Gregor could not bring himself to care whatsoever about the annoyed Howard or the fireflies who sat at the far end of the boat, complaining to each other. He pulled the blanket around himself and wondered if Mareth had a set of fresh clothes for him to change into.

Only when Temp scurried past him toward Twitchtip did Gregor freeze in his tracks . . . because Boots was not on his back.

A million alarms went off in his head, and he whipped around. "Boots?" he called, scanning the boat. There, on one side, were Luxa and Howard with their bonds. Mareth and Andromeda stood at the helm. Only a few paces away, he spotted Thanatos and his rider, and in front of the bat with the white face . . . "Boots!" Gregor rocked the boat when he sprinted over.

"—snowy white!"

Gregor hadn't caught what else Boots had said, but she pointed at Thanatos' face, then clapped her little hands and giggled. By her side stood the rider; he propped himself up against the boat's edge to avoid falling over in fits of laughter.

Gregor almost tumbled himself when he came to a halt next to Boots and scooped her up, earning heavy protest. "I talk with bat!" she screamed. "I talk with bat!" He barely held her as she attempted to wriggle free.

"Leave them be, Boots," he tried to argue, but he already knew that she was moments away from a full-blown fit. And so he gritted his teeth and braced himself.

"You do not have to be concerned," said Thanatos unexpectedly. His tone was so different from the way he had spoken before—almost gentle—that Gregor froze. "She was not causing us any distress," said the bat with a content expression that was almost a smile.

Boots stopped churning immediately and stared at him.

"None indeed!" the rider chimed in when he had finally seized control of his laughter. "She was only making up poems about Death's face, and what poems! Why have you robbed us of hearing the rest of them?"

Gregor felt his ears flush. He didn't really know what to say, but at least the catastrophe of a toddler fit seemed to have been averted. "M-Maybe later," he mumbled in the strangers' direction, then frowned. "Wait, did you just say "Death"?"

"It is his name, no?" the rider said with what Gregor believed to be a crooked smile.

Gregor stared at him and then realized that "Thanatos" really did mean "Death". His eyes met the bat, and he thought the nickname was as accurate as it was morbid.

He smiled uncertainly again. There was something about the laid-back demeanor of the strangers that made Gregor unsure of how to interact with them. Even though he had been friendly so far, the human still gave him the impression of talking to one of those rich, popular guys at school—something he had never really done yet, and not only because they would never speak to him either.

"Mareth?" the rider called all of a sudden. "Will you not offer the Overlander dry clothes at one point?"

Gregor's mouth snapped shut. He had been meaning to ask for that but hadn't quite dared. It wasn't like that was a particularly urgent need, and he hadn't wanted to be a bother. When Mareth waved him over and he started to walk, Gregor gave the stranger a wave and thought he probably hadn't even considered a fear like that.

***

A few hours later—it was probably in the middle of the night—the questers gathered to eat. After Gregor had changed into a spare set of clothes, Howard had changed the bandage on his arm, and Gregor found the injury from the squids did not hurt as much as he had expected after the bath in freshwater.

The bats had gone out to catch fish as most of their supplies had sunk with the other boat, and Gregor had just begun wondering how they were supposed to cook it here, on the open sea, when Luxa took a seat beside him. "Some of the supplies survived," she said. "I made you a sandwich."

He looked down at the clunky version of a roast beef sandwich and smiled when he remembered that it had been him who had taught her to make sandwiches on their last trip.

But then he remembered Luxa, as she had attempted to stop him from saving Twitchtip, and his smile fell. "Thanks." He left it untouched.

Instead, he eyed Mareth, Howard, and the strangers—outcasts, as Howard and Mareth had called them. They had already begun distributing the fish between them, leaving out the bats, who must have eaten while they had fished.

"Do not be angry with us for attempting to stop you from jumping earlier, Gregor," said Luxa, and Gregor suppressed a sigh. He had a lot to say, but he remained quiet. "Mareth and I have lost more than you know to the rats," continued Luxa after a pause. "It is hard for us to risk anything to save one. Even if it is of use."

"She!" yelled Gregor, and Luxa twitched. "Twitchtip is a she," he repeated. "And she's had a bad time, too. The rats chased her out because she's a scent seer and she's been living all alone in the Dead Land. Did you know that?"

"I . . . did not," mumbled Luxa with a hint of shame. "I know . . . nothing really about her."

"Well, no, because no one talks to her!" Gregor watched Twitchtip as she cautiously approached Mareth and the outcasts to receive her own portion of fish. He thought of all the other things he could say in her defense—how Ripred had brought her to help him, how she had smelled out the whirlpool, how she was their best shot at finding the Bane—but all Gregor said was: "It's no good to sit up in the boat and watch someone drown."

He finally took a bite of the sandwich. It was all so confusing, the whole thing with the rats and the humans. They had killed Luxa's parents, and he didn't know how many others. Suddenly, another thought struck him, and he finally looked at Luxa from the corner of his eye. "Helping a rat doesn't make you like Henry, you know?"

Luxa did not meet his eyes. "You see it that way. Others might not."

Gregor opened his mouth to protest when he realized something else. "Is that also why you were so suspicious of those two . . . outcasts? Because you thought you had to prove your loyalty?"

Luxa's persistent silence spoke for itself. She neither spoke nor did she look up from the tips of her shoes, and Gregor blew out a breath. Is she going to be like this forever now? He thought. A single member of her family turned out to be a bad guy, and now she feels like she needs to be overly strict and correct all the time!

He opened his mouth to attempt to put his thoughts into words when a voice cut him off: "Children?"

Gregor and Luxa jumped up simultaneously, and Gregor found Mareth in front of him; a few paces behind stood the rider. To Gregor's surprise, the latter—who had been so cocky and unabashed before—now stared at the floor.

"I am not a child," said Luxa, and Gregor suppressed a laugh. Even by Underland standards, she was, and that was what the look Mareth then gave her conveyed as well.

"Join us," he said after a pause and waved.

Gregor immediately jumped to his feet. At the last moment, he remembered the sandwich and scooped it up. Maybe a joint meal was exactly what they all needed now.

***

In retrospect, Gregor thought he should have learned his lesson in Regalia when Vikus had tried this tactic and held his "Prophecy of Gray Quest reunion meal" before they had departed. It hadn't worked to lift spirits then, and it didn't work now.

Mareth was the only one who tried to keep some kind of conversation going—recounting the events of the trip so far. But overall, they still mostly ate in stiff, awkward silence, and Gregor slowly but surely found himself fed up by all this stubbornness.

When Mareth finally told them all to go to sleep, Gregor was immensely relieved. He fetched Boots and searched for somewhere to lay that was so far from where Luxa and Howard sat that he couldn't hear their hushed conversation.

When he finally thought he had found himself a spot close to the rear of the boat and curled up there, a familiar figure touched down beside him.

"Hi, Ares," said Gregor, infinitely glad to have someone to distract his thoughts. "What's up?"

"I am unsettled," replied Ares. "About your rescue of the rat."

Irritated, Gregor rose, and already dozing Boots stirred. "You—"

"I could not let go of the boat." Ares cut him off before he could begin complaining. "I would have dived for you, but I could not let go without everyone falling." His wings fluttered in distress. "Had the outcasts not come, I did not . . . I . . . I wanted to set the boat down. I urged the others to find somewhere to set it down, but I—"

"Hey, I know that." Gregor lay back down, careful not to disturb Boots more. "Of course, you couldn't." Shame at his own shortsightedness for even expecting him to come flooded Gregor, and he closed his eyes.

"Still," said Ares, after a pause. "I did not want you to think that, as your bond, I would not come for you." The moment he uttered the words, Gregor knew what Ares was getting at. "—The way I did not go after Henry."

Man! Gregor suppressed a groan. Why was this the day everyone remembered Henry? "I didn't think that," he assured. "I know you did what you could."

"Thank you."

The following silence was at least peaceful. Gregor tightened his grip on Boots and relaxed his tensed muscles. Suddenly, the sheer intensity of his exertion hit him, and he yawned. Then, the black void of sleep swallowed him . . . in a much kinder way than the icy waves of the waterway.

***

"And so, the Sicix are an elite team of spinner mercenaries, but I still heed you to be cautious if it ever occurs to you to hire them."

Gregor's eyes jerked open. The voice that spoke with the enthusiasm and intonation of an avid storyteller was . . . unfamiliar. How was there an unfamiliar voice on an isolated boat?

"They kidnap and secure, but do not guarantee delivery! One single buzzer wing sufficed to buy Thanatos' freedom back."

Gregor rose, but before he could worry about the voice, he looked down, and his heart stopped—Boots was no longer in his arms. Her sheet was cold, and Gregor's heart began to race. "Boots?"

"One wing!" the voice cut into his troubles. "And I had eight of them from my previous mission in the flutterers' name!"

Gregor jerked up to sit, and his eyes found the front of the boat and the source of the cheerful voice: The stranger—outcast—sat with his legs leisurely crossed on the rim of the boat, wildly gesticulating as he told some kind of tale. Around him had assembled an eager audience—Mareth, who listened and navigated at the same time, Andromeda, Aurora, Pandora, Temp, Twitchtip, the fireflies, and even Luxa, who now stared at the man she had voted to condemn to death yesterday with big, admiring eyes. And there—clinging to his fur-clad leg—Gregor finally also spotted Boots.

"Oh! Oh! But what is a buzzer?" Pandora spoke the moment the outcast paused.

"And what was your mission for the flutterers?" Andromeda chimed in.

"And how did you not get webbed the moment you entered the spinners' land?" asked Luxa. "Last time we attempted to visit there, we had Vikus with us and were seized anyway."

"Ah, but it is all a matter of finesse," responded the outcast, waving his hand. "Last time, there was no talk of trading, for example." He laughed. "You should have seen Wevox when I pulled out the wing. She scampered around like a child on their birthday! Like this!" He raised his arms and bounced up and down, and the assembly broke into roaring laughter.

Gregor made a face. Sure, the spiders hadn't exactly been nice to them last time, but he didn't like making fun of anyone. The more Gregor saw of him, the more convinced he became that the outcast really was no different from the careless, snobbish popular kids in school—just like Luxa and Henry on the last quest. But if the outcast was like that, how could he have also saved him and Twitchtip unconditionally at the same time?

"Careful, lest you fall overboard, and we will be spared from hearing about all the oh-so-incredible feats that you have accomplished forever."

On his way over, Gregor nearly tripped when a shadow dipped down and Thanatos landed in the midst of the assembled crowd. The boat rocked and everyone screamed; the outcast barely clung to the side of the boat to stabilize himself. Boots let go of his leg and landed in a pile of fishing nets. Had she not instantly begun to giggle, Gregor thought he may have had a heart attack.

He was so taken up with the scene that he almost missed the presence of Ares touching down behind him. "Mareth sent us fishing," mumbled his bat, dropping his load.

"Oh! Death!!" The outcast had apparently no intention to heed the warning, as he moved not an inch. "Tell them why the Sicix were hired to capture you! Tell them about the shiners, the slimers, and your impending slime bath!"

Thanatos said nothing. He only glared at his rider and, after dropping off his own load, settled next to Andromeda.

"He aided the shiners when the slimers declared war," the outcast continued without care. "He carried some over the waterway, and the slimers swore vengeance."

"Oh! Oh! Is it you our ancestors speak of, then?" Zap chimed in.

"That flier? Who carried them to their new home?" Photos-Glow-Glow cut her off; his butt excitedly blinked in colorful lights.

"Be quiet," Zap hissed. "I will speak now."

"You will do no such thing!" he yelped. "I happen to be a descendant of their fearless leader."

"If you stem from the same colony, are you not all descendants of theirs?" A new voice suddenly cut in, and Gregor twirled around to find Howard standing there with crossed arms. Only then did Gregor realize that he hadn't been listening earlier. Howard waited not for the shiners' reply. "You are rested, are you not?" he asked Thanatos. "So, you may depart now."

"We will depart eventually," said the outcast slowly, sliding down to approach Howard with two bold steps. "But last time I checked, not even the queen had any power to give commands here—even less you." He flicked the air in front of Howard's face so that he flinched back. "Watch how much air you give yourself, lest your head should explode by it. You . . . Horatius? Hildebrand? Or was it Hubertus?"

Luxa, Andromeda, the fireflies, and even Pandora broke into laughter while Howard's face reddened in fury. "Howard," he hissed. "It is Howard."

"Whatever you say." The outcast shrugged. "Honestly, all I recall is that your name started with an "H" and that you were not significant enough to remember more."

Luxa nearly choked on her laughter, and Gregor made a face. Part of him rued that there was once again an individual present to bring out her jerk side.

"As entertained as you seem to be—perhaps now that the fliers I sent to fish are back, we should eat breakfast," said Mareth suddenly.

Gregor watched the outcast cease teasing Howard and help him assess the load of fish that Thanatos and Ares had brought.

"Hey, you were fishing with him?" Gregor asked Ares, watching Boots begin to play some kind of word game with Temp and Pandora. "With Thanatos, I mean. How . . . well, how is he?"

"Taciturn," replied Ares. "We barely spoke. I would not really have it any other way, though."

Gregor nodded. "Boots!" He felt almost sorry for breaking up her game. "We'll have breakfast now." He kneeled beside her and attempted to arrange her messed-up curls.

"The few words we exchanged were about his attempt to fly over the waterway," said Ares after a pause. "I was . . . curious as to, well, how it is."

"Because you wanted to try it yourself?" Gregor recalled their conversation a few days ago, and Ares nodded.

"Honestly, it was Henry's idea at the time," he said. "And while it would be a great feat to accomplish, I am unsure whether I am destined for it. Now more than ever."

Gregor picked Boots up and shrugged, following his bat over to where he spotted Mareth and the outcast distributing food. "It's your choice. I mean, I'm not going to force you."

He thought Ares shot him a grateful smile before they approached Mareth, only to hear that their supplies were so limited they would have to ration what had remained and eat the fish the bats had caught raw.

Luxa and Gregor protested vehemently; even Howard telling them that they ate it like that sometimes where he lived did little for Gregor's revulsion. He wasn't about to make a scene, though, so he found himself listlessly nibbling at the edge of a chunk, attempting to force himself to swallow. Luxa did the same by his side, but when Gregor looked at the outcast, he was eating his portion like it was the most normal thing in the world, like it wasn't even the worst thing he had ever eaten.

When he brought it up to Luxa in a hushed voice, she immediately did the one thing he had hoped she wouldn't: ask him about the most disgusting thing he had ever eaten. And when the outcast grinned and said, "Rat meat," Gregor bid the last of his appetite farewell.

It was odd, Gregor thought. On one hand, the outcast was exactly like Luxa and Henry had been on their last quest—a major jerk. But on the other hand . . . he was also not like them in a lot of ways. The face Luxa made when she heard his response was evidence enough.

Gregor finally forced the rest of his fish down, watching the outcast finish his portion and then advising Mareth on how to ration the remaining supplies. The fireflies were very unhappy about this, as their gluttonous demands weren't met. "Why do the girl, the outcast, and their fliers get our food?" Gregor heard Zap mutter. "They are no more than stowaways!"

When their whining became unbearable, Twitchtip remarked that she could always eat fireflies. At that, they shut up but continuously sulked and only put out light when they felt like it.

And, of course, they couldn't serve the raw fish to Boots. Even after eating up half of Gregor's and Temp's portions of bread and dried beef, she kept crying for food, and Gregor was close to breaking into a panic when Twitchtip finally snapped. "Oh, here, give her this!" She scooted a chunk of cheese over to Boots, who instantly began happily gnawing on it.

Everyone gawked at Twitchtip, even Gregor. "It reeks of humans," she mumbled after an awkward pause. "I can barely choke it down anyway!"

Everyone looked away then. Everyone except for Gregor. He looked at her and smiled, pretty sure he had witnessed a first—a rat giving a human food.

Shortly thereafter, the group disassembled. Only the outcasts remained with Mareth, who asked Howard to take over the steering and went to sit with Thanatos at the back of the boat. Andromeda soon joined, and Gregor thought they probably intended to catch up. He had nearly forgotten Mareth had recognized the bat, and as curious as he was, he decided it was not his place to ask where from. Not if Mareth didn't want to share on his own.

The rider with the skull mask lingered aimlessly, seemingly not sharing in any of Thanatos' and Mareth's common memories. Gregor wondered if he would assemble a crowd to tell tales to again, but then he sat down in the middle of the boat by himself to dig through his backpack.

Only when he remained by himself did Gregor realize he was the only one without an occupation. Luxa sat with Pandora and Howard in the front, in some kind of discussion; Aurora and Ares lay resting, close by. And Temp with Boots was—

"I like your boots!"

Gregor twitched around when the unmistakable voice met his ear. And there she was, his baby sister, evidently having escaped Temp's watch and . . . waddling directly toward the sitting outcast. Before Gregor could so much as take a step in their direction, she had already wrapped her arms around his fur-clad leg.

Anxiety speared Gregor's heart, and he took a few quick steps toward them, opening his mouth to apologize. But the outcast didn't seem unhappy at all. On the contrary, Gregor thought he made out a grin behind his mask.

"You really adore these, no?" he said, ruffling her curls. "Why, yes, they are quite striking. You may sit on them again if you so like."

Only then did Gregor remember that he had seen her sit on his foot earlier.

Boots took the invitation by heart. She immediately plopped down and encircled the outcast's leg with her tiny arms. "Soft boots," she mumbled, pressing her face into the fur.

The outcast didn't mind her; he went back to his backpack. Gregor came to a halt in front of them and only then properly processed that the outcast actually wore . . . boots. Real robust boots wrapped in fur and leather that reached almost to his knees.

Gregor considered it and realized that he had never seen an Underlander wear anything but sandals yet. And so, in the light Zap emitted from where she sat nearby, Gregor took the time to inspect the outcast closer for the first time.

A single thorough glance confirmed it wasn't just the boots. Gregor had never seen anyone who looked like him in the Underland in general—or anywhere else, really. In his head, he went over the clothes Luxa, Mareth, and Howard wore and the clothes he himself had worn so far. It was silk, occasionally leather—but that had always been of remarkable quality, similar to the high-end leather used in the designer purses, shoes, and wallets found in the upscale leather store at the mall.

What the outcast wore was different. All his clothes looked hand-sewn, and their leather was rough, marred, and adorned with another material he had never encountered in the Underland clothes yet: fur. Rat fur, it dawned on Gregor. It had to be rat fur . . . and rat leather.

Gregor looked him over again and barely prevented a shudder at the thought that this . . . man in front of him was supposed to have skinned a rat for materials to make his clothes out of. It wasn't just the clothes, either. Gregor spotted a huge scar, shaped like a claw mark, on his right shoulder and many other, less prominent ones, painting white lines on his pale Underlander skin.

And suddenly he felt bad for pegging him as the same kind of spoiled brat as Luxa and Henry. He may share some of their jerk tendencies, but he was clearly anything but spoiled. In the same breath, Gregor wondered how long it would take this time until he inevitably discovered something about the outcast that would make him view him in a more sympathetic light.

The more he looked at him, the more Gregor made himself aware that it probably had to really be as bad as they all said, living on your own. He had to swallow an uprising lump in his throat and squinted, attempting to make out more of his face beneath the mask to estimate his age better.

Only when the outcast raised his head a little did Gregor catch a better glimpse at his features, and he swallowed again. First, he had guessed the outcast must be around Mareth's age—thirty or so—but now he thought twenty was probably more accurate—maybe even younger.

He's only a teenager, Gregor thought, and he lives out here by himself at that age. He bit his lip, then and there knowing that this was his source of sympathy and that he couldn't be annoyed with him anymore. How did anyone even end up out here at that age, all alone?

Gregor's first thought was about his family—his parents. Were they dead? They weren't with him; so much seemed clear. But he didn't just have no family; he had no one . . . besides Thanatos. Gregor's gaze flew to the bat. Were they bonds? They hadn't said so, but did bats and humans even team up like this in the Underland if they weren't?

But even so—Gregor looked back at him—he was an . . . outcast. He thought the word over properly for the first time and had to battle unease when he realized what it inevitably entailed. Had he run away like Thanatos? Or had this teenager really been . . . cast out? Sentenced to death? What crime could he have possibly committed, at such a young age, for that?

Then a sour thought crossed Gregor's mind: Henry had been sixteen, and he had been a traitor. Would Henry have been sentenced to death, had he not fallen off that cliff? Would he have been cast out—or executed?

Before he could dwell on the uncomfortable thought, Gregor shoved it aside. "Hey," he said to the outcast, telling himself he could at least try to be nice. "I hope she's not bothering you."

"She's fine," said the outcast, and looked up. Then he plucked Boots off his boot and got to his feet, holding her up under her arms. "You really like boots, no? Is that why they call you "Boots"?"

She twined at first, but then she laughed. "Boots! Boots!"

"Yeah," said Gregor with a somewhat pained smile, and took his sister from the outcast. "Let's just say yours aren't the only boots she's into."

The outcast tugged at the sword belt around his upper body. "And here I was, thinking mine were special." He grinned down at them, then deftly performed something like a dance step and struck a pose. Boots instantly began giggling and clapping vigorously, and even Gregor smiled.

The outcast grinned back. "I sometimes wonder how no one before me seems to have ever deemed sandals too impractical for wearing. I suppose it doesn't matter when you fly, but still . . . they may be fancy, but they provide no protection or resistance whatsoever."

Gregor stared at him, thinking that he hadn't even considered a reason like that for wearing boots over sandals. Maybe because so far, nothing had attacked his legs yet, and the fact that this outcast apparently had, unsettled him.

When he looked at him now, he tried to do so with no bias. For a moment, Gregor recalled the way Luxa had stared at him admiringly during his story and realized that, even though he didn't find the outcast unsympathetic anymore, he found no such emotions within himself.

He was just so . . . right, the word Gregor had been looking for was "veteran". Someone who had been through a lot and seen a lot of bad things and yet remained on top of everything. His dad sometimes seemed like that too—on his good days, when he actually did remain on top of everything.

But this man—he was always like that, Gregor thought. His eyes darted over to the tattered handle of his sword and thought he would avoid angering him as much as possible. Gregor knew almost nothing about him, still, but what he knew for certain all of a sudden was that—rager or not—this was not someone he wanted to have as his enemy.