Their options were gone.

“Why do you stand so far from me, my lovelies?” crooned Ruslan.

The patriarch of the Fallen House stood at the very base of the ziggurat. Séverin and Enrique stood on either side, daggers pointed to their hearts. A corner of the divine lyre poked out from the front of Séverin’s jacket.

“Come, come!” said Ruslan, clapping his shining hands.

Zofia recognized the gesture as a common one used for dogs. Her lip curled.

“It will be okay, Phoenix,” whispered Laila.

Zofia tried to turn her head to Laila, but the dagger point at the base of her neck stopped her. Even so, she could feel Laila standing beside her. Hypnos was on her left. Behind her, Zofia knew the four dead Fallen House members stood close by because a fly buzzed around her nose. Twice, Zofia heard the wet plop of maggots falling to the glass floor. She bit back a gag, forcing her gaze straight ahead.

Ruslan growled. “Now.”

A Fallen House member shoved her, and Zofia stumbled forward on the glass floor. By now, the colors on the glass floor had brightened from morning to noon.

Ruslan had forced Enrique to take the first step onto the glass. Zofia had nervously looked to the silvery fog and the giant automatons, but nothing moved. It was as Séverin had said: The temple would not grant them access until the right time, and now that time had come.

The closer Zofia got to the ziggurat, the more she saw that a golden aura hung about the temple. High above, the forested ceiling now bloomed with white flowers that Zofia did not recognize. A fragrance wafted down. Though there were no candles, it smelled of the Havdalah spices passed around on Shabbat.

“Look at the flowers, Phoenix. They’re almost like newborn stars, don’t you think?” asked Laila softly.

Zofia could not read her friend’s expression, but she was familiar with this pattern. Hela used to do something similar—drawing her out of the tangle of her thoughts with an illogical statement she would be forced to refute. It was done, Zofia understood, to comfort her. But Zofia did not want comfort. She wanted a plan not just for herself, but for all of them. What would happen to them? All those unknowns cropped up like shadows in her path. The uncomfortable brightness of the temple sanctum made no difference.

“Time to witness my glorious apotheosis!” said Ruslan. “Shall we?”

Zofia looked up, catching Enrique’s gaze. His mouth was a flat line.

“Oh, do tell me,” said Ruslan, pleading. “I love knowing all the useless historical bits and bobs of things—”

The dagger pointed at Enrique’s heart dug in a little, and he gasped. “Let us go.”

“That’s it? No spouting of information?” asked Ruslan. The brightness of the temple reflected off his golden face. “Perhaps I should loosen your tongue—”

“No!” cried out Enrique. “Did you … did you know the word ‘ziggurat’ comes from the Akkadian tongue? Zaqaru, I believe … ‘to build high.’ As for sacrifice, I’m not certain whether—”

Ruslan burst into laughter. “I should reward you for amusing me! Should I kill you now so you don’t have to watch everyone die? Oh, but I so dearly wanted to sacrifice Laila first—”

“No,” said Zofia.

The word ripped out of her so fast that it took a moment for her to realize that she was the one who had spoken.

Ruslan’s golden face turned to her. Zofia could feel Laila stiffen beside her. Zofia expected the dagger to dig a little deeper on her neck, but instead, Ruslan just flicked his wrist.

Zofia knew that gesture. Classmates and professors and people in the city used to do that around her all the time.

It meant one thing: Zofia was not worth notice.

“The mute speaks!” Ruslan’s gold mouth curved, and he turned sharply. “As if you have any power to change things.”

Heat flared on Zofia’s face. Ruslan was wrong, and yet … all her inventions lay on the other side of the lake. Zofia had little on her person except for her necklace, three matches, and her Forged sleeve. None of it would help Laila. None of it would make a difference.

Beside Ruslan, Enrique’s eyes had narrowed. Séverin had set his jaw and right behind her, Hypnos was breathing hard.

“Come, Monsieur Montagnet-Alarie,” said Ruslan, snapping his fingers. “It is time to give me that which I am owed.”

Ruslan stepped onto the shining ziggurat. Zofia watched as Séverin took a deep breath. He looked up, at the giant automatons, and then at Hypnos and her … before his eyes rested on Laila. Finally, he stepped onto the temple. Enrique followed.

“Phoenix—” Laila whispered under her breath.

But Zofia did not hear what she said. The guard shoved her forward.

“No dallying!” called Ruslan, climbing the steps. He looked over his shoulder, grinning and waving his knife. “For every hesitation, I’ll take a finger!”

Zofia stepped onto the temple. Focus, she told herself. One step at a time.

That was all she could do now.

Up close, the steps were even larger than she had imagined. They stretched at least fifteen meters wide on either side, and required a good four paces forward before she reached the ledge to climb the next step. She made her way slowly, her heartbeat loud in her ears as she tuned out the world around her.

Zofia had just counted her twentieth step when the air around them rippled. The warm glow off the mud-baked bricks disappeared. Cold invaded the space around her. A high-pitched hum echoed in her ears.

Zofia shook her head, as if she could manage to dislodge the sound. The dagger at her back nicked her skin and she winced. When she looked down, she froze.

“What is that?” asked Ruslan, whirling around.

Black liquid beaded on the stone steps. Zofia looked up, managing to turn her head and finally catch sight of Laila standing beside her before the world exploded into thick, choking shadows.

Zofia stumbled back, losing her footing. The frenzied humming had built into a screaming wind in her ears. Something sharp slashed against her thigh. Dimly, Zofia thought she heard Ruslan’s dagger clattering to the stone. Zofia clawed to reach a step, but only air and shadows met her hands.

Zofia squeezed her eyes shut.

One. Two. Three.

She opened them, but the dark hadn’t faded.

Four. Five. Six.

Zofia turned her head, but the shadows had become thick and impenetrable. She might as well have been all alone. Inky shadows swirled around her.

Zofia fought back a sob, forcing her mind to ordered, neat things like numbers. She raced through multiples of seventeen as she fumbled in the dark, stretching her hands out before her—

Seventeen, thirty-four, fifty-one …

She tried to take a step forward, tripped, and banged her knees against something hard and rough. A sob caught in her throat. Her hands shook as she felt her way around, only for something wet and sticky to hit her fingers. Zofia clutched her fingers to her chest, curling around herself and counting her breaths the way her parents had taught her to do when she was young and terrified.

But it wasn’t working.

She couldn’t scream or sob. She couldn’t see a way out, and soon the darkness became more than something staring at her from the outside. She could feel it inside her too.