Zofia turned back around, her gaze going once to Eva and then beyond her to where the tops of the muse statues loomed above the wall of fire. Without hesitating, Zofia ran back to the other girl, ripping her dress from the outpost. Eva let out a ragged breath.

“I can’t keep up,” said Eva. “I have trouble after … after a while.”

Pain twisted her voice at the admission, and Enrique went to her, his hand outstretched.

“Then let us help you,” he said, lowering his eyes.

Eva hesitated for only a moment and then nodded. The heroes in Enrique’s imagination always ran off with maidens in their arms. So he rolled up his sleeves, put one arm around her legs and the other at her waist, hoisted her up—and then immediately put her down.

“I’m weak,” he groaned. “Help. Zofia?”

Zofia shouldered past him. “Put your arm around me.”

Enrique took Eva’s other arm and vowed to mourn his pride later. The three of them hobbled across the curve of the road, staying close beneath the tent awnings that hadn’t been pulled down in the attack. Close behind, the sound of crashing wood caught up to them. The earth quaked, trembling with every stomp of the approaching statues.

Enrique shoved down his panic, focusing instead on the lake as it came into full view. The damp earth fug of still water hit his nose. On the other side of the shore, he could just make out the wooden panels that hid the ancient courtyard and Tezcat entrance from the public. The three of them huddled beneath an abandoned shop tent as silence fell over the market.

“There were nine muses,” said Zofia suddenly.

“What a brilliant observation,” snapped Eva.

“Only four were following us.”

“So—”

With a ripping sound, their tent gave way. Five of the muse statues stood there, holding the ragged tents in their arms as if they were nothing more than scraps of silk plucked off the ground. Instinctively, he moved backwards, but Eva stopped him.

“They’re behind us…”

Cold shadows fell over him. The nine muse statues closed in while not twenty feet away stretched out the lake and, beyond it, the way back to the Sleeping Palace.

“We have to swim,” said Enrique, his heart beating wildly in his chest. “Go now! I’ll distract them.”

“We can’t leave you—” said Zofia.

But Eva didn’t hesitate. She fixed Enrique with a hard stare.

“On the other side, then.”

“Enrique—” said Zofia, her voice straining.

He let himself look at her, let himself drink in the candle-brightness of her hair, the blue of her eyes. And then he shrugged off Eva’s arm from around his shoulder and darted in the opposite direction toward the merchant tents. Look at me, look at me, he willed. His breath scraped through his lungs, and he could hear nothing save for his own thunderous pulse.

“Over here!” he shouted. “Look! Look!”

Finally, he turned. But he couldn’t make himself open his eyes until he heard it: the creaking groan of rock hinges. His eyes flew open to the sight of all nine muses circling him. Through the gaps between the statues, he watched Eva and Zofia wade into the lake.

But his relief was short-lived. Seconds later, one of the muses slammed her hand into the ground, throwing off his balance and sending him sprawling. Dust flew into his eyes, clearing only a second before he saw a stone fist heading toward him—

He gathered his energy, rolling out of the way just as another fist pummeled the earth. From behind the statues, the old man called out, “Can’t you see that we are not meant to be gods? That it only brings ruin?”

Enrique dodged another blow, flinging himself behind a statue.

“No mortal can hide from the gods,” laughed the old man.

When another blow came, Enrique crouched and then leapt—catching hold of the statue around its clenched fingers while his stomach muscles burned in protest. The statue tried to fling him off, but he held tight. At this height, he watched Eva and Zofia clamber onto the opposite banks and then, finally, disappear through the wooden slats …

The statue shook its wrist again, and Enrique dropped to the floor, crashing onto his side. Pain burned through his arm. This was it. Through the pain, pride flickered dimly inside him. He’d saved them.

He’d done something heroic after all.

“This is the end for you,” said the old man.

Enrique raised his head. He knew it was useless to defend himself, but he couldn’t help it.

“I’m no thief,” he rasped.

The muse statues held still. Their stone bodies flanked him on all sides. Even if he could somehow get to the lake, he didn’t know that he could find the strength to swim.

“Please,” he heard himself say.

He was going to die. He knew it. Even the shadows cast by the statues were unnaturally cold and … icy? A thin layer of ice crept onto the ground in front of him, wrapping around his pant leg like an insistent vine. He raised his gaze and then, through the slim gap between two of the muse statues, he spied a delicate crystalline bridge knitting itself across the lake, layer by layer building until it could hold weight.

“I will not give you a merciful death,” gloated the old man. “Just as you did not give one to her.”

Enrique pushed himself to a stand.

Get to the lake, he told himself. Just get to the lake.

He held himself just so, little by little stepping toward the gap between the muses. In one smooth motion, the muses raised their arms. Enrique angled his body, timing himself, gathering one last burst of energy—

And then he dove forward.

He shoved himself through the gap between their bodies. The statues tried to turn, but he’d drawn them so close together that they tangled on themselves.

“Kill him!” screamed the old man.

Enrique sprinted for the lake, his legs pumping. The ice bridge was still ten feet out. He half ran, half swam toward it, even as the water chilled him and too-slick seaweeds brushed against his skin. The earth quivered beneath him, but he didn’t stop. He threw himself onto the bridge as cold shocked through his body. Slowly, then quickly gaining speed, the bridge shifted. It yanked him toward the shore, contracting on itself. Enrique sank against the ice, letting the bridge pull him on and on while the old man’s screams chased him into unconsciousness.

* * *

“WHAT THE HELL was he thinking?”

Enrique blinked a couple times … his room swimming into view.

“Don’t yell at him,” scolded Laila.

Enrique groaned. He knew he was still sore, but now a pleasant hum settled through his blood. Eva’s work, perhaps. When he turned his head, he saw Zofia and Ruslan on the left side of his bed, while Laila and Séverin stood near the foot.

“Bravery is physically exhausting,” he managed.

“You’re awake!” cried Laila, hugging him.

“You’re alive.”

“And your hair remains exceptional,” said Ruslan kindly.

“C’est vrai,” said a warm voice.

Enrique turned to his right, and there was Hypnos, one warm hand at his shoulder. That cold knot of rejection that had coiled in his heart the moment Hypnos had left him at the library eased into warmth. He could’ve been at Séverin’s side, but he’d chosen him.