’m ignored. Deacon was right. A speech will never penetrate this blood-haze.

One of the Troikans notches an arrow and aims at Killian. I scream, diving at him, intending to shield him. As weak as I am, I fail to go the distance and hit the ground, useless. Killian doesn’t need my help, anyway. Lightning fast, he uses the spear to block. The arrow pings, falls.

No time for relief. Other soldiers rush at him, trampling me in the process. Combat boots—

Miss me? Yes! I’m in spirit form while the soldiers are in Shells. We’re intangible to each other.

Reeling, I climb to my feet. At warp speed, two other arrows hurl at Killian; he’s fast enough to block both.

Behind him, a Troikan is coming in hot, a Stag aimed.

For a Shell, a Stag is the worst of the worst. A single dart traps a spirit inside its Shell, preventing any sort of mobility and rendering both defenseless.

I have no idea what a Stag will do to a spirit without a Shell, and I don’t care. I put more pep in my step and jump. This go-round, my timing and efforts pay off. The dart flies through me and slows, giving Killian a chance to duck.

Agony sears me, and I scream. Seizing, I drop. Bolts of lightning set all of my organs ablaze.

The girl who pulled the trigger stares at me in horror. She just shot one of her own, and I just saved the enemy.

Her distraction puts her at a disadvantage, allowing a Myriadian to race in and swing a sword. Target: her head.

“Nooo!” Another Troikan shoves her out of the way. The sword slices through his shoulder, removing the arm of his Shell. Lifeblood spurts from the wound.

My horror mirrors the girl’s. Shells and spirits are connected. Is the boy’s spirit now missing an arm?

Above me, Killian whirls his spear, preventing several arrows from finding a new home in my chest. He kicks backward, nailing the Troikan sneaking up behind him.

“I told you to go, Ten.”

I...can’t. I can’t leave him. Part of me fears I’ll never see him again...and what you fear, you welcome into your life. I know it as surely as I know my name.