Everyone turns back to Elias, perhaps waiting for encouragement. But despite my warning to him that he is too cold, he only nods. “Midnight, then,” he says, and cuts through the crowd toward me.

“A word?” When we stand apart, he looks down, brow furrowed. “The jinn may be among the soldiers,” he says. “And when I first suggested the mission, you seemed reluctant to use your magic. Will you be able to hold your invisibility?”

I have been reluctant. Ever since I found out who Rehmat really is, my magic has felt unknowable. Like it belongs to someone else.

“I’ll be fine.”

“No detours.”

“You sound almost worried about me, Elias.”

“Soul Catcher,” he corrects me, sounding so much like a Blackcliff Centurion that I want to kick him. “Your skills are important for the success of other raids, Laia. Get in, get the job done, and get out without getting distracted.”

Afya strolls to me as he walks away. “What a charmer,” she says, and at my glower, she shoves me. “I told you not to fall in love with a ghost-talker,” she says. “But did you listen? Forget about him for a moment. Your armor is no good.” She glances critically at the hodgepodge bits of protection I’ve collected over the past few months and steers me toward the horses. “Let’s fix it before we have to leave.”

Two hours later, I follow Shan through the desert with ten other fighters from Tribe Saif. All my concentration is fixed on cloaking us with my magic—not easy when there are so many and we are spread out. Finally, Elias calls a halt in a shallow depression within spitting distance of the sentry line. I sigh in relief when he signals for me to drop the invisibility. His gaze fixed on the sentries, he windwalks away.

“I cannot get used to that,” Shan says to me. “No matter how many times Mamie tells me he is gone, I still see my brother.”

I know so little about Shan. But I remember Elias speaking of him when we traveled to Kauf Prison. They spent the early years of their lives together. Perhaps Elias must be reminded of that.

“You should tell him,” I say. “He needs to hear it.”

Shan glances at me in surprise, but before he can speak, a hoot drifts through the night. The sentries—patrolling only seconds ago, are nowhere to be seen. The Tribesman rises.

“That was quick,” he mutters. “Skies speed your way, Laia of Serra.”

I close my eyes and reach for my invisibility. It comes reluctantly, but once it is on, penetrating the camp is simple enough. The fires are low, for which I am thankful. The shadows will aid us this night.

A large tent looms in the very center of the camp and a black flag flies atop it, a K at its center. My scar itches. Would that I could choke Keris Veturia with her own banner.

Poisoning her army will have to do. I weave past slumbering men and guards sweeping dirt out of a tent, past a soldier cursing the loss of a bet and a few others playing dice and cards. I spy the food stores in the southeast corner of the camp. A livestock pen sits in the way, lightly patrolled.

As I move around it, I hear whispers. Cries. Red eyes flash—ghuls? Why would ghuls be lurking among the livestock?

I draw closer. The shadows in the pen resolve into faces and bodies. People. Almost all are Scholars, chained at the wrists and packed tightly, lash marks suppurating on their visible skin.

No detours, Elias said, but he did not know of the slaves. I cannot let them remain here.

There are only two soldiers guarding the pen’s gate, likely because the rest of the army is within shouting distance. The whips at their belts turn my vision red. I ready my bow. Mother could nock two arrows so quickly that they hit their targets at almost the same time. But I am not so skilled. I will have to be quick.

I nock, aim, and fire. Nock, aim, fire. The first Martial goes down quietly, clutching his throat. But my second shot flies into the darkness. As the remaining guard draws his scim and shouts for aid, drums thunder an alarm from across the camp. Our fighters have been spotted.

The quiet is shattered. The guard I shot at bellows at the top of his lungs. “Attack! Slave pens! Attack!” A bell peals, the drums bellow, horses gallop past, soldiers stumble from their tents half-armed. I put an arrow in the shouting Martial, wincing at the squelch it makes when it hits his chest. He topples back and I break the lock on the pen with two strikes of my dagger.

The Scholars within stare out, bewildered. Of course. They cannot see me.

I dare not risk dropping my invisibility. I do not trust my ability to raise it again if I see the Nightbringer.

“Run!” I say. “Into the desert!”

They stumble out, some of them chained, others too wounded to do more than limp. Martials appear almost immediately and cut them down. I realize then how stupid I have been. Even if the Scholars could run, they have nowhere to go. If they clear the camp, they cannot navigate the desert.

Always us. Always my people.

“Oof—”An emaciated Scholar runs into me. I jump quickly out of the way, for I must get to the food stores. Time runs short. But the camp is chaos, the path to the supply wagons blocked.

The boy I ran into bolts past me. One moment he is cutting between two tents. The next, he stiffens, a scim driven through his chest.

The Martial who killed him tears his blade out and moves on. The boy falls.

I run for him and find him on his side, gaze glassy. I pull his head into my lap and stroke his hair. And then, though I know it is foolish to do so, I drop my invisibility. I do not want him to die alone.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper to him. “I’m so sorry.”

I want to ask his name. How old he is. But I know his name. It is Mirra. Jahan. Lis. Nan. Pop. Izzi. I know how old he is. He is the three-year-old child thrown into an inky ghost wagon before he can understand why. He is the eighty-year-old grandfather slain in his home for daring to look at a Martial soldier wrong.

He is me. So I stay with him until his last breath leaves him. This, at least, I can do.

I have a moment to close his eyes, but nothing more. Bootsteps thunder behind me, and I turn with barely enough time to parry the blade of an aux soldier. He bowls me over, and I scream, claw for a handful of dirt, and fling it in his face. When he rears back, I shove my blade into his stomach, then push him off. I try to draw my invisibility again, but it does not come.

In the distance, I see Elias atop a massive horse he’s stolen. He is clad in all black, his face half-hidden by a kerchief. With his gray eyes flashing as cold as the scims in his hands, it is impossible not to see him as the creature of war he was bred to be. His scims gleam with blood, and he destroys the men trying to kill him, moving with dizzying speed. The Martials around me stream toward him, determined to take him down.

I break away from the heart of the chaos and run for the supply wagons. Goats and pigs careen past me, and I barely avoid a goring. Gibran must have succeeded in opening the livestock pens.

The supply wagons are in sight when something at the edge of my vision makes me turn. Amid the stampeding animals and shouting soldiers and burning wagons, I see a flicker of black. A flash of sun eyes.

The Nightbringer.

“Rehmat?” I whisper to the dark. “Are you ready?”

“He waits for you, Laia,” Rehmat says. “I implore you—do not do this.”

“You promised to help,” I say through gritted teeth. “You swore.”

“I am helping you. We will get the scythe. But this is not the way.”

My heart quails in warning, perhaps. Or weakness. The latter, I think. I make my way toward where I saw the jinn. I reach for my invisibility. Disappear, Laia! For a moment, the magic eludes me. But then I have it in my grasp and draw it over me quickly.

“You need to distract him, Rehmat,” I say. “Just long enough that I—”

“Laia.” A warm hand closes around mine, and I jump.

“No detours.” Elias looks into my eyes, his own magic piercing mine easily. “You didn’t get to the wagons.”

“How—”

“I saw you. With the boy who died.” Sorrow flashes across his face, and his hands shake. I think back to the night in Blackcliff’s barracks after the Third Trial. He looked just like this. Like his heart had been razed. “Come. We need to get out of here.”

“The Nightbringer has to die, Elias,” I say. “That scythe he wears is the only way to kill him. And it’s here. He’s here.”

“He expects you to take it.” Elias does not release me, though I tug at him. “Don’t do what he expects, Laia.”

I glance toward where I saw the Nightbringer, and the scythe flashes again. It is so close.

Too close, I realize. Too obvious. Rehmat and Elias are right. The Nightbringer is trying to lure me in.