There was no time. Henry's gaze remained fixed on the emaciated form of Gregor's father, whom they had just secured on Aurora's back. Seconds later, Ares under him lifted off and soared out of the pit, closely following Aurora. Was it time?

No. It was not time yet.

Henry found himself glancing around, looking for traces of the gnawers, but of course, they were out of sight. Waiting for . . . his signal. He forcefully unclenched his jaw; it was not time yet. Why was it not time yet?

He made a face, realizing that he was stalling. Ares landed close to the others, and Henry gingerly slid off his back. Why was he stalling? He had no time for some wretched insecurity, not now.

Henry wiped his palms on his shirt, observing the others. Luxa was saying something to Gregor as they tried to steady his father; Ares approached the two to help. Henry almost smiled. Memories assaulted him at her sight—images of what she would do or say if he went through with this.

. . . And what if he didn't? He thought suddenly. What if he just got on Ares' back and flew home with them?

An unwanted wave of homesickness, a desire to forget his plans and let everything stay as it had always been, hit him, and he dug his nails into his palms until the physical pain drowned out the ache in his heart.

His eyes met Ares and jerked away . . . finding Luxa instead. He stared at her and tried not to see the girl he loved like a sister. He did not think of pillow forts, ghost stories, or nightly swimming in the Spout. Not of forbidden expeditions, pranks, or adventures. He forced himself to see the girl he had tried to condition himself to despise. For everything she had and he didn't, would never have.

Then and there, Henry banished the fond memories and feelings her face evoked from his heart. Now was not the time for weakness. Not now, not when he had come so far. Not when they all counted on him. Gorger did, as did his entire species. When had any members of his own species last needed him?

To his face, they claimed that they did, and behind his back, they whispered. Troublemaker. Disgrace. Disappointment. He is utterly unworthy of his title and his status, and I have no faith that this will ever change, here, and if he doesn't learn to at least fit in his designated place soon, I seriously don't know what else to do with him anymore, there.

It was not fair. He was sick. Sick of people with priorities that their—Luxa's—life mattered so much more than his. Sick of always being second. He was older, smarter, stronger. She was just as flawed, but his were the only flaws that seemed to ever matter.

If you are truly strong, you will not tolerate silver. You cannot. You want gold? Go and take it. Henry blew out a breath. Go and take it . . . Silverchild. He would, and Luxa would not stop him. Not this time.

Wouldn't it all be different once he pulled this off? For a moment, he allowed himself the fantasy—that it would work, that they would change their minds. That all failures and past scandals would be meaningless. Once this was over, he'd be the hero who had ended this nonsensical, century-old conflict . . . wouldn't he? A new era was nigh. Upon his signal, it would come.

Wasn't that all he needed to make his silver into gold? The forgotten, dismissed, discarded Prince to end it all.

. . . But it was not time yet.

"We must fly now, Gregor," Luxa said into his thoughts, tipping a large swallow from a blue bottle into the mouth of Gregor's father. Henry stiffened; he really had not much time left.

"We shall heal him properly in Regalia," she said. "Henry, help me secure him." She struggled to tie him to Aurora with a length of silk that Gox was rapidly spinning. "Henry?"

He could not avert his gaze from her. It was now or never. A strange calmness suddenly washed away his anxiety; his course of action lay, clear as light, ahead of him. It was time.

"No, Luxa," he said. "We have no need to hurry now."

All eyes were on him instantly, of course. Most were confused. All save Ripred's. When Henry met Ripred's gaze, a fresh shiver of uncertainty slithered down his spine. In an instant, he knew that the gnawer had seen through him and swallowed the uprising panic. There was no need to panic. Not anymore, but . . .

"No, I believe Henry has taken care of everything." Ripred's voice was calm, yet Henry still found it threatened him, accused him.

His eyes flew up to a tunnel entrance, where he spotted the tip of a rat's tail, and this time the sight that should have been threatening, had been threatening all his life, oddly . . . quenched his fear.

No . . . he frowned. This wasn't right. Something about this wasn't right. His eyes flew back to the others, to Ripred; he had . . . taken care of everything. He had made a plan, and he would go through with it. He took a final deep breath.

"Henry had to."

Henry had . . . Henry had done this. Henry, whom they now gawked at. He felt like a passive bystander, his eyes fixated on his own body. He observed himself raising two fingers to his lips to give a long whistle. It had been Mareth who had taught him that. Henry had been only six years old, and he had not stopped whistling for days until everyone was begging him to stop. He smiled.

Then his smile dropped when Gregor said something. He hadn't paid attention to what it had been, and he refused to look at them. He could not. He didn't want to. But, of course, he eventually did.

His gaze flew past Ares and Aurora and met Luxa's, and the wall of strength he had built around his heart crumbled instantly. She could always do that, he thought. Now her eyes were staring holes into his. Silently asking, pleading for an explanation.

His head was spinning; there was so much to say and not enough time. He still had to try. It was the only way . . . the only thing he could do at that moment. He didn't want any of them to die, yet the thought of her death was the only one that was so surreal that he refused to even indulge in it.

"Sorry, cousin. But . . ." His own voice sounded strange, he thought. Hoarse yet firm, crumbling yet determined. "I had no choice. We were headed for disaster under Vikus. He would ally us to the weakest when our only real chance of survival is to ally ourselves with those who are most powerful. We will join forces with the rats and rule together, you and I."

It was the ideal scenario. For a second, he saw her at his side; he saw her with him through all this. Whenever he had fantasized about how things would be, she was always there by his side. She always understood, in the end.

This coup was drastic, yes, but what was he to do? Henry gritted his teeth. Sit idle and watch more of his or her loved ones be killed in this pointless war? It was pointless, Henry thought; she had to understand that. They all had to understand.

Only if we ally ourselves with our enemy and overcome our fear by facing it, he thought, will we feel safe. Will we feel safe at last.

When nobody moved, Henry sucked in an enraged breath and scoffed. If we ally ourselves with our fear, we will feel safe. He sank his teeth into that truth, refusing to let it go. He would not die like his parents, like Luxa's parents, and like so many others he had known, loved, and lost. He would create that new era. He would . . . survive. Be it at the cost of his lifelong beliefs, be it at the cost of the loss and suffering of others. At any cost.

Could they . . . could Luxa not understand that it was worth it? You and me, he thought, looking at her. You and I, like we are. Like we always have been. Yet in the back of his head, Henry already knew her answer. He knew her far too well not to.

Breaking the stifling silence at last and without looking away, Luxa confirmed: "Not now, Henry. Not ever."

It was then that his delusion—his fantastical heroism that he had dreamed of—truly shattered. The shards dug into his heart, driving themselves in deep. Why could she not see? He bit his lip until it hurt.

"You must, Luxa," he urged. "You have no choice. You must join us or die."

It always worked, he thought. Threats. His voice was cold, but he could not suppress the tremble entirely. Henry cursed it, attempting to drown the wretched fear in his familiar anger.

He clawed for his last remaining strength, but it slipped through his fingers until all he felt was anxiety and discomfort in the skin he had decided to wear. He sensed the suddenly uneasy tightness of his crown and tugged at it crossly. How much would he have loved to don the skin of false confidence he had gotten so used to that it sometimes felt real? But at that moment, he couldn't be strong. He could only be Henry.

"This is as good a day as any," said Luxa. "Perhaps better."

She sounded a thousand years old and a thousand miles away, but she did not sound scared. Something in her words, in the way she said them, sent a spear through Henry's heart.

She would die before even listening to his point. She would not be moved to question her own foolish stubbornness. That realization finally sent a surge of the rage he had been looking for through him. It drowned out the last drop of uncertainty, and his heart hardened to stone.

Well, should she die, he thought. Die, with the rest of them, the fools, if that was what she wanted. Because if she stayed foolish, she would die anyway, sooner or later. And she was right—today was as good a day as any.

"So they promised you a throne, did they? Really, Henry, you are not fool enough to believe they will deliver it."

Henry whipped around to Ripred, who quickly broke into laughter at his own words.

"They will deliver it," Henry cried. It will be yours, of course. Gorger may have his . . . episodes, but he is never unfair. It wasn't really about the throne, but how else would they achieve their plans? "Together, we will rid the Underland of crawlers and spinners and share their land among us," he hissed. Throne or no throne, if he had no power, he was weak. And if he was weak, he would fail. He would fall. He would not fall.

"But why? Why would you do that?" Gregor muttered, aghast.

Of course, the Overlander was much too softhearted to ever understand his point. Once more, he wondered if Sandwich had been in his right mind when he had called this nothing of a boy a warrior.

"I am tired," Henry spat, "of having cowards and weaklings as allies! The rats, at least, are not guilty of that. Together, we will protect each other. Together, we will rule. Together, we will be safe." His voice cracked. "It has been decided!" They had decided. They had promised—

"Together, together," Ripred mocked in a singsong voice. "What a lot of togetherness you are planning. And what a lot of solitude awaits you."

Henry had already opened his mouth to fire back, but something about those words unsettled him. It was the same feeling that had told him Luxa would refuse his proposal. But . . . Henry shook his head. Strands of hair swept into his face, held only by the suddenly awfully cold metal of his crown. No more nonsense. He had no time, no energy, no—

"Ah, here are your friends now."

Henry's gaze darted up when Ripred spoke again, only to almost smile in relief. He was not alone anymore. He was getting sick of explaining. Should they all die if they were too foolish to see, he thought. He did not care.

Before Henry had time to dwell on the fact that he did care, a number of maybe fifty gnawers streamed into the cave from all sides. Soon, the little group found itself surrounded. There was fear in their eyes, uncertainty, and pain. Only he was not scared. He was not scared. His nails dug into his palms. He would not . . . could not be scared.

Then the circle around them widened, leaving a gap. A huge silver gnawer strode into the space. Jammed over one ear was a gold crown, the one that had once belonged to Luxa's father. The sight made him realize that he was still uncertain about his feelings toward it.

"King Gorger." Ripred greeted the gnawer king mockingly, giving a low bow. "I did not hope we would have the honor of your presence here."

They exchanged a few words, but Henry ignored them. His eyes remained fixed on Gorger, impatiently. Why was he not acknowledging him?

"We must thank you for bringing the warrior so neatly into our paws," Gorger finally said. "It was Henry's job, really, but no matter, as long as he is here. I wanted to be sure. I wanted to see him for myself before I killed him."

Something about his words made more fury boil in Henry's gut. What did he mean by "it was Henry's job, really"? He had done his job, and he would not let anyone diminish his achievement, especially not Ripred.

But before he could step forward and protest, Gorger spotted Gregor. "So this is he?" the king asked. "I expected so much more."

A smirk appeared on Henry's face; at least he was not the only one being mocked. Then again, what happened to Gregor was the least of his concerns now. He stared at Gorger intensely. What was he waiting for? Tell them, he screamed in his head. Tell me here, in front of everyone, that I did well. That I did what was necessary, what was strong. That I deserve their respect. Tell them so that Ripred can eat his words. Solitude awaits you, my ass. Tell them so that they understand!

But Gorger did nothing of the sort. Instead, his gaze was on Ripred, who strode through the rows of the king's followers now, pointing out disappointments.

Henry had just gathered enough courage to address Gorger himself when Ripred suddenly came up behind him, nudging him forward. "Go, go, go, go. Stand with your friends."

Henry had not expected Ripred, so he tripped and fell forward, barely stumbling into place beside King Gorger, and as if that was not enough, he managed to step on his tail in the process. Henry's face flared with shame, and the coppery taste of blood entered his mouth. He forced himself to stop biting his lip; his vision blurred. Stand with your friends.

Henry barely managed to keep himself standing when an angry Gorger whipped his tail out from under him, slashing Gox in half. All the gnawers howled with hoarse laughter; it dug into his ear and his heart.

They were laughing at him. He blinked rapidly to purge the rising tears; he wouldn't cry. He couldn't. He couldn't make himself even more of a laughing stock. What was he, even? A sixteen-year-old boy who had thought he was strong enough, capable enough, smart enough to be their ally. At that moment, Henry felt not like any of those things. He felt ten years younger—a child who had insisted on sitting with the grown-ups and then made a fool of himself.

This was a nightmare, he thought. It had to be. Soon, he would wake next to Luxa and Ares, shaking his head about it.

No . . . it was real. It had to be. The laughter around him was real. It burned in Henry's ears, penetrated his every fiber, and filled him with a desire to ram his sword up their gloating throats. Their all's . . . but especially Ripred's.

As the spinner's dead body met the floor, the gnawers quieted. "Why has everyone stopped laughing?" Gorger instantly complained. "Go on, laugh!" he ordered, and his followers fell into a strange bleating.

Their king stretched out on the ground in a pose of complete relaxation to bask in it, still ignoring Henry like he didn't even exist.

Hot fury boiled within him. It bubbled in his stomach, rose in his throat, and Henry could barely keep it from escaping his mouth. He knew he shouldn't yell at Gorger, but at the same time, what he wanted to demand was right. It was his promised, earned, deserved right. After all he had done, it was!

But he didn't say a word. He did not look back at them. None of them. Not Luxa, not Gregor, who now spoke to Gorger, not Ares, and especially not Ripred. Instead, Henry waited for Gorger to address him. Like a good little errand boy, it burned in his mind.

No. Maybe he simply lacked patience. That had to be it. He would be patient. Just once in his life, he would be.

***

What finally ripped Henry out of his enraged mist was Gregor, who suddenly leaped over the silver back of Gorger. A howl of protest arose in the cave. Henry jerked back and stared after the Overlander, perplexed. What was he doing? It almost looked like he was headed for the . . . cliff.

Henry froze. He stumbled when gnawers began to push him aside to chase after the Overlander and fell, painfully scraping his knees and palms. When Henry looked up again, he instantly knew that he had to get away somehow. He had to get to higher ground, or he would be pulled along by the screaming stream of gnawers that had formed around him, heading for the cliff.

Henry's gaze automatically darted to Ares, but his bond's eyes were distant and dark. Of course. Of course, he would not help him.

Henry hadn't allowed himself to indulge in Ares' opinion on all this yet, but what was he going to do other than learn to live with it? They were bonds, so he hardly had a choice. Henry thought maybe that was why he hadn't been overly preoccupied with him. If there was someone's opinion he didn't have to concern himself with, it was that of Ares.

Yes, Ares didn't make a move to help him now, but his opposition wouldn't last long. It never did. It was his favorite thing about Ares and what made their bond so easy—he always obliged eventually. He just needed time.

Henry turned from him and carefully took a step backward, barely dodging out of the rats' way. The more of them streamed past, the larger the lump of unwanted fear in his throat grew. The issue with Ares' hesitation now was that he had no time to give him. He needed to get out now. Out of—

As his gaze finally met Gorger's again, joy jolted through him. The king was looking at him. Directly at him. But Henry's joy did not last long. Gorger smiled, but it wasn't a pleasant smile.

Henry screamed when the claw of the rat king closed around his arm and he was yanked forward into the wave of running gnawers. His scream was swallowed by the deafening screeches around him. He struggled to free himself from Gorger's grasp; with each second, his fear grew and merged into a full-blown panic. He didn't want to be here. He wanted to—

Gorger was a fast runner; he had passed most of his gnawers now and was at Gregor's tail. Only when Henry saw the Overlander leap with his own eyes and felt Gorger follow did he realize he was falling as well.

A single moment of searing panic speared his skull as his eyes met those of the rat king. Is he insane? He thought. Were they all insane? He expected some sort of explanation in Gorger's eyes but his blood froze in his veins when he instead saw mockery. He was mocking him. Gorger's eyes, filled with more hatred than Henry had ever seen in a living being, pierced his very soul and screamed: If I am to die, you will die with me.

Confusion, then anger, then fear, and helpless desperation swarmed Henry's head; he squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. The sensation of falling swept over him. It was not new—far from it.

The moment he fully processed that he was falling—not dead yet, not lost entirely—Henry opened his eyes again, and his fear vanished. Instead, he grinned. Grinned at Gorger mockingly himself, with oh-so-satisfying dry spite.

No, that's not how this works. I won't die like this. He meant to scream in the face of the rat king. Falling doesn't scare me. It has never scared me before. Ares will save me. Any moment now. Henry's life was on the line now—that should suffice to speed up Ares' acceptance process. He was his bond; it was what bonds did. What bonds were. It was his duty, and Ares had never been undutiful. Maybe this was even good. Maybe it was exactly what the flier needed.

A fresh wave of confidence and faith drowned out the remains of Henry's panic. His gaze flew up to the top of the cliff, and his grin widened when he really saw the black silhouette of his bond leap over the edge.

Then he observed that the cliff had gotten steeper. Rubble and rocks fell alongside them; Henry thought the plateau must have collapsed from the gnawers' weight. But his eyes followed not the rubble; they were on Ares.

As the black flier darted down, Henry prepared himself to be caught. But . . . something was not right. His bond flew, but he did not instantly close in on Henry, as he should.

At first, Henry felt anger. What is he waiting for? He screamed in his head and made a mental note to scold Ares for messing around later.

Then, the anger slowly morphed into worry. Henry dared a glance down and thought Ares had little time left. The floor was closing in on him fast—faster than Henry would have liked. His eyes flew up to Ares again. What was he even doing? It almost looked as if . . . Ares had overshot, closing in on a different falling silhouette. A silhouette that was not him.

Pure and naked fear, at last, pierced Henry's heart when he saw his bond leaping for . . . Gregor.

"Ares!" A desperate scream ripped out of his mouth like it would change anything. Like his breaking voice could summon his bond to his side. But, of course, it could not. Only then, as Ares reached Gregor, spreading his wings to break his fall, did Henry truly process that the flier was not going to catch him. That he would not be caught.

Henry stared at the scene as it unfolded before him in slow motion. The black silhouette of his . . . bond? Winning altitude, and on his back . . . Gregor. They were there, and then . . . out of sight.

Only then, no more than seconds from the ground, did Henry realize that he was actually going to die. Here. Now. Like . . . this.

Raw panic speared his chest, lumped his throat, and clogged his mind. He tried to scream again, to beat the air with his arms, but he could not make a single sound.

Henry saw the sharp rocks, the unmoving stone, and shut his eyes. He curled into a ball, wrapping his arms around himself, and wished for the impact to come sooner rather than later. For it all to be over. All of it. At last.