“Stop—” Séverin croaked.

Around them, the stones began to shake and quiver.

“It won’t work—” Séverin tried to say, but the words lodged in his throat.

Surely, it wouldn’t work.

Surely, it was something fundamentally about him and his will that made the lyre powerful.

Ruslan swiped his bloodied hand across the strings, and Séverin could do nothing but watch as one of those straight and shining strings bent beneath his stained, golden flesh.

At first, relief rushed through him.

Ruslan could not play the lyre … not even with his blood.

But the presence of Séverin’s blood on the strings had done something.

A low humming filled his ears. It bloomed outwards like a ribbon of ink in a glass of water. The air shimmered.

Overhead, the trees trembled, and tiny leaves rained onto the golden steps. The golden daggers dropped to the ground. Beside him, the dead Fallen House soldiers exhaled and crumpled.

“Laila!” cried Zofia.

No, thought Séverin. He threw his head back, desperate to see her. He caught a glimpse of Laila slumping forward, her head thudding on the stones.

“It’s working,” said Ruslan feverishly. “I knew it.”

Séverin threw off Ruslan’s boot, scrambling to his knees only for Ruslan to catch hold of him again.

Séverin knew he had screamed, but he could not hear it through the rushing sound of blood in his ears. The fragrance of orange perfume was gone, replaced with the smell of tears. His whole world reduced to the sight before him.

Laila sprawled on the ground, stirring weakly. Blood ran from her nose and ears, pooling on the stone steps. Hypnos cradled her head. Enrique looked at Séverin with a bleak stare.

No. This is not what I was promised.

The lyre had not worked how he imagined, but it was still his. Still his power. He saw Zofia fall to her knees, grabbing at her necklace in disbelief.

Her Tezcat pendant shone.

“Wait,” he heard himself saying. “There must be a portal on the staircase! I can play the lyre, I can fix this—”

A cold shadow fell across him. Ruslan released him with a shove, laughing hysterically. Sound rushed in, and Séverin heard the creaking sound of rocks displaced.

A metallic scream ripped through the air as the stone automatons twisted their necks. The dull, metallic spheres of their eyes glowed brightly. A voice in a language he did not speak, but nonetheless knew roared at them.

This is not the hand we answer to—thieves. THIEVES.

The automatons swung up their arms, their rocky fists uprooting a copse of trees—

Séverin lunged forward, grabbing the lyre from Ruslan, careful not to disturb the strings. Even so, the rush of air against the shining instrument sent a high-pitched quiver through the sanctum. The thunderous crackle of ancient branches collided with the metal as dirt and debris rained down from the sky.

“Grab Laila!” shouted Séverin. “There’s a Tezcat up ahead! It will take us to the top of the temple, I know it! We just have to keep going!”

Hypnos scooped Laila up in his arms. Zofia and Enrique staggered forward. Séverin had only managed one step forward when the stairs began to crumble into the floor and a great tremor rocked the ziggurat.

Behind them, he could hear Ruslan’s shouts for help, but Séverin’s gaze was on the step ahead of them, and the next step after that. The trees broke overhead.

Enrique shoved him forward just as a branch the length of his body smashed onto the steps. The smell of bruised fruit filled the air. They were all too weak to move up the side of the temple; Séverin was forced to crawl on his hands and knees.

Is this not how one meets God, he wondered, almost laughing at the thought. I must not walk … but crawl.

On his right side, one of the automatons smashed its fist into the rock of the ziggurat. Stones crumbled away mere centimeters from Séverin’s face. The world smelled like blood and oranges, and when he looked down at his hands, he saw they were stained red.

“Séverin!”

He looked up blearily to see Zofia with tears streaming down her face. Laila’s head lolled against Hypnos’s chest. He tried to raise one leg, but his body shook.

“I … I can’t—” he said.

Séverin tapped into the last reserves of his strength, gathering Laila from Hypnos and pulling her against him. Even now … even with the world breaking around them … she still smelled of sugar and rose water. He hoisted her over his shoulder, one hand braced along her back.

In the back of his head, Séverin heard his mother’s voice:

Come along, habibi, don’t you want to see the end of the story?

Séverin crawled, forcing one hand in front of the other, his body dragging over the rough-hewn steps. Enrique cried out, sliding down the side of the temple. With one hand, Séverin grabbed Enrique by the wrist, hauling him up even as his shoulder screamed and something hot and wet flooded down his chest.

“I’ve got you,” said Séverin.

I protect you, he thought.

Hypnos appeared on his other side, gripping Enrique’s hand. Together they dragged him, and themselves, forward.

“The portal—” said Enrique. “Where is it? Those things will kill us—”

“It’s glowing brighter; it’s closer,” said Zofia.

Séverin looked up. There, at least twenty paces away, the air above the top-most step looked wrinkled with light. Both automaton fists slammed down close to her. Zofia fell to her side. Now the automatons moved closer, raising their other hands. Séverin looked behind him. Blood covered the stone steps. Ruslan was nowhere to be seen.

Séverin gazed up at the automatons’ shining arms, their heads bending toward them.

Zofia raised her bloodied face, her blue eyes wild as she looked to Séverin. “They’re going to destroy the portal.”

Séverin froze. For a brief moment, he imagined what would happen. He understood why the people who had built the temple had hidden its true heart. If the portal was destroyed, then the lyre would never be played. There was only one last option to stop the automatons …

And it lay in his hands.

He knew the truth of it in a way he could not explain.

The moment he played the lyre, all Forged things would break around him. The automatons would go silent.

And Laila would die.

Against him, Laila stirred. He lowered her to the ground, heedless of the trees crashing into the stone steps, the strange vapors surrounding the temple rolling in like a deadly fog, the slowly lowering arms of the automatons overhead. She looked up at him, a defiant shine creeping into her swan-black eyes. She licked her inky, blood-black lips, and smiled.

“You know what you have to do,” she said.

“Laila, please don’t make me do this—”

“Majnun,” she said.

How many times had he wanted to hear her call him that once more? But not like this.

Laila reached for his hand. Her skin was far too cold. He looked down. The garnet ring was gone, lost in the debris of crashing rocks. Another tremor jolted through the steps. Laila’s other hand went to his cheek, and his eyes fluttered shut.

“I am not done with this world yet,” said Laila.