“Just stay with me, Corayne; I’ll handle the rest,” Sorasa said, urging the mare into the palm trees.

Even flooded, Nezri looked charming, albeit deserted. The oasis was built around what had once been a placid, shining pool, the palm trees shading inviting streets. A domed and spired temple, small but intricately patterned in green paint and white mosaic, glimmered between the trees. Its prayer bell hung silent. There was a market plaza too, its stones flooded, the arches of adjoining bazaar choked with debris. Beautifully woven carpets lay forgotten, ruined in the water. As in Almasad, a causeway rose up and around the original banks of the oasis, standing on elaborate limestone columns, their crowns carved in the likeness of regal animals. It was smaller than the stone paths in the city, and abandoned.

The sun shone too brightly for so strange a day, jarring against the gray water and the tidal wave of sea serpents twisting over the sandy waterbed.

Corayne turned, searching for the others, but searching above all else for the Spindle. I don’t even know what I’m looking for, she cursed. Where it could be, what it looks like. Nothing.

Sorasa maneuvered between the buildings, splashing down a narrow street to leave the serpents behind. Doors hung off their hinges, and windows dangled open, the apartments and shops long abandoned by their owners.

A man leaned out of one, his armor good steel, his sword flashing, his tunic a hideous, hateful green. Only Sorasa’s lightning reflexes kept their heads attached to their bodies, and she yanked the mare’s reins so forcefully the horse toppled, screaming as she went.

They fell, Corayne plunging into the water. She sputtered and fought to stand, her cloak too heavy. Sorasa growled somewhere, and Corayne whirled to find the Gallish soldier on top of the assassin, his longsword pointing at her throat.

Corayne did not know she could move so quickly or with such force until her dagger pulled back, red in her hand, coated to the hilt in fresh blood.

She froze, rattled, forgetting how to breathe, forgetting how to think, as the soldier fell to his knees, clutching his side. He looked at her, gasping for one last breath, spraying blood into the air.

His face was young, unlined. He isn’t much older than me.

I’m sorry, Corayne tried to say, but the words never came.

“Run!”

The assassin hauled them both, crashing through the water, toward the center of the oasis. Corayne couldn’t stop herself from looking back. A serpent, its scales an oily scarlet, swallowed the soldier whole, his eyes still open, staring without seeing.

“Domacridhan!” Sorasa’s voice echoed, a roar, a scream, a desperate plea.

They fought through the flood, up to their waists in gray, their cloaks floating behind them. Sorasa hunted, sword raised, watching the water for any ripple of movement not their own.

“Domacridhan of Iona, I know you can hear me!” she yelled again, begging.

Corayne slammed back against the wall of a stone house, panting hard. The dagger was still in her hand, her grip on it painful. The blood on the blade throbbed, brighter and brighter. Her breath came too quickly, and then not at all, her throat threatening to close as her vision spotted. The world spun.

“Defend the Spindle. Defend the Queen!” someone shouted, his voice met with the confident roar of a dozen voices.

The roof above them bristled with Gallish troops, their spears long and wicked. The sun burned behind their heads, turning the soldiers into silhouettes, figures with no faces and no names. Inhuman. Soldiers of What Waits, not warriors for a mortal queen. Corayne lunged and darted, trying not to lose her balance as their spears rained down. Her dagger dropped from her hand, lost to the waters.

Something splashed behind her, crashing along the flooded street—a serpent or a soldier, she did not know. All she could do was run, Sorasa at her shoulder, fleeing in whatever direction they could.

Until strong arms scooped her around the waist, lifting her up and out of the water as if she were only a doll. Corayne balled her fists, aiming to swing, only to find herself slung belly down over Sigil’s saddle, the Temur woman towering over her.

“Easy, I have you,” the bounty hunter said, using her hips to guide the horse.

The mare ran as best she could, galloping for the causeway steps, climbing up and out of the water. Her hooves clattered on stone, and Corayne’s teeth rattled so hard she though they might fall out. The causeway was meant for foot traffic and not a charging horse, but Sigil kept the mare in hand, taking sharp turns in swift stride.

The geyser of Meer roared up alongside them, spitting gray water like rain. Corayne gaped as they galloped, Sigil holding her steady. In the heart of the geyser, something thrashed.

More serpents, she thought at first. Until one of the things coiled into view, the mist parting to show a fat, long tentacle, its underbelly patterned with suckers, the end flat and probing. Another unfurled out of the water, gigantic, the length of a cathedral spire. They waved in unison, a sick, pale purple, snapping through the air, obliterating palm trees with every swipe. It pushed forward, outward, easing from its realm into their own.

Still she could not see the Spindle, but even so, she knew.

“I need the sword,” Corayne murmured, unable to blink, unable to do anything but stare. All thoughts but the Spindle­blade melted away.

This was what Mother’s ship met on the Long Sea. This nearly sank the Tempestborn and killed her crew. Killed my mother. A monster was being born before her eyes. How many ships will it sink? How many mothers will it steal?

These things are going to cut the Ward in two.

“I need the sword, Sigil!” she shouted, wriggling, her voice stronger.

“What does it look like I’m doing?” Sigil growled, spurring the horse over the walkway, her hooves a rain of hailstones.

What drew the kraken, Corayne did not know. But the arms twitched, changing direction, as more of its lumbering bulk shifted from the geyser, tentacles wriggling free. The first arm crashed down, then the second, the weight of them cracking straight through the stone walkway.

“Sigil!” Corayne shouted as the woman kicked the horse, snapped the reins, and gave a sharp “hyah!” in perfect unison.

As the walkway crumbled under the mare’s hooves, she gave a mighty leap, sailing through the air while the structure collapsed, sending up a spray of water. They landed hard, sliding over the flat roof of the nearest house, cluttered with empty pots and a thatched canopy.