I haven’t forgotten the way she treated Cal on the train—with shackles, armed guards, and disdain. And he took it like a kicked dog. After his brother’s betrayal and his father’s murder, he had no fight inside him. I didn’t blame him. But Farley doesn’t know his heart—or his strength—like I do. She doesn’t know how dangerous he really is. Or how dangerous I am, for that matter. Even now, despite my many injuries, I feel power deep inside, calling out to the electricity pulsing through the mersive. I could control it if I wanted. I could shut this whole thing down. I could drown us all. The lethal idea makes me blush, embarrassed by such thoughts. But they are a comfort all the same. I’m the greatest weapon of all on a ship full of warriors, and they don’t seem to know it.

We seem weak because we want to. Shade was talking about the Guard when he said that, explaining their motives. Now I wonder if he wasn’t also trying to convey a message. Like words hidden in a letter long ago.

Cal’s bunk room is at the far end of the mersive, tucked away from the bustle of the rest of the vessel. His door is nearly hidden behind a twist of pipes and empty crates stamped with Archeon, Haven, Corvium, Harbor Bay, Delphie, and even Belleum from Piedmont to the south. What the crates once held, I can’t say, but the names of the Silver cities send a twinge down my spine. Stolen. Farley notices me staring at the crates but doesn’t bother to explain. Despite our shaky agreement over what she calls “newbloods,” I still haven’t entered her inner circle of secrets. I suppose Cal has something to do with that.

Whatever powers the ship, a massive generator by the feel of it, rumbles beneath my feet, vibrating into my bones. I wrinkle my nose in distaste. Farley might not have locked Cal up, but she’s certainly not being kind either. Between the noise and the shaking sensation, I wonder if Cal was able to sleep at all.

“I suppose this is the only place you could put him?” I ask, glaring at the cramped corner.

She shrugs, banging a hand on his door. “The prince hasn’t complained.”

We don’t wait long, though I’d very much like the time to collect myself. Instead, the wheel lock spins in seconds, clanking round at great speed. The iron hinges grate, screaming, and Cal pulls open the door.

I’m not surprised to see him standing tall, ignoring his own aches. After a lifetime preparing to be a warrior, he’s used to cuts and bruises. But the scars within are something he doesn’t know how to hide. He avoids my gaze, focusing on Farley, who doesn’t notice or doesn’t care about the prince with a shattered heart. Suddenly my wounds seem a bit easier to bear.

“Captain Farley,” he says, as if she’s disturbed him at dinnertime. He uses annoyance to mask his pain.

Farley won’t stand for it and tosses her short hair with a sniff. She even reaches to close the door. “Oh, did you not want a visitor? How rude of me.”

I’m quietly glad I didn’t let Kilorn tag along. He’d be even worse to Cal, having hated him since they first met back in the Stilts.

“Farley,” I tell her through gritted teeth. My hand stops the door short. To my delight—and distaste—she flinches away from my touch. She flushes horribly, embarrassed with herself and her fear. Despite her tough exterior, she’s just like her soldiers. Afraid of the lightning girl. “I think we’re fine from here.”

Something twitches in her face, a twinge of irritation as much with herself as with me. But she nods, grateful to be out of my presence. With one last daggered glance at Cal, she turns and disappears back down the corridor. Her barked orders echo for a moment, indecipherable but strong.

Cal and I stare after her, then at the walls, then at the floor, then at our feet, afraid to look at each other. Afraid to remember the last few days. The last time we watched each other across a doorway, dancing lessons and a stolen kiss followed. That might as well be another life. Because it was. He danced with Mareena, the lost princess, and Mareena is dead.

But her memories remain. When I walk past, my shoulder brushing one firm arm, I remember the feel and smell and taste of him. Heat and wood smoke and sunrise, but no longer. Cal smells like blood, his skin is ice, and I tell myself I don’t want to taste him ever again.

“They’ve been treating you well?” I speak first, reaching for an easy topic. One glance around his small yet clean compartment is answer enough, but I might as well fill the silence.

“Yes,” he says, still hovering by the open door. Debating whether to shut it.

My eyes land on a panel in the wall, pried back to reveal a tangle of wires and switches beneath. I can’t help but smile softly. Cal’s been tinkering.

“You think that’s smart? One wrong wire . . .”

That draws a weak but still comforting smile from him. “I’ve been fooling with circuitry for half my life. Don’t worry, I know what I’m doing.”

Both of us ignore the double meaning, letting it slide past.

He finally decides to shut the door, though he leaves it unlocked. One hand rests on the metal wall, fingers splayed, looking for something to hold on to. The flame-maker bracelet still winks on his wrist, bright silver against dull, hard gray. He notes my gaze and pulls down one stained sleeve; I guess no one thought to give him a change of clothes.

“As long as I stay out of sight, I don’t think anyone will bother with me,” he says, and goes back to fiddling with the open panel. “It’s kind of nice.” But the joke is hollow.