Leave.

At first glance, Poveglia didn’t strike Séverin as a place for ghosts. There was dirt on the ground, not soft ash. The gossipy caw of ravens rasped through walled-up grottoes, and above the line of trees, the old bell tower kept a watchful eye on the island.

But that was only at first glance.

The longer Séverin stared at the island, the more he felt it: a worn-out numbness. The kind of cold vacuum that fills the body when it has been emptied of all its tears and prayers and pleading.

The hairs on the back of his neck lifted.

He scanned the island, listening closely.

In his pack, he felt the torches and supplies they’d gathered along with the jagged point of the gilded box that held the bottle of the mind Forged map to Poveglia. Its contents were gone, distributed amongst the five of them, already tugging their consciousness down an overgrown path of weeds to where the scaffolding skeleton of a former quarantine station beckoned. And yet, no one moved.

Everyone turned to Laila, a silent understanding moving through them. For all that Séverin may have boasted about his dreams for all of them, when he tried to picture what would happen when he finally played the divine lyre in the temple shrine, it wasn’t his face he saw transfixed by celestial light.

It was hers.

Her smile, unburdened by the weight of death … her laughter turned reckless, knowing this was merely the first in an infinite string of joys. Séverin wanted to see that so badly, he would’ve rushed down the path this instant, but he would not step ahead of her.

This was her journey too.

And though Séverin knew power sang through his veins, he also knew that it was only for her sake that the others had even entertained giving him another chance … and so he waited. Beside him, Enrique bowed his head, as if praying. Zofia stood with her hands clasped, and even Hypnos’s usually irreverent grin had been smoothed into a thoughtful expression.

Séverin watched as Laila looked up at the sky. She turned her palms up and closed her eyes. Slowly, she bent and touched the ground, then touched her forehead.

On occasion, Séverin had seen her practice bharatnatyam in L’Eden. She liked practicing in the early mornings best, and often used the spare suites that adjoined his office. Sometimes, he’d stop working just to listen to the chime of her anklets. Whenever he caught her before she began, he noticed that she brushed her fingers against the floor and pressed her hands together in prayer.

Once, Séverin had leaned against the doorframe, watching her. “Why do you do that?” He vaguely imitated her motions, and Laila raised an eyebrow.

“You mean Namaskaram,” she said. “We do this as an offer of prayer, and to ask the permission of the goddess of the earth to dance on her.”

He’d frowned. “It’s only dancing. It’s beautiful, but surely not so dangerous that a goddess needs to give her permission.”

Séverin would never forget how she smiled at him. Serene and somehow terrifying too. He remembered how the sunlight through the stained glass backlit her silhouette and turned her loveliness inhuman.

“Do you know how the world ends?” she asked softly.

“Fire and brimstone, I imagine?”

“No,” she said, smiling. “It ends in terrible beauty. Our Lord of Destruction is also called Nataraja, the Lord of Dance. In his movements, the universe will dissolve and start anew. So yes, we must request permission for beautiful things, for they have hidden hearts of danger.”

Slowly, Laila walked toward him. Her anklets chimed softly. Her hair, long and unbound, curled around her waist.

“Can’t you feel that danger, Séverin?”

He had.

But it was not destruction of the world he’d feared when Laila turned sharply from him and began to practice.

Watching her now, Séverin wondered at her movements. Was she requesting the earth’s permission for beauty … or its forgiveness for destruction? He didn’t know how to ask her.

When Laila was finished, he turned to the others.

“We know the landscape has changed considerably, so we must pay special attention to any ruins,” he said. “We may need to explore more shadows than not.”

Zofia raised her hand. “I can light the way.”

“I’ll go with her,” said Enrique.

“She has all the explosives, yes?” said Hypnos. “I’m going with her too.”

Séverin rolled his eyes. “Then I’ll guard the back. The siren bust should be no more than a half kilometer away according to our map.”

He thought Laila would walk to the front, but she didn’t. She remained a couple of paces ahead of him, just out of reach. Every now and then, she’d pause and stare around at the dull greenery. She must have been feeling restless. Worried. He wished he could comfort her, but what if everything he said came across as an unwanted demand of her time? She would think him insensitive or worse, unchanged and selfish.

As he moved, he felt the edges of the glass Forged fire lily in his front pocket. He should never have gotten it. How would he give it to her anyway? Here, take this extremely fragile thing and please do not perceive it as a metaphor for our relations.

He should smash it on the ground.

He was turning the idea over in his head when Laila suddenly spoke. “I wish it were spring,” she said.

Séverin’s head snapped up. Cautiously, he took a few strides faster until he fell into step beside her.

“Why?” he asked.

“For wildflowers,” said Laila, laughing a little. “I should’ve looked more closely at them last spring.”

She wanted flowers. How strange that of all the things he couldn’t give her, he could at least do that. Slowly, he reached into his jacket, pulling out the lily. He held it out to her.

Laila stopped in her tracks, staring between him and the glass flower in his hand.

“I picked it up earlier. In the markets. I thought—well, hoped really—that you would like it.”

Laila raised an eyebrow. Slowly, she took the lily. She twirled it between her fingers. The sunshine flowed through the crystal, painting the ground scarlet and orange.

“Do you like it?” he asked, before quickly adding: “It is perfectly acceptable if you don’t, of course. I merely thought it was … nice. I suppose. And a far better alternative than—”

He stopped himself right before he referenced Hypnos’s Naked Man Method. A look of disbelief crossed over Laila’s face.

“Séverin. Are you … nervous?”

“I—” He paused, gathering himself. “What answer would please you best?”

Laila didn’t respond. But for a moment she looked—or perhaps he was deluding himself—as if she were on the verge of laughter. With a small smile, she tucked the flower into her sleeve and kept moving forward.

* * *

THE MIND FORGED map led them to the outskirts of an abandoned quarantine station. Some distance away stood the ruins of a church. Behind it, a lonely belfry tower with bricks the color of old blood loomed against the winter clouds. The air tasted of salt and rust.

On the ground, Séverin saw nothing but piles of bricks, rags trampled into the ground, and the eerie remains of hastily thrown down shovels. He did not wish to think how many souls were buried beneath the ground he stood on.