YAN

  JUMP.

  And jump he does.

  His mind retreated. Yanked backward, like he’d been kicked out of his own skull. And now he is watching. Watching himself from somewhere just behind his eyes, like a passenger trapped in a carriage with no reins.

  The other mind moves fast. Precise.

  Amaia screams, terrified, but the body that was once his doesn’t flinch. It twists, one arm locking around her waist, the other bracing across her shoulders. Her weight shifted against him midair, and he pulled her chest to his, using the curve of his back to shield her belly.

  The right hand catches the frayed edge of the boat just before they hit.

  The world flips. Water explodes up around them.

  He didn’t feel the impact, only saw it. The blur of limbs, the white crash of spray, the bone-snapping violence of the landing muted through the buffer of detachment. He grabs a submerged rock, grounds against it, redirects their fall. The momentum rolls them, twists them sideways, then slows—just barely—before the water flings them forward into the shallows.

  He hits knees first, taking the shock into his thighs, then collapses sideways to soften Amaia’s landing.

  Amaia rolls free with a cry, coughing, gasping. Alive.

  And Yanick feels nothing.

  But he saw everything. The awful, inhuman grace of the movements, like a machine tuned too well. His right hand spasmed, half-curled, twitching in water already murky with blood. He knew that when he comes back to himself, the pain would be white hot, blooming like fire from elbow to shoulder.

  Amaia crawled to him, lips moving. Maybe his name, maybe something else. He couldn’t hear her.

  He watched her hands press to his chest, her eyes searching his face, wide with confusion.

  And then the world flickered. The other mind pulled back, dissolving into shadow.

  Yanick dropped into himself like falling from a rooftop.

  And the pain met him there. Like it was waiting. Waiting to explode.

  Not dull, not delayed. It struck like a steel rod rammed up through his bones. A screaming white heat that ignited from the base of his skull and raced down his spine, slamming into his right arm where the gauntlet clung, warped and cracked.

  He screamed. A raw, broken sound that tore from his throat like a wounded animal. His whole body convulsed. Shoulder jerking, knees sinking into the gravel where the river spat them out.

  His left hand scrabbled for the satchel strapped tight to his ribs. He ripped it open, his breath hitching as another jolt shot down his spine. Fingers found the smooth metal of a syringe, trembling, slipping against the casing as he tried to load it into the injector.

  Don’t do it.

  The other mind. Awake. Still present.

  Please… take us to Lunareth.

  “I know I shouldn’t go there,” Yanick rasped aloud, voice wet with pain. “It’s a trap. A net with my name on it.”

  Only there can we be separated.

  Yanick’s vision swam. His fingers hovered over the needle.

  “What if that’s not true? What if it’s all lies? What if you just want my body forever?”

  I don’t want your body. I can’t survive in it. I burn every second I’m inside you. I need out. Lunareth has the tools. The process. And you know what else they can do there?

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  A pause. A hum of knowing.

  They can fix what she has inside her.

  Yanick froze.

  It’s not a baby. You know that. You’ve always known. And it’s not yours. They planted it there, just like they planted me in your mind. But I’m offering you a trade. Me, for her.

  “You want me to trust you?” Yanick hissed.

  I want you to choose. Isn’t that what makes you human?

  “Yanick?” Amaia’s voice cracked through the haze.

  He turned.

  She was on all fours in the shallow water, her long tunic soaked, hair plastered to her face. Her eyes were wide, haunted, staring at him like he was something on fire.

  “You’re talking to yourself,” she said, voice thin and trembling. “You’re scaring me.”

  He dropped the syringe into the dirt. His whole arm felt like molten iron. He wanted to scream again but clenched his jaw.

  Amaia crawled closer, her hands shaking as she reached for him.

  “Tell me what’s happening.”

  He met her eyes, and for a long moment, he didn’t answer.

  The river roared nearby, relentless and cold. The morning mist hadn’t yet burned off, and the trees along the bank loomed like silent witnesses.

  “We can’t stay here,” he said at last.

  His voice was hoarse but steady now, his breathing ragged from pain. He reached for the boat, dragging it through the shallows with one working arm, the other limp at his side like a dead branch.

  Then, with a grunt, he helped Amaia in. Gentle, always gentle with her, despite Nemeth’s words still ringing in his head.

  He pulling himself aboard and pushed off.

  The current caught them, no less violent than before. It gripped the boat with invisible hands and drew them forward, deeper into the wild, away from the bloodied land behind.

  They sat side by side in silence, the wind brushing wet strands of hair from their faces. Yanick blinked up at the widening sky, and then turned back.

  Astoris burned.

  Smoke poured up from the hills like a funeral veil, black and endless. Flames bloomed between the towers like sick flowers. The once white dome of the eastern palace had caved in, glowing red through the ruin. Even from this distance, they could hear the low, distant thunder of collapse.

  Amaia gasped.

  “No…” she whispered. Her hand flew to her belly. “Ademund… He was still there.”

  Yanick closed his eyes. He didn’t say the truth aloud: If he’s alive, he’s not for long. Not with what was coming.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, because it was the only thing left to say.

  Amaia turned her face away, pressing her sleeve to her mouth.

  “He promised he’d survive. He always did. Even as children.”

  The boat creaked, rocking gently in the widening flow. The banks were falling away now. The river widened, quickened, became the breath of the sea.

  And then they saw it.

  A dark shape on the water, anchored just beyond the mouth of the river. A ship, sleek and long, cut low to the waterline like a predator. Its sails were down, but the wind stirred a banner that hung limp over the stern.

  A white crescent, sharp and clean against a field of deep violet.

  Amaia saw it first.

  “No,” she said, nearly choking on the word. “That’s not a merchant ship. That’s one of theirs. The Faithful.”

  Yanick stared at the ship, then at the sky. Then he closed his eyes.

  Zain had sent them this way. Told them to follow the culvert. Told them the current would take them where they needed to go.

  And still… the other mind remained silent. Not whispering. Not laughing. Not warning.

  “I can’t hear him,” Yanick said softly.

  Amaia turned to him.

  “Who?”

  He didn’t look at her. Just let the boat drift, hands resting loosely on the side, the gauntlet still steaming faintly in the early light.

  “I’ll tell you later,” he said. “The only thing that matters now is that we are safe.”

  Amaia didn’t answer, but she didn’t press him either. She curled her arms protectively around her belly, eyes fixed on the ship ahead as it loomed larger with every stroke of the current.

  The vessel was unmistakably a warship. Lean and predatory, made for speed and violence. Twin masts rose like black spires, their sails half-furled and patched in places, scarred from long voyages or recent battle. The hull was dark oak, soaked and sun bleached to a silver sheen, but reinforced at the waterline with crescent shaped plating of hammered bronze. The bow held the shape of a bird’s head, long-beaked and narrow-eyed. Its gaze fixed toward the horizon like it saw something no mortal could.

  On its stern fluttered the banner again. White crescent. Violet field. A symbol of the Faithful.

  Amaia stiffened.

  “This doesn’t make sense. Why would the Sajanos be using their flag?”

  Yanick’s gaze sharpened. He had noticed it too.

  There were no black robed priests lining the rails. No glassy eyes of fanatics chanting hymns. No scowling paladins with teeth painted silver. Instead, as the boat drifted closer, they saw figures in long, pale coats and layered tunics. Garments folded precisely, secured with woven cords and polished clasps. Some wore conical helms. Others had their hair bound in tight knots behind the head. They stood still, unmoving as statues, watching the small boat approach with unreadable expressions.

  Sajanos. Every one of them.

  Their faces bore the sharp grace of the far eastern clans. Cheekbones like blades, eyes like narrow slits of obsidian. No one spoke. No one moved. They simply watched.

  Yanick exhaled slowly.

  “That’s not a ship of the Faithful anymore.”

  Amaia looked up at him, uncertain.

  “Then whose is it?”

  He stared at the nearest figure on deck, a man, perhaps forty, wearing deep crimson gloves and an ornate sword hanging from a single shoulder strap. His gaze didn’t waver.

  Yanick narrowed his eyes.

  “Zain sent us this way,” he said. “This isn’t chance. This ship’s waiting for us.”

  “And they’ll take us to Lunareth?”

  He didn’t answer that. He didn’t know.

  But when the boat scraped gently against the ship’s side and ropes were lowered without a word, he stood, helping Amaia up beside him.

  Whoever these people were, they weren’t Faithful. And the other mind remained quiet still.

  Which, for now, was the reassurance. This and the silence of the other mind.