After a ceaseless stretch of time, Henry's head broke the surface; he retched and his eyes burned as he frantically beat the icy waves to stay on the surface. Hair clung to his face, slipping into his eyes like wet worms. His heavy coat, backpack, and footwear had become lead, intending to drag him under.

When he had blinked and wiped at his eyes enough so that he could see again, he almost wished he couldn't. Behind him was the cliff he had jumped from, and in front of him was a vast, open sea.

Henry barely kept himself steady. Wave after wave crashed into him, not allowing him to find a rhythm. A claw of panic gripped his heart as the water pulled him along like a tiny paper boat.

If water weren't a childhood friend of Henry's, he would already be dead. Though his battle with the waves now was nothing like the days he had spent at the beach with his family, holding swimming competitions and having fun splashing or dragging each other under. He had always been comfortable in the water, always mocked those who could not swim as well as he. It didn't help much now, though.

Henry could swim, but there was nowhere to swim. The cliff he had jumped from was entirely vertical, and no rocks were breaking the foaming, gray swirls of wet rage that would pull at him until he stopped fighting. But Henry would head in a random direction and hope for the best before he ever did that.

Wrestling with the uncontrolled rattling of his teeth, he decided to try swimming parallel to the cliff, hoping it would get shallower eventually or for there to be a spot to climb up.

Even though Henry knew that, under normal circumstances, he could have easily swum for an hour straight or even longer, now he felt like he was not making any progress. His backpack and sword hung on him like weights; the leather of his coat and his boots were wet shackles, limiting his movement so much that he would have lost them in the all-consuming waves if he could.

But as determinedly as the water tugged on him, Henry refused to succumb. He struggled and fought, his challenge beating at the back of his head. He would not let it be a little bath in the waterway that made him lose.

Soon, his swimming became automatic as his limbs numbed from the cold. Henry knew he needed to get out of the water and get warm, or he would soon pass out. At least no monster surfaced from the black depth; no tentacle wrapped around his leg, and no mouth opened beneath to swallow him whole. Not that he could have defended against either, then.

Henry was so focused on moving his more and more tiring limbs that he at first overlooked the distant black silhouette against the ghastly, dim glow of the water.

It had to be an island, maybe half a mile or so from the coast. If it was an island, it could be his salvation. An island had to have an accessible beach. It had to.

Fully aware he was gambling everything on a non-confirmed possibility, Henry began heading toward it. If it turned out to be a product of his lethargic imagination or inaccessible, he wouldn't be worse off than now.

Henry ran on nothing but iron determination as he swam, and when he finally made the island out clearer and spotted the sandy beach on the side facing the mainland, he could have cried with joy.

With the last of his power, Henry dragged himself out of the water and collapsed in the wet sand. At the back of his head, Henry knew that he should get up, ditch the wet clothes, and warm up, but his body refused to obey him.

Laying there, as a refuse on the cold, lone beach, Henry lost all sense for the passage of time. Five minutes may have passed, or five years; all he could do was lay still, passively observing his limbs growing number and colder with each passing second. Until, from the corner of his eye, he suddenly caught movement.

Henry jerked up. His head stung and spun, and his legs nearly gave way, but the surge of adrenaline kept him on his feet. He stumbled forward in the nigh-unbroken darkness until he made out a wall ahead—something like a mountain—and a tunnel leading into it. Not for a single moment did he leave the corner where he'd seen the movement out of sight. The last thing he needed was for whatever creatures inhabited this land to catch him off guard. Not that his current state would have allowed him to be on guard for anything.

But inside, he would be at least somewhat shielded—from the unknown creatures and the biting wind that sunk its icy teeth into every inch of exposed skin.

After the first turn, the sparse light from outside faded. With shaking fingers, Henry managed to light his torch, praising Teslas for giving him one that worked even when wet. His fingers were much too stiff to snap and use echolocation.

He somehow lit the torch and nearly dropped it, with how little control he had over his hands, and leaned on the wall, trying to warm and reanimate his stiff limbs with the meager fire until he trusted his legs to carry him again.

Minutes passed before he could continue walking, comforted by the warm glow of his fire. He needed a cave—somewhere to sit and light a proper fire. The tunnel went on for what felt like an eternity when he finally came to a crossroad; one path was a dead end, a cave with a few stones suited for sitting.

It took all his will not to collapse on the spot. Instead, he stuck his torch into a crack in the floor and peeled off his soaked clothes until he was in his undergarments, then sat as close to the fire as he could. His teeth chattered and icy spears pricked at his skin, but this would do . . . for now.

Henry had no idea how long he sat still, listening to the quiet crackling of the flame. Eventually, his limbs regained feeling, giving in to the fire's warmth. He stared into the fire and thought he was wasting fuel by letting it burn for so long—then again, this was exactly the kind of situation it was for—life or death.

When Henry could move again, he slipped back into his damp, but long and full-sleeved, shirt and upturned his backpack to assess its contents. The containers with the fuel, Ignifer, and extinguisher were waterproof, as were his water bag and the new waterproof container with his notebooks and pencils. The rest—fabrics, cooking utensils, weapons—Henry shook and laid out to dry beside his clothes, then sat back down by the fire that he decided to keep burning for a little longer. Even though he despised himself for it, he feared it going out and leaving him in the dark. As long as he just had light, everything would be okay. As long as he had light . . . life.

Henry wrapped his still-damp coat around himself, hoping it would warm him up faster, and then sat back down. He must have sat there for another ten minutes when his brain started catching up and he realized that he was stranded on an unknown island, half a mile from the coast, with something that he swore had moved nearby . . . alone.

The thought struck him like a tidal wave. Something sparked before his eyes; had he not been sitting, his legs would have given way. What . . . had even happened? He forced himself to remember; they had sat on that cliff, him and Thanatos—Thanatos.

Another unwanted emotion speared him—helplessness. What had happened to the flier? The memory seemed so faded. Maybe this was all a dream—just another terrible nightmare. Henry clutched his right hand, but there was nothing. Maybe, at any moment, he would wake and Thanatos would tease him for being scared of a dream.

Henry clung to what he knew was a wishful fantasy for the safety it promised. The same safety he had so thoughtlessly dismissed. At least his theory that he ended up regretting it every time he began craving an adventure was confirming itself. Had he not been paralyzed with fear, Henry would have laughed.

But even if he hadn't insisted on coming along, Thanatos would have gone without him, and he'd still have been taken, never to return.

Taken . . . the thought was trying to sink in, but couldn't quite find a place in his mind to fit. They had sat at the cliff, and they . . . the spinners had abducted his flier before his eyes. He had never seen or even heard of spinners leaving their territory, let alone attack or kidnap. They were businesspeople, not warriors . . . were they? Had he not deemed them negligible and weak once?

He glanced down at his hand, watched it tremble, and shivered at the coppery taste spreading in his mouth. He forced himself to stop biting his lip. The sensation of powerlessness drowned him. He couldn't have done anything. If he hadn't jumped, he'd have been abducted as well—or worse. But how could running away be the best option?

He and Thanatos had promised they would not risk their lives for one another, and yet here he was . . . wishing he had done it—trying to intervene—even though it would have broken their rule. It was not his obligation, and yet he still felt like a piece of shit.

The feeling that had swept over him when he had understood Ares wasn't going to save him hooked an icy claw into his heart, and, no matter how absurd it was, suddenly Henry feared that Thanatos had felt it when he hadn't attempted to save him. The way Henry had felt when the flier had left him to Cleaver. He remembered the emotions so well that he shuddered. He did not want to ever make anyone feel the way he had that day: utterly and entirely alone.

Henry was so focused on the maelstrom of emotions within that he shrieked up when he could have sworn he caught movement from the corner of his eye again—by the entrance. He jumped up and staggered forward toward the dark arch. "C-Come out!"

A surge of terror rose from the depths of his gut, becoming more pungent with every second. He didn't know exactly what caused it . . . Maybe the unknown location, or the creeping, moving darkness threatening to overtake his fire—maybe everything at once.

Henry suddenly felt very small. He clasped his hands together, trying to swallow. He hadn't felt this way in years, not even atop that rat pile after his fall. He felt like a child. One that had been abandoned in a strange location, unable to call for a familiar soul. Tossed aside and forgotten, unwanted . . . alone.

Henry stumbled back; his hand dug into the wall. Or was it all in his head? Did the hypothermia and the panic distort his perception?

He thought he wouldn't be standing for much longer. His breaths became choppy. A gagging reflex twisted and bent him over. There was something in his throat . . . he clawed at it. Something heavy and thick. Something that wouldn't come out. He gagged. The coolness of the stone touched his forehead, and for the first time, he consciously attempted to calm his breaths. He had felt this way before. He had to fight. He knew how to fight. He had . . . known, at some point, but his mind was blank. Henry squeezed his eyes shut. He needed to do . . . something. But . . .

From the furthest corner of his memory, a little boy clawed his way into Henry's mind. Eight years old, with messed hair and the cold, much too large grip of a weapon in his small hand, clutched so tightly that he had sometimes thought he could never release it again—the boy who had felt this way before.

No, you can't!

Henry jumped when he couldn't tell whether the voice was real or in his head. It was . . . It couldn't be real. His back pressed into cold, unyielding stone.

You want to be the Death Rider when you grow up, no? You're not the Death Rider.

He was so perplexed that he forgot his panic for a moment. Then he remembered who that voice in his head was.

You can't be the Death Rider when you're scared like a sissy. The world should fear you, not the other way around. He is not a hero; he is a legend. He wouldn't be so weak as to throw his life away too. He will survive, and for that, he will be admired. He will be known across the entire Underland as the greatest, strongest, and bravest warrior to have ever lived. But are you strong enough to be him?

Henry stared at . . . himself, back in the old nursery. He was eight again, staring up at the looming mural.

Look at him! He is powerful and unafraid. Doesn't he look like someone to fear? To revere? If you want to be him, you cannot be afraid either.

Henry closed his eyes. He hadn't the mural itself to comfort him, but he had his memory of it. So, he allowed himself to travel back in time and inspect every detail: the little smudge of paint on the Rider's left leg, the flames he had always pictured dancing around the sword.

His eyes flew open and latched onto his own blade; he was tempted to ignite it and have the real deal comfort him. A second passed, then he quenched the urge, hit by a swell of shame. Why was he contemplating wasting the precious Ignifer on recreating a stupid memory? What the hell was he doing, indulging in childish fantasies, when there was still a potential source of movement—of danger—out there?

He clenched his teeth. This wasn't the time for dreams. It was time to get his weapon. Things were under control. Henry rose and took a step in the direction of his sword. He had weapons, and he had the fire. He was strong now.

If only he could prove it somehow. To whom he wanted to prove himself this time, Henry couldn't tell. To someone . . . everyone who had ever mocked him, belittled him, or expressed doubts in his abilities or talents. He always wanted to prove himself, Henry thought. But had he ever actually succeeded?

He had failed Ares as his bond.

Failed Solovet as her successor.

Failed Luxa as her cousin . . . her brother.

Failed Regalia and the entire human civilization as their prince.

Failed Thanatos as his ally.

Even those he hadn't tried to impress, Henry had failed . . . like Ripred. Ripred had known about his failure all along, and he had made sure that Henry knew that.

Take care, lad, the rat suddenly spoke in his head, or you shall end up like me, stripped of any respectable rank and warming your shabby old hide at the fire of your enemies. Was it not what had happened? What he was now? He hadn't taken care, and now he was . . . Henry swallowed repeatedly, taking another step. What would he need to do—he thought suddenly—to prove himself to Ripred?

Realizing how pathetic it was to lament having failed to impress Ripred of all people, Henry snorted. The rat could go to hell.

Something wet made its way down his cheek, leaving a burning trail on his skin. But why had he failed them all? Had he not tried? Always tried his best. Henry gritted his teeth. To be strong. To be competent. To survive. To be . . . good enough. Was he not good enough? He wanted to be good enough. Henry wanted it so much that it hurt. To be good enough for those who knew what they wanted him to be. He hadn't enough understanding of who he was to insist on being anything else.

He had been scared. Was that why he had failed? But now . . . He was not eight. This was not then. He would not be stopped by the same fear.

The pitch-black entrance crept into view. The fire threw ghastly dancing shadows at the wall, and he realized that he . . . would. Anything could be out there, watching, waiting. And, for the first time since his fall, he was truly alone.

Next to his sword, Henry sank against the wall and pulled his legs to his chest. He didn't leave the entrance out of sight for a single moment. His right hand got a hold of his sword, pulling it to his side. He was overwhelmingly fatigued, but his eyes stayed wide open, like something had stapled his lids in place. As long as they were open, nothing could surprise him. He was in control as long as they were open.

Henry had almost forgotten what it felt like to fear closing his eyes. It hadn't happened in a while, not since his parents' deaths. Since he had stopped being the little boy. Since he had been so scared, he had locked himself in his quarters, refusing to leave, eat, sleep, or even release the weapon in his far too-small hand.

He was him. He was . . . eight, in his quarters, in that same position . . . wasn't he? If he was, someone would come eventually. Someone had always come to try and make him come out. The only one who had eventually succeeded was Luxa.

She had told jokes until he physically couldn't hold the laughter in; she had recited stories and come up with pranks and things for them to do. She had held him in her small arms and told him that he wasn't alone yet. And she had alleviated the fear. Of course she had. Sharp claws tore Henry's heart; she had been there with him through it all, and how had he repaid her?

He had betrayed her.

Not now, Henry. Not ever. Those words burned. They gleamed like hungry embers that lay heavy at the bottom of his writhing stomach. Why had she uttered them? Henry still didn't understand. What had he done that had made her hate him so much?

No matter how just or not his goal had been, he shouldn't have conspired with Gorger behind her back. He shouldn't have . . . He had betrayed her. He shouldn't have . . . made a mistake—one? How many was it now? He dared not count. He saw them all, blurred into an endless conscious stream, for what felt like hours.

The fire went out entirely after a while, but Henry couldn't move. His eyes burned with exhaustion, but the moment he closed them, that shadow he had seen earlier would come out and attack. His fingers hurt from how firmly he clutched the sword. All he wanted was for this nightmare to end, for there to be light, for a familiar face to wake him, assure him, comfort him. To feel another living being by his side—anyone. To make him feel like he was not alone. But of course, nobody came.

His thoughts had become so chaotic, so indistinguishable from each other, that he winced as a single voice suddenly cut them like a knife.

You have challenged yourself to survive, have you not?

At this point, he knew so well how Thanatos sounded that it was like he was truly here. Like he would find him fluttering through the entrance if he turned.

Was that not what you meant to prove? The flier's voice challenged. That you are strong enough to survive? Right now, I am tempted to believe that that was a lie.

It was not a lie, Henry thought. But . . . the voice was right. He had said that, made that challenge for himself, and yet he was still here. Why . . . was he here?

. . . Because he was scared.

No . . . Henry gritted his teeth. He had already answered the question as to why he was here. He hadn't any more answers. He didn't want to think up any more answers to this old question. He wanted to stop thinking and move, but he was weak. Just as weak as he had been then—weak with fear, susceptible, longing for acknowledgment. For gold.

Had she sensed that in him? That fear? Was that why she had approached him in the first place? How had she even known where Henry would be that day?

Henry didn't want to remember, but . . . He was here because he had been on a picnic with Luxa, Vikus, Solovet, and their fliers some half a year ago. Because he had played a ball game with Luxa and the fliers and chased after the ball when it had rolled off into some tunnel—and run directly into the claws of a gnawer.

A gnawer who, contrary to Henry's expectations, hadn't done him any harm. Instead, she had laughed in that oh-so-innocent way and asked him what he was doing here . . . The first of many following questions. Henry remembered her sleek, silver fur and her eyes—he would have expected any gnawer to look at a human with hatred—but she had not.

And as she had asked her questions, she had told Henry about herself in return. Only now, Henry thought he grasped why she had been given the name Tonguetwist.

And Henry hadn't met her for the last time that day. At times, he remembered thinking she was the only one who understood him—what he wanted, feared, needed, and . . . lacked. And gradually, she had made him open up—even made him trust. He recalled Tonguetwist's words so clearly that it frightened him.

Nobody really wishes for war, but what are we to do? Our species bear century-old hatred for each other; do you not think it will take great effort to change that—on both sides?

Lies.

I find your own foresight and lack of bias so refreshing. That you come here to meet me at all . . . If only there were more humans like you who have the ambition and strength to see the pointlessness of this war, perhaps we would already have peace.

Lies. Lies. Lies.

The word echoed in his head, and for the first time, Henry asked himself if there had been a single ounce of genuine truth in anything she'd ever uttered.

But back then, he had listened. Of course, he had—and he had believed. A surprising amount of Tonguetwist's words had been a reflection of his own thoughts—how the conflict was unnecessary, how humans and gnawers should unite instead, to rule over the Underland as the two strongest species—together. She had called Henry the Silverchild. The name sent a shiver down his spine; he couldn't tell whether it was because of how disgusted he found himself with Tonguetwist all of a sudden or because he still hated that the term really did encompass what he had been.

Tonguetwist had been the first to say that Henry deserved gold, just like Luxa. Instead of Luxa. She had spoken freely of so many things he had felt guilty even thinking, with an adequately heartbreaking backstory about her dead partner and pups to accompany it. One daughter had lived—Henry was almost certain her name had been Twirltongue—and she was the only thing still precious to her.

And one step at a time, one sob story after another, she had gained control over Henry's confused, desperate for power and attention, teenage brain.

It was honestly absurd, Henry thought. How could he have allowed someone—a gnawer—to drive him to betray his own people? His friends and family?

But he knew how. He had been insecure . . . over who he was, whether he was really silver—the useless spare everyone told him he was and would always be. Whether he could—should—even strive to be anything more. About whether he was good enough.

And Tonguetwist had recognized and used his insecurity, his fear that he would never distinguish himself. That he would never step out of Luxa's shadow and make a name for himself or be acknowledged for something that was not a royal title he had been born with. For something he had achieved with his own hands. Could he do that? Henry gritted his teeth. Now that he was out here, now that he was one of the forgotten, those who had lost their privilege to live . . . could he even still dream of doing that?

Henry blew out a breath and realized he was trembling. From anger? He wanted it to be anger so badly that he almost believed it. All of this was Tonguetwist's fault. She was the reason that he was here—that he was a traitor. Hadn't she picked him, tempted him, and twisted the words in his mind and on his tongue, he wouldn't be here now.

But . . . she hadn't created those desires. All she had done was give him an opportunity to act on them. If she hadn't done that, Henry thought he would have found a way to do so on his own, sooner or later. Tonguetwist wasn't the reason that Henry had been . . . scared.

Henry loathed being scared; it crumbled his confidence and his power and stripped him of all his achievements, everything he was proud of. And she had recognized and used that against him. She had spun tales to match his every fear and desire on her silver tongue, but she hadn't . . . forced him to believe her. To trust her. When she had told him to trust Gorger, Henry could have told her that she was mad.

Tonguetwist was not the reason that he was here—that he was a traitor—Henry thought. She was merely a catalyst, not the trigger. And she had no power over him anymore.

Then and there he forced himself to allow the full truth, the only correct answer to his question that he had danced around so far, not daring to properly acknowledge it, to sink its painful teeth into his mind: the reason that Henry was here—that he was a traitor—was Henry himself.

Henry, who had none of the things left that he had once clawed for so desperately. Henry, who had been stripped of rank and respectability, had been humiliated and forgotten. Left for dead. Henry, who had felt so misunderstood and alone back when he had actually been surrounded by people who loved him. Henry, who had no pride left.

Henry, who was alone.

And what of your challenge? Is it suddenly meaningless?

Henry shut his eyes. He knew Thanatos wasn't really here and that his subconscious was speaking through his familiar voice, trying to wake him from this odd vegetative state.

For a second, he mustered the strength to wonder—with all his thoughts of the past, why . . . Thanatos? He would have been less surprised about Luxa, Vikus, or even Ares. But Thanatos? It was a strange voice for his subconscious to choose.

I am here because you have made me a promise, said the voice. Do you remember which one?

Henry gritted his teeth when his own words trickled back into his mind.

To fight for every ounce of life in your body, said the voice. To one day stand before me as an outcast who is not only alive but successful. Will you break this promise?

Henry felt a shiver of shame. A part of him was glad that the flier was not actually here to see him like this.

Every ounce of life in my body. The words rang in his ears, and he recognized their meaning and what his bitter, desperate, some four-month-younger self who had uttered them would expect of him now. I am an outcast who has challenged himself to survive. And he would lose this challenge. He would die—of a monster, of hunger or thirst . . . He would die, and that was a fact.

. . . Unless he did something about it.

He hadn't allowed himself to fail his challenge when he'd battled in the gnawer arena or when Cleaver had tossed him into a pit. He hadn't failed when he had found himself besieged in the citadel. He had clung to his challenge through all the real dangers he had faced. How was it justifiable to give up now? Now that he didn't even know if there was any danger at all?

The answer was . . . that it wasn't.

It took Henry another ten minutes to gather the spirit and strength to move. Stiff with exhaustion and from sitting still for so long, Henry slowly straightened his limbs.

He had to mobilize all his willpower, but somehow he managed to get to his feet. He turned to the hand that still gripped the sword, and only with the use of his other hand could he force the rigidly closed fist open, and the sword hit the floor with a piercing crash.

Henry jumped, but instead of a shriek, he voiced a hoarse cough. He snapped the fingers of his left hand until he found his torch. The moment the cave was illuminated again, a wave of relief hit him. Then his gaze met the pitch-black exit, and it vanished instantly. But he didn't allow himself to be afraid anymore.

As quickly as he could, Henry gathered his belongings, put on the rest of his clothes, and drank water. For the first time since the panic attack, he felt no imminent fear either, and he relished the sensation like it wasn't supposed to be normal.

Then he forced the rest of his fear down, shouldered his backpack, and took a large step toward the exit. It would not eat him, and he refused to be terrified of it for a moment longer. Henry gritted his teeth, raised the torch like a weapon, and moved forward into the tunnel.

It turned out surprisingly short. Henry thought he remembered walking for at least a minute last time, but the familiar glow of the waterway illuminated his path after a single turn. As soon as he spotted it, Henry started running out of the darkness and onto a serene beach. He breathed deeply as if inhaling the air out here would cure him of the fear, the remains of which still had their teeth sunken in his heart.

He stared out at the vast, glowing sea; a fresh, cool breeze tousled his hair. The smells and lights of a brand new day breathed life into him, soothing his writhing insides like a calming wrap.

Henry dropped to his knees, where he stood. The torch hit the sandy ground.

He didn't know how long he knelt on the beach, so close to the ebbing waves that he could have touched them. All he knew was that when he rose again, his cheeks were wet with tears.