Zofia blinked and felt Hela’s last letter slipping from her fingers and vanishing into the murky lagoons of Venice. She remembered her classmates locking her in the classroom, the shrieks that she was nothing more than a crazy Jew, the fear that there were too many unknowns in the world and she would never find her way in the dark.

Seconds or full minutes passed before Zofia realized that her thought was not accurate.

She had found her way out of the unknown before. She had found ideas and solutions when there were none. She had saved her friends in the past, and hardly a week ago, she had freed herself from a prison of ice.

All those things had been dark at one point, but she had found her way … on her own.

Zofia opened her mouth. “Hello?”

Again, her voice was snatched, churned to black.

Language dissolved into ink, and Zofia’s tongue tasted as if she’d licked the end of a burnt match.

Match.

Shaking, Zofia felt around for her box of matches, working only by touch. The pad of her finger grazed the sulfur-roughened strip of the box. The wood felt damp from her sweaty fingers. She could not see, and when she went to strike the match, it snapped apart in her hand.

Panic flared in her chest, but she shoved it down and reached for another match.

This time, she clutched the box in one hand, and struck it, but again, the stick broke.

The third match was her last, and Zofia’s hand trembled as she raised it. Her mother’s voice curled around her thoughts.

Be a light in this world, Zosia, for it can be very dark.

Something inside Zofia steadied. If she let the unknown darkness win, then she would lose all sight of what could change …

Zofia held her breath. She pictured her parents’ warmth, Hela and Laila’s loving smiles. Ruslan was wrong. She was not a mute, little fool who could change nothing. Her friends called her Phoenix for a reason. Her mother had told her to be a light.

Zofia would not fail them.

She struck the match. The light was small, but it was enough. She was enough. Zofia brought the fire to the Forged silk sleeve of her dress, and it roared up in flames. Heat warmed her skin as she turned, casting the light around her.

With every swipe, she cleared a path in the shadows. Zofia swung her arm left and right, her lungs straining from the effort to shove all the dark away—

A hand shot out of the dark, grabbing hers. “Phoenix!”

Enrique.

He looked disheveled and wild-eyed at first, but then a wide smile split his face. He raised his arm, ripping off the Forged silver cloth that had once been part of the costume she had made him. The moment it touched her torch, it ignited and together, they cut through the dark.

Enrique and Zofia’s flames left bright trails, burning the blackness into translucence. Slowly, the screams faded into silence. As her eyes adjusted to the light, Zofia now saw that she had only fallen two steps down from where she once stood.

Hypnos was on the step behind her, curled into a ball. Six meters away on the same step, Séverin and Laila huddled against the stone.

“Zofia!” called Laila, springing apart from Séverin.

Shakily, Séverin rose to his feet. He smiled. “Thanks for sharing the light, Phoenix.”

The knot in Zofia’s chest eased. Seconds later, the air whistled once more with the sound of a blade cutting through it. The golden dagger that had clattered to the stone found its way to her throat once more. She swallowed hard, holding herself still, her chin angled up and away from its sharp point.

“It appears the temple has yet to trust us,” said Ruslan loudly.

Zofia glanced up to see him standing five steps ahead.

“Monsieur Montagnet-Alarie, Monsieur Mercado-Lopez,” said Ruslan. “Join me if you please. I want you by my side in case there are any more surprises.”

When he snapped his fingers, the four rotting guards lurched down. One went to Hypnos. The other caught hold of Zofia’s arm, pulling her toward the next step. Two surrounded Laila. As Zofia took another step forward, Ruslan snorted.

“I suppose the little mute is good for something after all,” he said.

Zofia said nothing. She would not waste words on someone like Ruslan. Besides, she was busy. She was studying the stone joints of the towering automatons, the pattern of light on the ziggurat steps.

For the first time since Ruslan had appeared, Zofia did not need to count the objects around her to quiet her mind’s panic. The unknowns had not disappeared, but their size had diminished. Or perhaps, her perspective had outgrown it. The unknown would come and go, but Zofia could always be a light. She had found her way out of the dark once.

And she could do it again.

33

SÉVERIN

Séverin was beginning to lose all sense of time.

His legs ached, and sweat poured down his back. He’d shrugged off his jacket long ago, but it made no difference. He could not remember the last time he’d sipped water, and when he licked his lips, he tasted the blood and cracked skin of his mouth. By his count, they should be midway up the ziggurat by now, and yet, when he turned to his left, he saw that he was still no farther than the place where the automatons’ hands rested against their stone thighs.

Wrong, whispered a tired corner of his mind, but even that voice of caution felt thready and wispy. Something is wrong.

Séverin snuck a glance to his left where Enrique trudged upward, step after step. Sweat and blood had soaked through his bandages. His jacket was now tied around his waist. He didn’t raise his head, but Séverin could see his lips moving silently.

As if he were uttering prayers with every step.

Séverin wished he could turn around and look at Hypnos, Laila, and Zofia … but the golden knife pointed at his chest kept his gaze fixed on the steps ahead.

One more step, he told himself. One more step and we will reach the top, and I will play the lyre and become a god.

Ruslan’s wishes made no difference.

He could command Séverin to play the lyre, but its power was not for him. Séverin closed his eyes, summoning the memory of his mother’s voice.

In your hands lie the gates of godhood … let none pass.

He had no intention of disobeying her.

Ruslan’s only power was in his threats against the others, and the moment they reached the top, that threat would cease to exist. Séverin would play the lyre. He would claim that godhood for himself and be rid of Ruslan once and for all.

Séverin wished he could tell the others not to worry, but it would have to wait.

Forged rope bound his wrists, and yet he could still feel the hard strings of the divine lyre chafing against his shirt. Through the fabric, he felt the dull pulse of the instrument. With every step, a hum built steadily at the base of his skull.

All he had to do was keep moving, and yet with every step, the top of the ziggurat seemed farther and farther away. The beauty of the sanctum now struck him as a taunt ripped from a Greek myth. Above, the thick, tangle of inviting gardens. Around him, the phantom perfume of lost flowers haunting the air. All of it just out of grasping reach.

No, he told himself. This is yours …

That was the point of everything, was it not? All that he had lost was in service to this one glorious gain. He was meant for this. It was the only explanation that made sense.