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 alldie,” 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, “Whereis 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 candlelighthair shining bright as a corona. Her eyes looked unfocused, hollow. The sight of her—sodefeated—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 somuchbelief, 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 thatwhen 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. Hehadto 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 atouchunlike 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. “Iam.”
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.”
