Enrique squeezed Laila’s shoulder, then walked ahead of them. Laila swiped at the last of her tears and lifted her chin. She was nearly through the door when the light touch of Zofia’s hand made her turn.

“Thank you,” she said.

“For what?” asked Laila.

Zofia hesitated. “For the truth.”

“I should be thanking you,” said Laila. “Secrets are heavy burdens.”

Zofia’s expression shuttered. “I know all about burdens.”

* * *

ON THE OTHER SIDE of the door and in an alleyway of Moscow, a troika stood waiting to take them to House Nyx’s secure location. In the distance, she caught the sound of the second carriage laden with their belongings heading to their new hideout. A bright lamppost illuminated the falling snow, and the alchemy of its light seemed to turn the snow to gold coins. The air smelled of distant woodsmoke and tin, and the shards of ice on the deserted sidewalk snapped like bones beneath their boots. Wooden shutters cloaked the storefronts in shadows and silence. From the troika, three inky horses tossed and turned their heads. Two of the House Nyx guards waited to take them, but as they started walking toward the troika, Zofia reached out, grabbing Laila’s wrist.

“Do you smell that?” she asked.

Hypnos wrinkled his nose.

“Wasn’t me,” said Enrique quickly.

There was a slight … burn to the air.

“That’s saltpeter,” said Zofia. Her eyes widened as she looked at them. “It’s an explosive—”

She hardly got the word out before something behind the troika exploded into flames. The horses shrieked, jetting off into the darkness as huge flames rolled toward them.

11

SÉVERIN

Séverin stumbled backwards. The horses reared, snapping free of their tethers and fleeing into the night just before tall flames swallowed up the troika, and choked off their exit. He slammed his hand against the brick wall behind him, scrabbling for any sign of a dent, any sign of escape. But the brick was slicked over with ice. Whatever stronghold he managed slipped out from under his fingers. Not like this, he thought, staring at Hypnos, Laila, Zofia, and Enrique … Not like this.

“I don’t understand … I don’t understand…” whispered Hypnos over and over, staring at the slowly blackening troika. Screams erupted from within the carriage. Two of the House Nyx guards were burning alive.

Hypnos tried to run to the carriage, but Zofia held him back.

“Water!” shouted Enrique. “We need water to put out the flames!”

Enrique grabbed handfuls of the dirty city snow, stuffing them in his hat and tossing them on the encroaching flames. Dimly, Séverin realized Enrique was trying to put out the fire. It was useless and stupid and … brave. Séverin could only stare at him. Enrique looked over his shoulder and called out over the sound of the flames, “Don’t look at me like that!” He glowered. “Trust me, I know how it looks!”

Séverin dropped to his knees and started gathering the snow, pushing it between the flames and the others. His hands froze, and the long scar down his palm burned. Zofia moved beside him, filling his hat with snow, melting it with a touch of her fire pendant, and flinging it—uselessly—against the flames. He looked at her, at their hands working side by side. He heard the others beside them, and he turned on impulse, his eyes filling with the sight of all of them.

I wanted to make you gods.

I wanted to protect you.

Séverin felt like he was watching Tristan die all over again, only this time his failure had become a living thing, snapping at the heels of everyone who got too close. He saw his hands not moving fast enough, his legs frozen, a terrible consequence slipping past outstretched fingers. It was the same and it was different. No one in gilded wolf masks, no heads thrown back and throats bared and stars peeling off the ceiling. Just snow and fire and screaming. Flames rolled toward them, and Séverin’s breath ached in his lungs. He would choke on the smoke before the fire got to him, but at least he could go before them. At least he wouldn’t have to see. Someone drew him back sharply. Even in the reek of sulfurous flames, he caught the fairy-tale scent of sugar and rosewater.

“Majnun,” said Laila.

He had to be hallucinating. She no longer called him that.

Séverin jerked his shoulder out of her grasp, refusing to look at her. He could not watch her die. He could barely handle the sight of pain on her face. Heat seared his face, and Séverin forced his gaze to the flames rolling toward them. He could hear Hypnos, Enrique, Zofia, and Laila shouting for him to move away. He took one step forward and stretched out his hands, his palms turned toward them as if he could hold them back from death or offer himself to the world’s twisted sense of mercy that he might not see how he’d failed them one last time.

He closed his eyes, readying himself for the stinging heat—

But the flames stilled.

Séverin’s eyes flew open. Blue light knifed through the flames. Their once intense scarlet hue dimmed as more and more shards of blue light shredded them. Séverin blinked, his hands falling a fraction. Great waves of smoke poured into the air. Where the flames had burned red, now they flushed blue at the roots, as if an infection of ice had grabbed hold of their heat. The blue spread upwards, swallowing the flames whole before cascading back down to the ground and leaving nothing but veils of indigo mist. Beneath his feet, the stones hissed and steamed. Slowly, the world gained clarity as the smoke dissolved into the air, revealing the cold night and its colder stars. When he looked to his left, he saw that the brick-walled alley once choked off by the troika fire now presented a clear—albeit charred—escape.

“We’re alive!” whooped Enrique happily.

He looked at Séverin, grinning and hopeful, and Séverin almost—almost—grinned back. But in the abrupt departure of the flames, Séverin remembered that he still had his arms raised. As if that could’ve saved them. Shamed, he lowered his hands. His chest heaved, sweat slicked down his spine, and his mouth tasted of smoke. He was so … uselessly human.

But that could change.

Enrique kneeled in the snow, his face still joyful, still hopeful. “Séverin?”

Séverin remembered the first time he met his historian. Back then, Enrique was merely a sharply dressed university graduate. A boy with a book tucked under his arm as he paused to study a statue in L’Eden’s museum gallery.

* * *

“THIS DESCRIPTION IS ALL WRONG,” Enrique said.

Séverin felt taken aback by this boy who spoke to him like an equal. No one spoke to him like that in L’Eden, and the effect was … refreshing.

“Excuse me?”

“That’s not a death deity. It’s the sun god. Surya.” Enrique pointed out the breastplate and dagger.“Those markings on the statue’s shin represent the markings of boots.”

“Hindu gods wear boots?” asked Séverin.

“Well, Hindu gods who might not have originated in India,” said Enrique, shrugging. “It’s believed that the sun god Surya originated in Persia, hence his depiction as a Central Asian warrior.” He shook his head. “Whoever bought this was a fool in need of a real historian.”