"Uhh . . . may I have another five minutes?" Henry fidgeted and let out a yawn. "I shall even restock your supply of Firebeetles . . . later . . ."

But the constant prodding didn't cease, and so Henry begrudgingly turned over, fully expecting to collide with the wall to his left. Instead, a sharp twinge shot through his right hand.

His wince of pain quickly turned to confusion when he found no wall in sight. His gaze remained fixed on the dimly lit ground, and it wasn't long before he became aware of the sound of rushing water nearby. Henry frowned, then he startled as a sudden, resounding clack echoed before him.

Wild static clustered his head and Henry shut his eye tightly, struggling to regain his echolocation. When his surroundings finally came into focus, he was taken aback by the sight of . . .

"Are you hurt?"

Henry stared at the fiery red lobster, stretching an impressive six feet in length, until it dawned on him that his echolocation had detected two of them. He pivoted in alarm, only to come face-to-face with the second pincher just inches away. Its eyes, perched on long stakes, bore down on the boy with an unabashed sense of curiosity.

"Are you hurt?" repeated the first one; its voice was so distorted and low-pitched that Henry couldn't see its sound. Drawing nearer, it emitted the distinctive clacking noise once more.

The boy shook his head, transfixed. "I am well," he mumbled, then suddenly looked up, his eye filled with disbelief as he beheld the breathtaking orange-glowing lake in front of him. And amidst the thunderous cascade of the waterfall, a faint recollection began to surface. The waterfall . . . he blinked. There was something about a . . .

Henry gingerly tried to inch himself forward toward the water but winced as a sharp sting shot through his hand once more. Slowly, he looked down and stared in disbelief at the vivid, crimson web of lines ripping across his skin. The bleeding must have just ceased. His gaze met the spot where he had been lying and found it smeared with blood.

Henry's gaze flicked from his hand to the scenery behind him, and his expression darkened. He had been holding onto . . . onto . . . Memories cut through the fog that clouded his mind and burrowed into his heart like iron nails.

The lake . . . Henry's head jerked up. The . . . waterfall. Summoning his last willpower, he got to his feet and staggered forward. "Death!"

The images received through his echolocation required an infinite moment for his brain to process, to comprehend that his flier was not here.

"Death . . . ?" Henry advanced one more step, then whipped around toward the pinchers, his feet nearly slipping on his own trail of water and blood. "The flier," he urged them. His hand moved aimlessly toward the lake as he fought to control his frantically pounding heart. "There was a flier here . . . Where is he?"

If I survived the waterfall, then surely he did too, thought Henry, swallowing hard. His gaze fixed on the pair of pinchers who exchanged silent communication. Then again . . . he had not exactly come out unscathed. The boy cast his eye down at his soaked attire, finally registering the severity of his state. His legs trembled under his weight, and every part of his body was consumed by an intense ache.

They had both fallen . . . Henry heaved. Fallen down the waterfall. But why? A cloudy veil obscured his memory.

"Which flier?" asked one of the pinchers.

"What do you mean, which flier?" There could only be one flier here, thought Henry, barely keeping himself standing. "Black, with a white face," he mumbled, "and a scar here." His trembling hand traced the space where his right eye had once been, moving down to his cheek. "He was here, no? He must be!"

"Oh, that flier!" One of them eagerly snapped his massive pincer. "That flier is not here. That flier we saw on our way here. Briefly, but we saw."

"On your way? When was that?" Henry staggered one step forward. "What do you mean, he is not here?" Why was his flier not here? Henry's mouth fell open, but his voice did not obey him. Why was he not here to nudge him awake instead of the pinchers? Why was he not . . .

His body convulsed with a sudden gagging reflex, and the boy dropped to his knees by the water. His vision clouded, and his heart raced wildly in his ears as he retched again.

You are a parasite who has attached itself to me, draining every last bit of what I have to give.

His fist clenched so hard that he could sense the fresh blood trickling from his cuts, yet he barely felt it.

Every ounce of life that I still have and will not let go!

He leaned over and vomited. Over and over until his stomach felt raw and empty and the sharp tang of bile scorched his throat and coated his mouth.

Will not allow me to let it go! Let me go.

Unrestrainable tremors wracked his form, leaving him weak and breathless.

Let me . . . go.

Of course, he was not here. The boy lingered by the water's edge, his body shaking so violently that he struggled to stay upright. A dull throb of pain radiated through his skull. Why would he be here for the sake of a parasite?

Something wet trickled down his face. It was a dream. The boy squinted fiercely and shook his head. A dream. A . . . nightmare. Just another nightmare. Any moment now he would wake, and he would be back with Kismet, and it would be like before. His lips parted, releasing a near-panicked laugh. Like before! Like before . . . Like . . .

"Are you alright?"

The boy flinched and spun around in response to the sound of a voice from behind, and caught a glimpse of the concerned pincher. "I . . . I am," stammered the boy before bursting into another fit of laughter. The pincher withdrew, looking back at his friend with a helpless expression.

"We witnessed you fall," said the pincher hesitantly. "Down the waterfall. You were sleeping. The water is perilous for one like you if you are sleeping, so we retrieved you. Yet we can not stay." One of his eye stakes twitched. "Will you be alright?"

The boy's laughter subsided, and a silent moment went by before he leaped up. "Oh yes, go!" The pincher winced, yet the boy lunged forward at them, frantically waving his arms. "Go! Depart! Do not concern yourself with me!" His legs nearly buckled as he watched them retreat. They were leaving . . . leaving . . .

His eye flickered back to his hand with a mix of fear and despair. "You . . ." he stammered, staggering a step back. "You must not leave! You must not!" The sound of his own desperate plea reverberated off the walls, drowning out all other noise. He could not leave. He had no right. He was . . .

Stepping back once more, the boy became aware that he was standing in ankle-deep water. Our life and death are one. The words flooded his mind until he thought he would break. Our life and death are one, we two.

He had vowed.

The boy eventually succumbed to his weariness, collapsing to his knees. The outskirts of the pleasantly warm lake swayed around him gently. He had . . . All of a sudden, the voice uttering the familiar words transformed.

Our life and death are one, we two.

The boy fixated on the single droplet of blood, tracing its path along the edge of his thumb until it finally met the water's surface. The sound of its impact cut through his ears.

The one speaking the vow was . . . Ares.

In his mind, he saw the High Hall in all its splendor—the festive garments, the joyous faces, Luxa dancing around him merrily, and Nerissa standing by with gentle content.

Ares the flier I bound to you.

He had vowed. The boy lifted his hand and clenched it into a tight fist, enduring the excruciating pain. He had vowed. And he had . . . His mind conjured up a vision of Ares catching Gregor and relinquishing him to the looming abyss.

Not dead yet?

The boy's face twisted in pain upon the second voice. He felt the strong pull on his leg, the sudden jerk that lifted him off the ground. There was a . . . slingshot, he thought. An execution. An arena. An . . . alliance.

Oh, be still, you great master of survival. Who did you whine to while I was absent? Or did you preserve it all for me?

He remained passive, observing as yet another droplet of blood traveled down his fist. There was the vast expanse of the waterway that seemed to extend endlessly in every direction.

We will fly again. His body shook with such intensity that he struggled to breathe. We will fly . . . over the waterway. We will, I promise. We will fly together. You are a master of the aerial, no? So, we will fly.

A . . . His hand went slack and met the gently swaying water. A bond.

With a frown, he looked up and caught sight of the rushing waterfall. Was it not a bond? He fought against the violent rattle of his teeth. Back in the Dead Land, he had already concluded that he and Ares had not been bonds, not in the true sense of the word. And he had also . . .

Let us put it this way. The contempt in the voice was so palpable that the boy squinted. I always wondered, but now I realize why your former bond let you fall. If only I would have the strength to do it too.

"If you know, then tell me!" The sound of his own voice made him flinch in discomfort. He had no idea who he was hoping to hear from, but each second of silence drove a fresh nail into his heart.

Why wasn't anyone giving him an answer? He lifted his gaze to the waterfall and then over to the lake, looking, searching for . . . "Tell me! Talk to me!" He had meant to scream but ended up with a hoarse cough. It was a bond, no? The words relentlessly beat against his skull. A bond. A bond. A real . . . bond. In life, in death, in war, in strife.

But if it was a real bond, then why was he here?

Because in your mind, everything does revolve around you. And so you take, and take, and take. His head shot up. He had half expected to stare into the familiar amber, gazing at him with concern . . . contempt . . . ice. And I give, because it is all I can do. Because I have no choice.

"Take . . ." As a fit of coughing seized him, the boy felt his strength drain, leaving him barely able to lift his head when it finally subsided.

He takes and takes, and it is always I who compromises. It is always I who . . . is it not supposed to go both ways? He sat motionlessly, like a stone, as the hesitant voice in his head spoke. The voice of . . . not his second bond. His first.

You take, and take, and take.

"T . . . take?"

You have even less regard for the harm you cause others than I thought. The boy heaved. What I learned was that I would rather pine in loneliness again than devote myself to a . . . parasite.

The words slammed into him like a blow to the face. He barely registered the splash as his body gave way and the back of his head met the water. Laying there on his back, he passively observed the macabre shapes that the lake painted on the ceiling.

The flier had not wielded the blade that had struck them both down. Sharp images sliced through his heart, clawing away at it without mercy. He raised a hand to his chest that ached as though someone had pried it open and ripped out a part of his soul.

Let . . . go.

Had he not already understood it earlier? That his dream had shown him the truth: he was the villain.

He had no idea how long he had lain there while the gentle waves washed over the outskirts of his hair. He was a parasite; this truth seared into his heart like a branding iron. A leech that sucked the life out of anyone he touched. Forever taking, taking, taking, without ever giving. Why could he only take? Why had he never given?

His chest lifted with an unsteady breath. His bond with Ares had not been doomed because it had been shallow or because he had lacked understanding of the concept. His fists tightened so fiercely that his nails threatened to break through his skin. It was true that he had not understood then, but that had not been the reason. He had not understood . . . Did he understand now? He shut his eye firmly, not attempting to stop the first tear as it streamed down his cheek.

Henry the human I bound to you.

His tears became a flood, unceasingly streaming down his face. It had been a second chance. A second . . .

If only I had had the strength to see . . . what you were from the get-go. Before I chained us to each other. Before it was . . . too late.

And it was. A powerful surge of self-hatred crushed his chest. Because here he was—exactly where he had been before. He was here because he had failed to learn a single thing. Because he had never ceased to be the same despicable traitor he had always been—the villain, condemned to fall. To succumb to his own flaws and to lose his second bond . . . for the very same reason he had lost his first.

To fall. Again and again.

Out of all who could have fallen that day, out of all I could have saved . . . For what did the world mean to punish me when it sent me you?

Forgive me, thought the boy. Forgive that it had to be me. You should have let me fall. Let me die. His mouth opened. It would have been so much easier if he had died on that day. Just died . . . like he had been supposed to.

The notion swelled within him, piercing his heart and resounding in his mind like an everlasting scream. The boy squinted in pain, only then realizing that he was digging his nails into the back of his hand. He watched idly as they pierced his skin, and he could sense hot blood beneath his fingertips.

Perhaps it was for the best that the flier had left. He would be better off now. The boy nearly smiled. Like this, he was no longer tethered to the parasite. He would be free, and maybe even find happiness.

The boy lost all concept of time passing. It could have been hours or even days, but he no longer had any concern for it. Because time had no meaning if he had nothing to do. He had no strength left to move and no reason to muster any.

Upon that thought, something within him tried to stir. Tried to protest, to scream that Henry always had spirit. Henry could turn every setback into an opportunity. Henry prided himself on his infinite hope.

But Henry was gone. And the boy lay there, shattered, life spilling out of every fracture. He was running out. Standing still. No matter how much he craved it, he could not turn back.

For what should he start his cycle anew? It was an unending loop. Against the odds, the boy would struggle to climb and pour his blood, sweat, and tears into conquering the summit, only to fall time and time again. How many times had he now repeated it? He could not tell. All he knew was that he had no spirit left to try again.

He had fought valiantly, the boy thought, his eye fluttering shut. He had struggled, and screamed, and battled the world for every ounce of life in his body . . . and he had lost. Now he had. Everyone can be broken . . . All that is needed is a breaking point. And not even the most powerful will could move a body with every bone fractured.

There was nothing left. His heart pounded lonesomely in the vast cave. There was no resonance, no companion heartbeat to be found. For one who could not break his own cycle of mistakes or be more than a parasite, there was no place in this world. No need, no want . . . not even a right.

Some beast may claim him, or he would succumb to blood loss . . . thirst . . . hunger . . . It was all the same. And so his body grew still as stone. One that may stand tall amidst the relentless waves. Was it what he would be soon?

Then, a sudden force seized the boy's arm and hoisted him up. Had his throat cooperated, the boy would have screamed, but he could not scrape together enough spirit to honestly try.

As he was lifted onto someone's back, he released a strained groan, his mouth parting, yet nothing but an empty sigh escaped. His final perception before slipping into unconsciousness was the softness of fur against his face. Fur so light that it almost seemed . . . white.