A SCREAM DRAGS ME FROM SLEEP, but it takes a moment to realize that the scream is coming from me. I sit up on my bedroll, out of breath and drenched in sweat, my legs hopelessly tangled in the sheets. The dream clings to the edges of my conscious mind like grains of sand on wet skin—there, but temporary. Already I can feel the details slipping away, no matter how I try to hold on to them.

The tent flap opens and Blaise hurries in, sword drawn, eyes alert and wild. He takes me in, alone and in bed, before relaxing, though he doesn’t sheathe his sword.

“What are you doing?” I ask, half-dazed.

“Artemisia needed sleep,” he says, sounding out of breath. “I offered to take over as your guard for the night, and then I heard you scream. Just a nightmare?” he guesses, though he doesn’t look at me, instead focusing on the ground next to my bedroll.

He’s used to my nightmares. He’s seen the aftereffects of them since he was one of my Shadows back in the palace. But this wasn’t just a nightmare—it wasn’t a nightmare at all, really. There was nothing frightening about it, no sense of horror. I didn’t see my mother’s death, didn’t feel my own looming before me. It was only Cress and me, talking in the gray garden like we have a thousand times before. There was a kind of peace to it, almost.

Because she thinks you’re dead, I remind myself. If she knew I wasn’t, she wouldn’t be so peaceful. She thinks she’s won, that we’ve reached a kind of truce that has left me with no choices, no voice of my own. The kind of truce that has left me her pet once more.

“I saw Cress again,” I tell Blaise, rather than explain all of that to him. The last thing I need is for him to think I’m sympathetic toward her. “She said that S?ren is in the dungeon, but she’s going to execute him soon.”

Blaise lets out a labored sigh, shoulders slumping. “Theo…it was a nightmare. That’s all.” He still doesn’t look at me, and when I glance down, I realize why. With all of my tossing and turning and sweating, my cotton nightgown is plastered to my skin, twisted off one shoulder and leaving it bare. I’m sure he’s seen me in less—the dresses the Kaiser made me wear in the palace showed more skin—but this is different. The weight of our last conversation alone settles on my shoulders, so heavy that it’s suffocating.

I shake my head to clear it, pulling the shoulder of my nightgown back up. “It’s not just a nightmare. If you could see it, could feel it, you would understand. I can feel her there, as real as I feel you now.”

“It’s not possible,” he insists.

I bite my lip before telling him about what Artemisia and I learned, about the poison being Cress’s blood. When I finish, he’s gone ashen. I can’t blame him—the thought of Cress’s blood in me is one that I doubt I will ever grow used to.

“It doesn’t mean anything,” he insists. “It doesn’t mean you’re sharing dreams.”

“We don’t know what it means,” I say. “But S?ren is being kept in the dungeon. He’s not agreeing to marry her, to solidify her claim to the throne, which makes him a threat to that claim instead. She isn’t planning on keeping him alive for much longer. I need you to bring Heron to me so we can get word to Erik.”

Even before I finish, Blaise is shaking his head. “No, you can’t risk ruining Erik’s cover for a hunch that you can’t prove. He’ll find S?ren himself when he’s inside the palace.”

“There might not be time for that,” I reply. “Cress knows Erik. She knows he and S?ren are friends; she might even know they’re brothers by now. She’ll know that it’s a large part of why Erik changed sides, and so she’ll keep S?ren’s location from him for as long as she can. She’ll bait him with it, use it as leverage to get him to do whatever she needs done.”

“You don’t know that,” he says, shaking his head.

“I know her,” I remind him. “I know how her mind works better than anyone else does.”

He’s quiet for a moment, though he finally looks at me, green eyes meeting mine. “Is it what you would do?” he asks me.

I don’t have to think about it for more than a second. “Yes,” I say. “It’s the smart move to make. She’ll know better than to trust a turncoat. She won’t bring him into the fold right away. She’ll use whatever information and force he brings with him—which won’t be much on either count, hopefully—but she won’t trust him. He’ll be treated barely better than a hostage. And more than that, I can’t imagine the Kalovaxians will be keen to accept the Gorakians as allies. She made this truce and so she has to stand by it, but she’ll be looking for an opportunity to go back on it. It’s the only way she can keep the respect of her people, and that’s something she’s struggling with as it is.”

“Did she tell you that as well?” Blaise asks. It’s difficult to miss the mocking in his voice.

Something shifts inside me. My hands grow hot, and though that in and of itself is nothing new, this time it’s followed by a loud pop as flames jump to my fingertips, setting the sheets on fire. It happens slowly, then all at once. I quickly extinguish the flames on my hands, and Blaise takes the glass of water from my tray and throws it onto the sheets so that they’re put out as well.

A beat passes in silence.

“Are you all right?” he asks me, his voice softer. I should prefer it to his mocking tone, but I don’t. It makes me feel like an invalid.

“I’m fine,” I tell him, my voice coming out cold. “I asked you to bring Heron to me. You might not agree with me, but I don’t need you to.”

For a moment, Blaise doesn’t move, staring at me in disbelief. Finally, he nods, his face smoothing over into impassiveness.

“I’ll find him,” he says before hesitating. “Your power is strong, but you don’t know how to use it.”

My cheeks warm. “Artemisia and Heron are helping—”

“Artemisia and Heron are very good at controlling their own powers, but they don’t understand yours, not the nature of it or the strength of it. It is like trying to fit a horse bridle over the head of a moose.” He pauses for a second. “I can help, though. You aren’t on the edge of mine madness like I am, but in terms of strength, it’s closer to mine than theirs, and fire is closer to earth than it is to wind or water.”

Annoyance prickles at my skin, though I know he has a point. The few lessons I’ve had with Heron and Art have helped, but they have never felt quite right.

“You said I would be fine without you,” I point out.

He glances away, pressing his lips together. “Maybe you will be,” he says. “But I’d like to help if I can.”

I hesitate for a second before nodding. He might have hurt me and I might have hurt him back, but I’ve missed him. “After I speak with Heron,” I tell him. “Before we set off toward the Water Mine again. We’ll only have half an hour or so, but—”

“It’ll be a good start,” Blaise says.

* * *

—

When I tell Heron what I saw and ask him to pass the information on to Erik, he doesn’t protest like Blaise did. Instead he looks at me with solemn eyes, clutching the molo varu in his hand tightly.

“You don’t believe me,” I say when he remains silent.

Heron shakes his head. “I don’t know what I believe,” he says. “But I do know that Erik is playing a dangerous game in the palace. If he’s caught or the Kaiserin begins to even suspect that he’s a spy, he’ll be killed. If you tell me that you’re sure enough to take that risk, I’ll let Erik know. But I’m asking you to be sure, Theo.”

I open my mouth to tell him I’m sure, but the words don’t come out. I can’t lie to Heron, not about this. “I’m not sure about anything,” I tell him instead. “I haven’t been sure of any choice I’ve made since I decided to meet Blaise in the kitchen cellar all those months ago. But if I’d waited to be sure, I would still be there, under my Shadows’ watch, waiting for a rescue that would never come.”

He doesn’t say anything at first. “Do you think it’s worth the risk?” he asks.

“I don’t know how to answer that,” I admit. “But I think Erik will find it is. Tell him what I said, at least. Give him the information; let him do with it what he will.”

Heron still looks worried, but he nods.

“It’ll take some time to tell him everything,” he says, looking down at the molo varu. It’s the size of his palm, its gold surface smooth and unblemished. He nods toward the unlit candle resting on my tray. “Do you mind?” he asks.

I reach for the candle, pinch the wick between my thumb and index finger. The flame comes as naturally as breathing, catching on the wick and turning into a small, steady burn. I release it and shake my hand, extinguishing the fire that clings to my fingers.

Heron sits down beside the candle, turning the molo varu over in his hands before setting it down on the tray and digging into the pocket of his trousers. He pulls out a silver needle and holds the tip to the flame of the candle.