I shield Olin reflexively.

“It’s a trap. Run!”

The warning comes from a corner opposite the movement; the voice, Neca’s.

A large, green-glowing figure steps into sight. “I wouldn’t suggest it,” his voice is like gargling rocks in syrup.

Squeezing Olin’s hand, I bolt. Without any idea as to where, we turn and run from the terrifying figure who is most certainly Huatiani. Neca’s words from Immortal City echo in the back of my mind, when it comes to immortals, quick is never quick enough. I suck in another breath. I stretch and pound my foot to the ground. I’m still alive, so there must be hope.

Then all hope is consumed. A blinding light lashes the wall of the factory in front of us, as if lightning has struck our backs. Seared into my sight, the last thing I see before going blind is Yetic hurdling through a hole in the wall.

Olin and I launch forward, my braid whipping past my ear and snapping taut. My back feels as though fire is consuming it—as if any moment the flesh will tear away and bones melt. And everything will be gone.

Crashing to the floor, the sensation of flying is replaced with pain as my arms and face grate against the adobe blocks. In this case, pain means life.

“Olin!” I’ve lost his hand in the crash landing. “Get up, run!” Completely blind, I hear his breathing nearby. Scrambling on all fours, I reach for him. “There’s a hole in the wall.”

“I won’t go without you,” he clasps my hand. Another telekinetic burst washes past and shakes the ground. Running, Olin serves as guide for both of us. “The hole’s just ahead.”

“On the outside look for a crowd,” I huff.

Before he can acknowledge, a third telekinetic strike rumbles through the floor, this time directed straight at us. The ground buckles and lifts. I’m blind and useless—dead weight. Olin will never make it while dragging me. As the floor shatters out from under us, I yank my hand free. “Keep going!”

Limp and tumbling sideways, I collide with a pile of rubble before being pinned awkwardly by more falling from what’s left of the wall. Maybe the whole building will collapse, taking Huatiani with me. For a few seconds, I hear nothing except the echo of adobe blocks tumbling to the floor, the bulk of the building apparently still intact.

I allow myself an apprehensive sigh of relief. Maybe Olin listened to me for once. Maybe he made it through the opening and kept running. Please, gods, let him make it. He’s no longer a little boy. He doesn’t need me. Maybe he never did. Maybe it was me that needed him all along. Now we’re both free.

My prayers are interrupted by a voice—one sounding like the earth itself. “I didn’t know for sure, until now.” A hand, rough and grooved, covers my eyes. Applying pressure to my temples, a tingle sparks between his thumb and fingers.

I can’t move, unsure whether it’s due to telekinesis or physical damage. The hand draws back to reveal a creviced face older than the forest, older than time. Expressionless, almost bored, Huatiani stares into my eyes. Perhaps he’s waiting for me to confirm he has restored my sight.

I try to talk. Coughing, I hack up a clot of dust and phlegm. Finally, I manage a single word, “Why?”

“Exact punishment for the crime. Nothing more, nothing less.” His speech is paced and rhythmic as if each word forms in his mouth like a pearl inside an oyster. “You are the enabler, are you not?”

I narrow my eyes, imagine them as beams of light piercing through his skull. Nothing happens. “I only killed those people because you were too old and slow to do your job.”

He shakes his head slowly from side to side, a flash of impatience bursting around the rim of his eyes like the sun’s corona. “The black one is the protector. Noble. Stupid.” The corner of his mouth twitches. “The little one is the killer.”

My anger flares, “He’s not a—” the air in my throat swells, sticking my tongue to the bottom of my mouth and forcing my jaw open.

“Only his crime merits immediate execution.”

Tearing helplessly at the inside of my mind, I struggle to connect with any part of my body—a foot, a finger, an eyelash. Nothing responds. Even my breathing, the beating of my heart, is not my own. I want to tell this craggy immortal—scream it into his withered old face—that if he touches my brother while leaving me alive, I will kill him.

“The black one has paid in full. Now you, Bluehair.” He clutches my braid in his thick hand, soiling it.

Shocked by the violation, I’m slow to realize his intent. “No. You can’t.” A hot grief wells beneath my eyes, but no tears form. “You wouldn’t.”

He yanks my head roughly to the side. “The law is exact. Its enforcement, pure. For your crimes against New Teotihuacan, I hereby revoke your citizen status.”

A searing heat pinches the back of my head, and the world begins to swim.

His arm pulls away, something dark coiled around his hand. My body is my own again, but I’m lost as to what orders to give it. I’m lost, completely and utterly.

“If you wish to stay execution of the little one,” he holds something in front of my eyes, small enough to fit between his thumb and fingers, “you will explain—”

Before Huatiani can form the final word in his mouth, his face freezes. The dark red of his skin is wiped pale, then ashen. His own braid, the color of smoke, unfurls from around his neck. It drapes across my cheek. Then, as if made from moths, his skin flutters apart and wafts away on the breeze. The rest of him falls into the cracks of the rubble heap like sand through fingers.

And where a moment ago there had been someone, a terrible someone, now there is nothing. Through the nothing, I hear sobs. At first I think it’s me, the tears finally flowing from the corners of my eyes. But the sound is separate.

Straining, I rise onto my elbows. All I can see is the inside of the warehouse, debris scattered from one end to the other. A subtle movement catches my eye. Propped against a nearby wall, Neca lifts an arm. He’s bleeding, exhausted, defeated. Not crying.

A spark ignites somewhere in the depths of my mind—an impulse to get up, to help Neca. As I struggle to connect that impulse to the rest of my body, Neca shudders. He extends a single finger before dropping his arm limply to the floor.

Of course, he was pointing. Another spark ignites. My upper body jerks upright, my hand clutching for an enemy who is no longer there. Huatiani. My chest is heaving, my fist shaking. The final spark ignites. In sudden shock, I realize the general is dead—disintegrated. But by who?

The sobs return. I rise to my knees. Clumsily, I turn to face the opening in the wall.

Olin is standing in the rain, his shoulders hunched forward, his whole body trembling.

“Olintl?”

He shakes his head, refusing to look at me. “He made me.” He raises his palms, rain dripping from them. “I had no choice.”

Numb and distant, I direct my muscles. They mimic organized movement until I reach my little brother’s side. Steam rises from my skin, the rain cooling its surface. Not a single other individual is in sight. We share the same space, allowing silence to express our loss more powerfully than words. Despite my best planning, everything is lost.

No. Not everything. “Olin,” I whisper his name.

Moments later, he looks up. “Your hair.” A blue flame flickers across his face.

I toss my head from side to side. It’s awkwardly light. I know the braid is gone. I remember seeing it in Huatiani’s hand before he disappeared. I reach out my hand, not toward the back of my head, but toward Olin’s face.

He flinches, closing his eyes. I touch the end of my finger to his cheek. It’s cold. Or maybe my skin is hot. “No,” I say. “You had a choice, and you made the right one. You make the choice, the choice doesn’t make you.” I shake him lightly. “You are more than your abilities.”

He nods.

Together, we climb through the hole in the wall, stopping near a pile of human ash. Olin stoops to pick up my braid, a completely alien object now that it’s no longer attached. There is also a tiny leather pouch—an object Olin doesn’t recognize. But I do. Only a few hours ago, I emptied its contents into his mouth. Now it’s covered with Huatiani’s dust. Let the general keep it.

Olin holds my braid out to me.

Even as I formulate the words in my head, I doubt I’ll ever believe them. But I have to say them. Saying them won’t bring back the dream of Masa and the academy. Saying them won’t restore the possibility of a long, full life.

Saying them will give me the strength to keep breathing. As long as we’re alive, as long as we’re together, as long as we’re family, there’s hope. I breathe deeply, snatching the braid from his hand. “I am more than my hair.”