Enrique’s ear—or what had been his ear—throbbed with pain. He breathed slowly through his nose, trying to ignore the wet slick of blood dripping down his neck and focusing, instead, on the slender moon of the ice grotto. With every passing second, it thinned. Ten minutes had nearly passed, and still Ruslan kept turning the knife. Beneath them, the packed ice floor of the grotto began to splinter. Threads of water wept from the cracks. Enrique tried to speak, but the rough gag in his mouth held fast. Every part of him screamed that this was the end. He would die here, in this cold place that smelled of salt and metal, not at all like the sunshine-steeped earth of the Philippines.

And it was all his fault.

How fitting, he thought through the fog of pain, that Ruslan would take his ear. It was his own craving to be listened to that made him share the very information that damned them all. Ruslan had seen the weakness inside him and sharpened it to a weapon. Over and over, he replayed what Ruslan had said when he dragged them to the grotto. He’d secured the gag, humming to himself. And then he’d gripped Enrique’s face, pressing their foreheads together.

“Thank you, my friend, for trusting me,” Ruslan had said. “You know, I’ve always thought that I was meant to find The Divine Lyrics … but I now believe I needed you. And I understand with my whole heart that what I’m doing seems cruel … but I think you understand. It’s all in service to the knowledge, is it not?”

True regret shone in his eyes.

“I wish, in war, there were no need for casualties,” he said. “And yet, no one is truly safe. When the devil waged war in the heavens, even angels had to fall.”

Now, the floor of the ice grotto trembled once more. The leviathan was slowly becoming unmoored. One of the tethers had broken loose, and the other—hooked around a mechanical gill—trembled. Its tail whipped against the underside of the floor, throwing Enrique to his side. His vision blurred for a moment, but he heard everything.

“Cousin,” said Eva. “We should take this conversation to a different room.”

Ruslan tapped the flat of his knife against his mouth, then closed his eyes.

“No,” he said. “I’m waiting. Two minutes left, Laila.”

“We could all die,” said Eva.

“If we die here in pursuit of godhood, then I’ll take the divine lyre to the bottom of the lake. I can live with that.” Ruslan called out, “Where is Séverin? Why is it taking so long to find him?”

Enrique craned his neck. He could sense Zofia beside him, silent and unwavering. She stood straight-backed, her candlelight hair shining bright as a corona. Her eyes looked unfocused, hollow. The sight of her—so defeated—jolted him from grief.

Even though the minutes were sliding to nothing, even though he felt horror climbing up his throat … all he wanted was one moment to talk to her. They couldn’t save the world. They couldn’t save their friends. They couldn’t save themselves. But he could tell her he was proud to know her, proud that he’d seen her wield a flaming sword and jump off the back of an ice stag. And if he could just tell her all the ways he knew they’d tried … it would have been enough.

“The last minute is up,” sighed Ruslan.

Enrique tensed, expecting Ruslan to take his other ear or, worse, his very life. Beside him, Zofia closed her eyes. Enrique wanted to tell her not to worry, that everything would be fine, to keep her eyes closed. Ruslan took another step. Enrique braced himself. The pain in his ear was nothing more than a dull pressure. He could take it.

But then Ruslan stepped toward Zofia. The world slowed. No. No. Not her. Enrique thrashed, trying to get out of his bindings. His bound hands robbed his balance. Every time he tried to right himself, he failed and fell against the ice. He looked to Zofia, praying that her eyes had stayed shut … but they were open. Open and fixed on him, that blue-as-candle-hearts gaze scalding him like a flame.

“Please, you have to believe me!” shouted Laila.

“Believe? I have so much belief, my dear,” said Ruslan. “That’s why I do not hesitate in what I do.”

He stroked the sides of the ancient lyre, attempting to pluck its dull strings for the thousandth time.

Enrique wanted to scream. He wanted to scream so badly that when he heard a loud, shattering sound, he thought, for a moment, that it had come from deep within his soul. He looked up and saw that something inside the leviathan moved. A figure appeared. Séverin.

In spite of himself … in spite of how it broke something inside him to know that Séverin had destroyed his chances with the Ilustrados … he felt relief. When things fell apart, Séverin put them together. When they didn’t know how to see what was in front of them, Séverin adjusted their focus. He would fix this. He had to fix this because no matter how much he’d changed … he was their Séverin.

Séverin stepped out of the leviathan’s mouth, his face grim, the moth Mnemo on his lapel fluttering its stained glass wings. The moment his foot touched the ice, the leviathan wrested free of the last tether and sank into the waves. The last thing Enrique saw was the blue water lapping over its bulging, glass eye.

“You have the wrong person,” said Séverin, staring at Ruslan.

“I thought you were unconscious somewhere,” said Ruslan curiously. “Wherever did you come from?”

“The belly of the devil,” said Séverin.

Ruslan took one step back from Zofia, and Enrique’s heart rate eased.

“Sounds spacious,” said Ruslan. “And very intriguing, but I’m more curious about why you think I have the wrong person? Laila has a touch unlike anyone else. I’m sure you’d agree.”

Séverin’s face darkened.

“She is a descendant of the Lost Muses—”

“She’s not,” said Séverin. “I am.”

Enrique went still. What?

Ruslan stared at him, then started laughing. “You?”

“What do you see when you look at that lyre in your hand, Ruslan?” asked Séverin. “Do you see dull, metal strings? Because I don’t. I see a song waiting for my hands. I see the guide to a temple where the lyre must be played if you want its true power. Otherwise, it’s useless to you.”

A hungry expression flickered across Ruslan’s face. “Prove it.”

Séverin reached for the Mnemo bug on his lapel and slashed the sharp end of the pin across his palm. Out the corner of Enrique’s vision, he saw Laila strain forward, her eyes round with hope. Ruslan held out the lyre, and Séverin smeared his hand across the strings. Enrique held his breath. For a moment, nothing happened. And then, he heard a low sound. He couldn’t say where it came from … some pocket of his soul or a corner of his mind. But if there had ever been a Music of the Spheres, a hymn that moved celestial bodies, it was this. A sound like winter wind shuffling icicles on branches, the mournful song of swans at dusk, the groan of the earth turning. He felt it sear through his bones, expand in his heart … a song woven into a thread that wound through his whole being.

But only for an instant.

Near the wall, Laila let out a cry and slumped forward. When she raised her head, blood trickled from her nose. Around them, pieces of the wall broke off, crashing into the ice. Ice sculptures, once moving, now froze. The projectile podiums went from glowing to muted and dull.