The first thing Henry noticed when he came to was the throbbing pain. Like something was trapped in his skull, attempting to beat its way out. He gritted his teeth and raised a hand to feel the spot.

"You hurt?"

Henry jerked up at the tiny voice in his ear. He felt small paws on his arm, though they instantly disappeared when he moved, and the voice sounded a fearful shriek.

"What the—?" He sat up and looked around. It took a few moments for his eyes to adjust and for his brain to process that the lake was gone. Henry sat on a cold stone floor, apparently in a type of sinkhole. He estimated it was some forty feet deep and fairly narrow, surrounded by smooth walls with no means of climbing out. An image of the hole they'd found Gregor's father in flashed in his mind, and a shiver slithered down his spine.

"Shh . . . I am certain he did not mean to scare you!"

Henry jerked around when a different voice spoke soothingly. Hoarse and yet remarkably high-pitched, it sounded like it belonged to an elderly man.

He suspiciously fixated on the source—a corner cloaked in shadow. From somewhere beyond the sinkhole shone a bit of light; it was barely enough to see shadowy shapes. When his eyes had adjusted, Henry made out the hunched-over figure of a rodent. A jolt of adrenaline reanimated him, and he quickly rose further. His hand jerked to where his sword had been, but it only grabbed air.

"Calm your murderous instincts; they're prisoners too."

Only then did Henry understand that the rodent was not a gnawer—it was a nibbler. His hand lowered. "You are here too," he said without turning towards the corner from where Thanatos had spoken.

"I'd much rather be anywhere else," came the instant reply.

Henry rolled his eyes but did not fire back. He was tired of arguing. Instead, he turned his attention to the elderly nibbler. In the sparse light, he eventually made out long and ragged gray fur. A pair of black, pearly eyes stared at him with caution? No . . . concern.

"I am sorry if she startled you . . ." The nibbler spoke up again. "You have to forgive her; she is not yet old enough to understand."

At first, Henry had no idea who he was referring to, but then he saw it: a tiny pink nose peeking over the shoulder of the elderly nibbler, followed by a snout and paws. Finally, the baby mouse fully emerged from behind the senior one. She was all white and so small that Henry would have been able to hold her in one hand. Her black eyes were large and round and fixed on him.

Henry eyed the baby, fighting unease. He wasn't particularly great with children. Mostly, he found them obnoxious and annoying. At least the ones he'd had to deal with in the past.

"Never mind." Henry shrugged after a short pause and sat up, taking a look around. It was just the four of them in the sinkhole—not like any more would have fit in. "So, where are we?"

"In the prison of the gnawers," the elderly nibbler replied.

Henry groaned. He had suspected as much—he knew what gnawer prisons looked like. This was just what he needed. Only a day ago, he had been in that cave, craving an adventure more than anything. Henry picked at his jacket. Now, he could not even complain. Then again . . . His gaze flew up toward where he made out Thanatos' silhouette—this wouldn't have happened had they not argued. Why had they argued? And that minutes after witnessing a flock of gnawers leaving the area?

As Henry attempted to recall the argument, he found all his anger and frustration had drained. All he felt was overwhelming fatigue, the still-new sensation of regret, and the dull pain in his head from where the rat had knocked him out. What had they even gotten so angry about?

Right. The crawler issue. Henry bit his lip, attempting not to remember the part that had followed. You are good for nothing. He was good for—

"I am sorry to disturb, but we . . . we have not introduced ourselves." The elderly nibbler's voice made him jump. "The fact that we are prisoners should not be an excuse to forget our manners."

"You're right." Henry nodded, and the nibbler gave something like a smile.

"My name is Platonius," he said. "And this is my granddaughter, Curie."

"Henry," Henry replied. Then, gesturing at the flier, he said, "He is Thanatos."

"I can speak for myself, you know?" Thanatos hissed, though there was a considerable amount of suppressed pain in his voice now.

Unsettled, Henry scooted closer to find out the reason, and only then saw that the flier's wings were shackled together with a chain held by heavy rocks—the kind that none of them would be able to move with their bare hands. It made sense that the gnawers tied him down or he would fly away, but the chain was so tight that the flier struggled to breathe.

"You don't look so good."

"Neither do you, but what else is new?"

"Alright, suit yourself." Henry thought it was more likely for the earth to spontaneously crack open than for the proud flier to admit he was in pain.

So Henry turned to the nibblers again and asked how they had ended up here. Platonius told him that he and Curie had been on a trade mission to a nearby crawler colony. "She was not supposed to come," he said. "She hid in one of our crates before we departed."

Henry laughed, and he saw that Platonius would have loved to join him had the matter not turned out so serious.

"They ambushed us and stole our goods. Bohr and Turing, who were with us as well, fought vigilantly, but they were killed. The gnawers took Curie and I prisoner. For the sake of . . . later entertainment. Before you ask, I do not know what that entails, no. We have been here since yesterday, and, well . . ." He scooted around nervously. "There is no food."

When Henry asked for water, Platonius pointed at an already half-empty bucket in the corner. Henry quickly carried it over and quenched his thirst, then offered it to Thanatos. The flier did not protest this time, allowing Henry to pour some of the last water into his mouth.

He had to conserve some of it. Henry knew not for how long they would have to stay here. He placed a hand on his stomach and suddenly found himself infinitely glad that he had eaten that dried fish during their trip. He'd see for how long it would keep him satiated.

***

Time flew by, and nobody could tell how much. Henry spent a while sitting with his back against the wall, trying to keep his mind occupied so that it would not terrify him with visions of what the gnawers intended to be their fate.

Henry had heard and told enough scary stories about the prisons of the gnawers as a child to have more than a few vivid images in his head of what they might do to them. Eventually, Curie scampered over and curled up against his leg to sleep. Henry did not chase her away. He was surprised by how comforting the little body by his side felt. It reminded him that they were still alive. And he would keep it that way, Henry thought. He would . . . survive. It seemed like a good time to revive his challenge.

He looked around; they were all miserable. Platonius lay coiled into a ball on his side, trembling. Thanatos beside him heaved against the press of the heavy chains. Henry placed a hand on top of Curie and felt her tiny heartbeat hammer against his palm. It will all be okay, he thought, shutting his eyes too.

Henry hadn't planned on sleeping, but then something tickled his nose, and he jerked awake. Curie's large eyes were inches from his face, and so were her whiskers, which had tickled him.

Henry reached to pluck her from his chest, and only then did he realize he had sunken against Thanatos in his sleep. He immediately jerked away and grabbed Curie before she could fall. Contrary to his expectations, the flier didn't stir. Had he even noticed him?

Curie giggled, and her whiskers grazed his face again. Henry tried to contain the incoming sneeze but failed, joltingly waking everyone in the sinkhole. Everyone groaned, and Thanatos fell over onto his stomach; only the baby nibbler laughed more.

"Sorry," Henry mumbled, setting Curie down next to him. "There, your grandpa is over there." He pointed at Platonius, but she kept staring up at him instead.

"Ganpa tired. I play!" she called in reply and placed her tiny paws on his crossed leg. "Henny play?"

Henry burst into laughter at the way she pronounced his name, then shook his head. "No, I'm not in the mood to play."

He insistently hoped she'd lose interest if he refused, but she ran over to Thanatos next, nudging him as well. "Come play! Henny and Thansos play!"

"Curie, leave them be," Platonius beckoned her. "They are still tired."

Henry found himself infinitely glad that she seemed to obey, scurrying over to Platonius, not without throwing multiple curious glances back.

"Would you kindly get off me now?"

Henry jumped when Thanatos beside him spoke and only then did he realize that he was still leaning on the flier's wing. "Sorry." He scooted away and blew out a breath.

"So you are capable of apologies."

Henry shot him a glare. "What would you like me to apologize for? Being good for nothing?" He hated that even repeating the words made his eyes water.

Thanatos threw him a long look. "Fine, I may have overstepped myself. I will admit that you are not good for nothing if you acknowledge the flaw in your way of thinking."

"What flaw?"

Thanatos sighed. "I am honestly astounded by the extent of the bubble you must have grown up in," he said. "Do you truly, honestly understand and stand by what you said there? When you deemed one life more precious than another based on something such as physical strength?"

Henry stared at the flier defiantly but finally gave it an honest thought. The strong survived, and the weak died. He had never questioned that, regarded it as a proven fact for as long as he could remember. He had seen it happen, after all. More times than he could count. How could it not be true?

"Yes," he finally replied. "Being strong means being better equipped to survive. So is the law of nature."

"Well, that is not wrong," Thanatos groaned. "But that is not my point. My point is that all lives are equally valuable. Just because the strong are well-equipped to survive, that doesn't strip the weak of the right to seek aid with them."

"But what do the strong get out of the whole thing?" Henry exclaimed. "This seems like a lousy deal to me."

"Has nobody ever taught you the simplest principles of communities? The strong help the weak. This was one of the first things my mother taught me," Thanatos said quietly. "They do it not for selfish reasons but because they feel honor-bound to do so."

Henry didn't reply. Of course, he had heard that before. Vikus talked of little else but of helping and making friends with the weak. And for that, Henry had deemed him unfit to rule. And that had not changed.

If that was truly how it worked, it was a faulty system. Henry clenched his jaw. "If that is how it works, why did nobody help my parents when they were killed?" he asked.

Thanatos instantly fell silent.

"Or Luxa's parents?" Henry continued. "Or all the others who died before my eyes, whom I couldn't save. Who I was not strong enough to save. Were they not considered weak enough to have a claim to this "honor-bound" help?" Henry hissed, cursing the way his voice cracked.

He remembered the day his parents had died perfectly. He had been eight and playing in the nursery. A hoard of officials, among them Luxa's parents, Vikus, and Solovet, had entered with stern faces and taken him and Nerissa to the High Hall, where the bodies of their parents had been laid out.

He remembered the tears and wails of his sister and so many others. He remembered walking up to his mother, tugging at her sleeve, and begging her to get up, even though, at the back of his head, he had known it the moment he had first seen her and his father lying there—that she would never get up again.

He had spent very little time with his parents; his mother had been busy with her studies, and his father had occupied himself with court business or had spent his time out fighting. Nurses and teachers had raised him and Nerissa, and not a single day had passed since they had died that Henry hadn't spent wishing he would have gotten the chance to get to know them better.

"Why are the strong expected to make the sacrifice?" Henry whispered. "So many I know have died with those words on their lips, but for what? Can you tell me?"

Thanatos didn't respond for a while. He was silent for so long that Henry thought he wouldn't speak anymore when he raised his voice again: "I do not know what drove your loved ones to death. I do not know their stories. But consider that having lost people doesn't give you the right to condemn others to the same fate."

For the first time, Henry actually listened up. "What?"

"Those crawlers earlier," Thanatos continued, "do you not think they had families as well? Individuals who cared for them and who suffered a loss when they died?"

It was difficult to question a belief that was so deeply ingrained in him, but at that moment, Henry found he did exactly that. It was hard not to when the point was based on such seamless logic.

"And if you still need a selfish reason to risk your life for someone weaker, there are plenty of those as well," Thanatos said when Henry did not reply. "Physical strength is not all one can give or contribute, you know? Those who know they depend on protection will come up with means to repay their saviors. And so the deal becomes fair in the end."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that everyone is different, Henry," Thanatos exclaimed. "We all have different talents or wares to offer. Take those crawlers, for example. You do realize that their kind, like the nibblers," he pointed at Platonius and Curie with one of his ears, "are some of the humans' closest trading partners? I assume you would like to eventually eat something other than raw fish, or perhaps acquire proper fuel and torches? They would have likely swamped you with the stuff for rescuing two of their own."

Henry stared at him and suddenly cursed himself for not considering this. "Hey, why did you not mention that earlier?" he called. "We could have avoided this whole argument! Torches and food . . . I would risk my life for that in an instant."

Thanatos looked at him like he had lost his mind for a moment. "Of course you would," he mumbled. "Why does this surprise me?" Before Henry had the time to complain, he continued: "I did not bring it up because I believe in saving lives for other reasons than material gain. And then I assumed that you would have known this. Have you never had any classes on diplomacy or economics?"

"I did," Henry grumbled. "I did, however, sleep through most of them." Once more, he found himself regretting his lack of interest in yet another set of classes and wondering if he would ever have the opportunity to make up for what he hadn't appreciated enough at the time.

"As I imagine you did with all your other classes too?" said Thanatos with a figurative, raised eyebrow.

"I could have easily been an excellent student!" Henry shot back. "I just . . . didn't feel like putting in the effort."

"And what did you put effort into?"

"Only what I deemed worthy. I am an excellent warrior." Henry straightened out his jacket. "And a master of the—"

"—aerial, yes, so you have already claimed." Thanatos looked at him pensively. "You do not give up easily," he finally said. "You are quick to face your fear, and you do cling to your hope, which, I will admit, should not be underestimated."

"So I am not good for nothing!"

"You are not hopeless," Thanatos amended. "If you are indeed set on doing more out here than merely surviving, you will need discipline and humility, and to learn to put in effort."

"Hey, I can put in effort!"

"Into things that will actually aid you."

Henry pulled his knees to his chest. "You will see," he hissed. "I will do it. Here, in this prison, I vow that I will get us out of here and eventually stand before you as an outcast who is not only alive but also successful. And then you will eat your words."

The flier eyed him with something that, to Henry's ire, looked a lot like bemusement. "Is that what motivates you? Proving others wrong?"

"It is the greatest and most satisfying of all motivations."

Before Thanatos could respond, a sorrowful wail cut into their bickering. Both their heads jerked toward the nibblers, who had curled up together on the far side of the pit. Henry understood that it was Curie who had wailed. Because then she did it again, and he had to suppress the urge to cover his ears. The baby wailed and whimpered, digging her tiny paws through her grandfather's fur.

"She must be starving," mumbled Thanatos, and Henry heard his own stomach growl as well.

In an attempt to make up for the lack of sustenance, Henry dished out the last of their water, but it did not help much.

It was then that Platonius began speaking. Hushed, but not so quietly that Henry didn't understand when he focused on his voice. He sat Curie on his lap and told her a story—a fairytale. The tale was well-known, and he had heard and re-enacted at least ten variants of it in his childhood: a heroic prince wielded a magic sword and defeated the evil king of the gnawers to save a beautiful princess.

Even though the tale was meant for children, Henry found himself eagerly listening. It was the only semi-exciting thing happening, and Platonius was a great storyteller. By playing with intonation and word choices, he managed to deliver the cliche story in a fairly entertaining way.

Curie was enthralled. She seemingly forgot her hunger and started excitedly kneading her grandfather's fur. When Platonius concluded the story with the obligatory promise of a happily ever after, she jumped down and started running in circles, making excited squeaking sounds that Henry couldn't understand. But Platonius replied frequently, so he thought she was speaking in Nibbler.

Finally, she ran up to her grandfather again, excitedly exclaiming, "I princess, yes? I princess! And you are my ganpa-king?"

Platonius smiled and nodded. "If you say so."

Curie let out a high-pitched, happy squeal and dashed over to Henry and Thanatos, who had watched the scene quietly so far, not entirely sure what was going on. She approached the flier first and put her front paws on his head. "You are evil gnawy king?"

Henry snorted with laughter at the idea of Thanatos being a gnawer king, but before he could begin to make fun of him, she had already scooted over to Henry.

"You are prince!"

Henry choked and coughed, then glared down at the baby. A . . . prince? The word alarmed him, but as he looked into Curie's round, pleading eyes, he understood she'd meant it in the context of the fairytale.

"I'm not a prince." Henry averted his gaze. Whatever the baby was planning, he had no desire to represent any fairytale prince. Despite having been an actual prince, Henry knew perfectly well that he had never been quite cut out for that image.

"Please!" Curie nudged his leg. "You are a great prince! You save me, you save princess!"

"What do you even mean?" he asked and shook his head, finally glancing at Platonius for help. The elderly nibbler seemed both amused and a little embarrassed. "She wants you to play with her," he said. "You can take pride in the fact that she wants to make you the prince. She only does that with people she really likes."

"Fine, I will take pride in it." He shot Curie a crooked grin. "But first of all, I am really not fairytale prince material. And second of all—"

"Please," Platonius pleaded. "She cannot yet grasp the gravity of the situation; she must be occupied, lest she starts weeping again, and I can only do so much."

"But, I . . ." Henry frowned. "And I mean, Thanatos is still—"

"I can be a gnawer king if I so have to."

Henry jerked around to him, mouth open in protest. But the flier looked only at Curie. "Consider this, Henry—you will get to kill me, even if it's just pretend. Is that not reason enough?"

Henry stared at him for a second, then his mouth snapped shut and he shrugged. "The battle shall be epic, and your defeat grandiose."

Curie's face lit up, and she began to jump up and down excitedly. "You play with me! You play with me!"

Then and there, Henry resigned himself to his fate. "Sure. If the one in chains can, so can I . . . I suppose."

Henry hadn't thought the situation would allow him to enjoy himself, but he found the next half hour flying by as they, albeit haphazardly, reenacted Platonius' fairytale. He wondered if Thanatos found the distraction just as welcome as he did . . . if not more.

Henry and Platonius lifted him up to be a more menacing gnawer king. He allowed the captured Princess Curie to sit on his head, pretending his ears were prison bars. With something like curious intrigue, Henry observed that he became almost a different person around the baby. Gone was the blunt, oftentimes apathetic, and serious attitude he usually wore. To her, he spoke softly and quietly, and Henry would have asked himself why if he had no other things to worry about.

Because—after a bit of toing and froing about what exactly he was supposed to do and how—Henry actually became immersed in the game. It took him back to his childhood when he would roleplay like this with Luxa and Nerissa and occasionally some other children. He had always insisted on playing the villain, though, while Luxa—or sometimes Howard—was the hero and Nerissa, or Stellovet, was the damsel. The only times Henry remembered ever playing pretend as a hero was when he had been by himself.

Now, valiant Prince Henry received the imaginary magic sword from the sacred river and went on an epic quest to save the beautiful princess from the evil gnawer king. Their battle was epic—though mostly imaginary, as Thanatos could barely move. At last, he struck the villain down, saving Princess Curie, who was so excited she had trouble staying in character.

Henry took her up on his palm and made the first step toward King Platonius to "return" her when Thanatos' ears suddenly twitched, and he gave a low hiss that froze the blood in their veins: "Gnawers."

Henry whipped around, and Curie gave a horrified shriek, attempting to hide in his hair. Henry squinted against the darkness and made out that a stone plate hanging from two ropes, like a simple elevator, was now lowered into the pit. On it stood two gnawers.

"Time for you to play!" one of them announced, and the other giggled. They jumped down and cornered Henry, forcing him toward the plate.

"We were already doing that, actually," Henry hissed before he obeyed, but the gnawers ignored his glare. When he was secured, they removed the boulders from the ends of the chains that tied Thanatos and loaded him onto the elevator, not without taking a few scratches from the flier. The nibblers they ignored completely.

They pulled the elevator up, and Curie's scared whimpers were all that followed them out, echoing through the halls long after they had left the pit behind.

Henry had no idea where the gnawers were taking them. The trip through an unfamiliar series of tunnels took maybe five minutes; the only notable sound was the harrowing echo of their steps. But then Thanatos' ears twitched, and Henry knew that meant he heard something.

It took another minute until Henry finally heard it too: a distinct sound, growing ever louder. Dreadfully, he identified it as the sound of a crowd.

Before Henry could even formulate questions to ask, they were ushered out of a tunnel shaped like an archway into a large, brightly illuminated space. His eyes took a moment to adjust to the sudden light, but as his vision cleared, he was struck by the horrifying realization that he was in the center of an . . . arena.