“Welcome, Rhajia Nikessa. Please, calm yourself. There’s no need for fear.”

My chest heaves as I glare at the pale man, reminded of a giant, predatory mole rat. Falra Jhur, he’d introduced himself as.

But I’m not afraid.

I’m furious and wracked with pain and out of breath from getting dragged up the north tower’s ten flights of stairs. But having gotten a glimpse into their lift’s cramped interior, I can’t help but be thankful it was broken.

“Wh—what have you done to Thrall?” My words come in quick, uneven pants.

“Simply rendered him unconscious. I assure you, it’s quite against my interests to do you or your Khaj any harm.”

I grate my teeth as a fresh wave of pain crashes over me.

“What do you want with us?”

The falra’s brows knot together, his ragged lips turning down.

“I want your help, of course. Your people need your help.”

“Then you shouldn’t have captured us. We already have a plan. We—“

“You were fleeing, admit it, Rhajia. Why else would you have traveled in secret through your own fatherlands, rather than joining with us to offer aid in the resistance?”

“I…we didn’t…” my words taper off as I gape at him. Even if he does already know who we are, it’s not as though I can trust him. I can’t tell him our plan, can’t tell him about the Sentinels.

So what in the names of all the Firstborn do I say?

“The closest thing to the truth that you can,” Rhetrien’s measured voice cuts through the panicked chaos of my mind. I must have been projecting my thoughts into the Link without realizing it.

“We do have a plan, but I can’t tell you what it is without jeopardizing it. We…we can’t be too visible. Can’t have too many people with us. Not without risk of the Morovani finding and recapturing us.”

Falra Jhur scoffs.

“I assure you our lands are better guarded than that. Already fresh recruits and seasoned warriors from throughout the clans have rallied to join their chieftains’ regiments. There is no way—“

“You don’t know yet what they have,” I say. “Or what they’re capable of.”

Jhur sneers, hands clasping behind his back as he steps close and leans in.

“Then why don’t you tell us?” he presses. His breath smells like rot.

My teeth lock together as my mind races. Then I blurt the words out before I’ve fully made up my mind to.

“A Sentinal. They have a functioning, piloted Sentinal. It can fly.”

His eyes go wide, his already tiny pupils contracting. Then his expression breaks. He throws back his head, his barking laughter echoing through the tower.

“A Sentinal. Of course.” He runs a hand across his brow and then lets it fall to his side. The laughter leaves his eyes as he glares back down at me.

“Lie better, girl. Or not at all.”

Hands curling into fists, I edge away from him. But the window’s right behind me, and I’m practically pinned.

“No. No. Can’t you scent the truth in what I say? Please.” My voice breaks as tears prick at the corners of my eyes. “Please believe me.”

“She doesn’t smell of lies,” says K’vhar Skorsgar from behind the larger beast-eater, his tone bemused.

Jhur’s nostrils flare, but then he jerks his head dismissively.

“You can control beasts, but not beast-eaters,” he says. “Can you control humans?”

“I—“ my eyes shift to Thrall, still unmoving on the floor. “No. Just animals.”

The Falra’s lips split in a horrifying grin. “Another lie.”

He sighs deeply, rubbing his head again as though it pains him.

“They’ve been poisoning us, did you know that?”

At my blank look, he snarls.

“The Morovani.” He laughs bitterly. “The bread basket of the Mirelands. Why do you think most beast-eaters come from Falrun?”

My blood runs cold as his eyes fix on mine. “Forty-eight percent of our food is Morovani import. forty-eight percent. And they’ve been tainting our supply.”

My lips fall open, my hands going to my hair.

“You know why. They see us as beasts. As their beasts. They always have.”

His chest heaves as I say nothing, eyes squeezing shut and hand returning to work at his brow.

“We need your power, Rhajia. Your Falruni people need your power. Fal himself brought you to us, that my hand may guide you true. You’ll see that in time.” He turns from me, barking at the men who’d escorted me here.

“Take her back to her room and stand guard. Both of you.” He swipes at the air in dismissal, already turning back to the k’vhar.

“This changes everything, of course. We must call for a council.”

The guards flank me, and this time I dig my feet in as each takes one of my arms.

“Thrall!” I call past them. “Thrall! Wake up!”

But he remains still as stone. Then the ground drops away beneath my feet as the guards lose their patience with me. The next thing I know, the door’s slamming shut between my Khaj and I, my cries echoing uselessly down the stairwell.

The beast-eater sets me down gently enough when we get back to my room, his Ember uneven and spiky with inner conflict. The other isn’t very happy with himself either, but he shuts the door on me firmly enough, turning the lock into place in the next beat.

“Fal’s eyes,” says the door-shutter, his voice muffled. “That smell is going to kill me. Think we can get some food brought up here?”

The other one grunts something unintelligible.

For a while I just stand there. Blank. Shocked. Overwhelmed. Then I turn, stumble over to my bed, and drop myself face-first into it.

What do I do now?

“They know what you are beyond a shadow of a doubt?”

It’s Rhetrien’s voice, responding again to a thought I hadn’t known I’d projected.

“I…yes. I think so.”

Slipping into Puka’s senses, I find him snuggled up in Saffryn’s lap with the rest of my Khajra—save Ozmanthas, of course. Rain patters against the stained glass windows of the ship’s main cabin, making me more homesick for Vishka than ever.

“And they’re opposed to Morovin and Grailhold, would never go to them with information about you?”

“Right. How many of my thoughts have you been hearing?”

“Attack with beasts,” they urge, ignoring my question. “Anything you can get. Create chaos, and maybe you can escape in it.”

“But Thrall is being held at the top of a tower, far away from me. And he’s unconscious…I don’t know for how long. I’m locked in. There are guards at my door, I’m three floors up, and I’m not sure I can fit through the window.”

There’s a few moment’s pause, my breathing growing hard as the panic builds. Then Saffryn breaks the silence.

“Nikessa, I think you should bide your time. Wait until the most opportune moment to make your move.”

“It can’t be too long, though—“ cuts in Rhetrien.

“Of course not. But until then, do everything you can to reason with this falra. This is someone who could be on our side, once he realizes the truth of the Sentinels. Between them and our work with the Skoli, this could be the beginning of an organized, multi-nation counterattack. And when you make it to Solrath—“

“You don’t understand. You haven’t met this Falra. I don’t get the sense he wants to work with other nations.”

“Did he say he didn’t?”

“Well, no, but…”

“Bide your time,” repeats Saffryn. Her disembodied voice confident. Firm.

“Trust your instincts,” Says Howla, speaking up for the first time in a while.

“There’s something else. The Falra…he said the Morovani have been deliberately tainting their food with mireflesh. Do you—do you think that’s true?”

There’s a long, heavy silence as the three of them process this, their expressions ranging from grim to shocked to murderous.

“Yes,” answers Rhetrien finally. “Yes. I think it is.”

Everyone stops talking after that, and I fall back into my own senses.

My body aches. My mind’s a useless mess, I’m beyond exhausted, and I’ve got a dry, warm bed beneath me. I decide to follow both Howla and Saffryn’s advice too, and go to sleep.

It’s still dark when I wake up, the fire long dead. I could have sworn I’d heard a loud noise…or at least, I’m pretty certain I did. Maybe it was in my dream?

Then there’s another one—a heavy, resonating thunk just outside my door. I shoot up in bed, clutching the blankets around me as the lock turns. A heartbeat later the door opens, a dark figure framed in faint torchlight coming into view.

I blink, my bleary eyes adjusting slowly, heart pounding a desperate beat against my ribs. The intruder edges into the room, hands raised to display his empty palms.

It’s the amber-eyed man who gave me his cloak.

“Come with me, quietly,” he signs. “There’s something I must show you.”

Snatching up the cloak, I wrap it around my shoulders as I drag myself out of bed, padding towards him warily.

“What—“ I begin to sign.

“Just let me show you, and then I swear I’ll help you leave this place. You and Rhajia Thrallin both.”

For a moment, I freeze—considering. Making up my mind, I follow after him, trying not to gasp as I trip over the prone form of one of my two sentries. The other sprawls just a few feet away.

“It’s nearly morning,” signs the cat-eyed beast-eater, “When most of us go to sleep. I had the last cook-shift, so I seasoned breakfast with some dream herb. Now everyone’s asleep.”

“Everyone?”

“Everyone, except perhaps Falra. And—“ his hands falter. “Well, you’ll see. But I can wake your Khaj with salts when we get to him. Now please, follow me. Step lightly.”

We pad down the walkway, occassionally skirting around the unconscious forms of other drugged beast-eaters. Down the three flights of stairs to the snow-dusted courtyard and then to its darkest corner—where a dank entrance leads down into the fort’s stone foundations. Sounds issue from the inky blackness beyond the stairwell’s end. Growling, scraping, keening, whining. I feel outward across the Web, finding the distinctive Embers of more beast-eaters crowded below.

Plucking a torch from its bracket, cat-eyes throws a pained look my way before turning to lead me downward. I hesitate, take a deep breath, and follow.

The smell starts out faint at first—the scents of animal musk and wet dirt—deepening by the time we reach the bottom to a nostril-stinging, beastial stench.

The torchlight is meager, and it takes a moment for my eyes to adjust, to process what I’m seeing.

It’s a dungeon. An actual dungeon, with muddy floors, dripping ceilings, and row upon row of barred cells. Eyes of all colors and types watch us through those bars, hands and horns and paws appearing between them as the prisoners beat at the metal, cling to it, claw at it. One of them begins to howl.

My feet freeze beneath me. Cat-eyes, already preceding me down the hall, stops to look back at me.

“Walk with me, please.” He whispers. “Look at them.”

Another deep breath. I slide my foot forward. Breathe. Take the next step. He extends an arm to steady me and I accept it. Slowly, we continue.

It’s hard to look at the people behind the bars. It’s not just that they’re incredibly far-gone. They’ve eaten the flesh of so many Mirebeasts of so many kinds that their own bodies are at war with themselves—all horrifically clashing parts and twisted, uneven features. We pass a man with a growth like a fleshy antelope’s horn protruding from his eye socket, twenty-odd round, scarlet eyes spiraling up its length. They blink rapidly at the sight of me, and drool weeps from his slackened jaw.

“This is where we bring the Level Sixes and up now, when we capture them. Where Falra feeds them more mireflesh.”

I shake my head, take a stumbling step back.

“No. How can—how could he—“

“He is making the only thing he thinks can defeat the Morovani. He is making monsters.”