The next morning I help Frye shoulder his pack, checking to make sure everything is secure before stepping back and shielding my eyes against the sunrise.

"Are you sure you have everything?" I ask.

"Yes, mother." Frye rolls his eyes. "Spectacles, testicles, wallet and watch."

"Good." I adjust my own pack and knot a bandana around my neck. "Then I guess this is goodbye."

Frye watches me, his hazel eyes taking no prisoners. "Are you still going to be pissed at me when you get back?"

"I'm not pissed." I say.

"Enough. Gods know how long it will be until we see each other again, so can we please be honest for a moment?"

"Fine." I cease fidgeting with my bag and look my brother full in the face. "I'm pissed you insisted on Petr telling that nonsense story last night when you knew I didn't want to hear it."

"Good." Frye nods. "That's a start."

"So, you're sorry?"

"No," Frye tilts his head. "But I'm glad you're finally acknowledging some feelings."

I roll my eyes, making to turn away. "You're impossible."

"Kay," Frye yanks on my pack and pulls me back around. "You understand why I pressed for your story, don't you?"

"I assume because you get some kind of sick pleasure out of irritating me." I say dryly.

For once, Frye doesn't smile. "I'm trying to get to know you."

"I'm your sister. You do know me."

"Not anymore, I don't." Frye says. "When I left you were a mischievous little kid, and now you're some kind of legend."

"Stop exaggerating." I snap.

"I hardly think I am. Maybe you don't understand how strange it's been for me, coming back home and finding everything changed."

I soften. "Frye..."

"Not just changed," He interrupts me. "Gone. Mum and Dad, Edmun, Lara..."

He trails off, appearing adrift for a moment. I struggle to find words, reaching out for his hand before pulling away.

"Harry told me what she did to you." Frye blinks back to focus. "I didn't really understand the extent of it until last night."

I shrug, scratching at my scarred shoulder. "Have you seen her?"

"Once." He says. "Briefly. At a booksellers in the Outer City."

My heart seizes the way Frye's must have when he laid eyes on her. "I heard that she was living out there, now. Did you speak to her?"

"I tried, but she took off the instant she saw me." A look of genuine heartbreak crosses Frye's impish features and this time I do manage to lay a comforting hand on my brother's arm.

"I'm sorry." I say softly. "I know that you must miss her."

"Six years." Frye says. "Every day for six years I thought of her. Lara was my inspiration, my motivation for staying alive and getting home."

"I couldn't imagine." Seeing my cheeky brother so distraught pains me worse than the memory of my interrogation beneath the Palace. "But there are other girls, Frye. Girls who deserve you."

He releases a heavy sigh. "You still don't get it, do you? I can't just forget what I had with her and go back to the way things were before. It doesn't work that way."

I bristle. "I'm not suggesting that you forget—"

"No, you're suggesting that we march forward without ever talking about or acknowledging the past." Frye steps back. "I'm sorry, Kay but I can't do that."

My hands clench into fists. "I don't know what you want from me. I'm trying to be here for you—"

"Are you? You run off to the Wastelands every chance you get. You're obsessed with tracking down the Madam and keeping a war going. How does that leave any room left for me?" Frye raises a hand to his temple and squeezes his eyes shut.

I remain perfectly still, stunned into silence by his outburst.

"Gods. I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Kay." Frye opens his eyes and looks over my shoulder. "It looks like Luca is ready to leave. I didn't want us to part like this."

I shake my head violently. "You don't have anything to be sorry for. You're right, I have been avoiding the past. I just... I can't explain it."

Glancing behind me, I watch Luca standing with Noah some distance away. Luca waits patiently, pushing his hair back from where the wind has loosened it as he stares into the horizon.

I turn back to face my brother. "I need to keep going. There's something out there, and I need to get to it before it gets to us. Does that make any sense?"

"No." A trace of Frye's smile has returned. "But there's not a lot that does make sense to me, these days. Go on now, sis. I'll be waiting for you when you get back."

I grab him and pull him into a hug, burying my face in his shoulder and holding him as long as I can.

"Safe journey." I tell him.

"You too." He releases me, ruffling my hair before striding over to join Petr and the girls. Luca comes to stand beside me and together we watch the retreating figures heading back in the direction of the City.

"Come on." Luca says, after a time. "I will race you."

* * * * *

We catch up with Jaron and the others a few hours later. My worries about Frye are nearly forgotten as I lose myself in the simplicity of Waster life, the days passing quickly as we alternate between walking, running and hunting; sleeping beneath the stars and cooking over open fires.

It takes us a week to reach the outpost. Luca and I join the scouting party, leaving the rest of the troops behind to establish a perimeter. The outpost is as unassuming as the others we've raided, albeit larger. It is a miniature of Babel; a reflective dome roughly half the size of a city block.

We remain crouched behind a swell of sand, remaining perfectly still for hours  as we wait and search for signs of the enemy. I squint into the dying rays of sun, watching a distant shadow as it circles the outpost, darting in and out of the gloom cast by the dunes and dried-out trees. My bow remains drawn and taut while I trace Luca's movements, eyes peeled in case someone or something were to make the deadly mistake of attacking him.

When Luca returns he reports that he found no footprints, nor any other sign that the terrain had been traversed recently. He points out the hidden entrance and we compile our findings in hushed tones, finally snaking our way back to Jaron and the rest of the troops.

After a quick debrief Jaron determines that we should wait and attack under cover of nightfall. We pass the remaining time in grim silence, each adrift in our own mental preparations as we sharpen and hone our various weapons. We wrap our hands with strips of leather and smear blue war paint across our faces. Finally, Jaron gives the signal and we fan out, breaking off into groups and approaching the enemy camp from different directions. I pull my bandana up over my face, willing my heartbeat into a rhythm as steady as the Waster drums.

Our tread is silent, our movements precise. I glance only once over my shoulder, taking stock of the half-dozen Wasters marching in behind, each gripping the side of the oversized tree stump we chopped down and fashioned into a battering ram.

I feel myself a part of the night, of something bigger, larger, grander than myself. Part of a whole.

The bunker swims into view, its exterior reflecting the sliver of moon and clusters of stars above. Jaron holds up his hand and everyone—regardless of their position—halts in their tracks. The wind slices its way between us, stirring the sand and directing us towards our goal. I wait, listening to the barely audible breaths and the pellets of desert knocking against us. Jaron remains silhouetted by the night sky; stoic and ever-watchful, ever-ready. This is Jaron in his element.

His hand lowers and we rush forward; a wave breaking over the wall. The Wasters carrying the battering ram make a beeline for the dome's entrance, thundering into the hidden gateway with the force of a cannon. There is the sound of splintering wood and they heave forward again, releasing a gutterul war cry with the motion. The door cracks and implodes inwards, chips of wood breaking loose and disappearing into the blackness beyond.

Time stands still. Clouds of dust float up into the indigo sky, the vapour twirling gracefully in stark contrast to the jagged edges of the shattered door. We wait, as honed and poised as the weapons clenched in our fists.

An instant later, they are upon us.

Mechanical soldiers pour out of the darkened tunnel, clicking and whirring with a terrifying ferocity. Jaron shouts a command and we dance backwards, drawing the enemy into the open and at once surrounding them.

I throw myself into the fray. My sword is an extension of my arm, razor-sharp and deadly. I turn and thrust, sending droplets of sticky black tar flying into the air. Burying my weapon deep in the neck of one, I draw a second, shorter sword with my opposite hand and rake it across another's stomach, kicking him in the oversized piece of machinery protruding from his chest. The Mech staggers back, momentarily off-balance. I seize the opportunity and thrust my blade into his ear, not bothering to watch him fall before turning and searching for my next target.

The battle rages on all sides, the desert night filling with the sticky scent of oil and blood. If I'm tired I fail to notice. The Mechs fall around us, littering the ground and twitching as their gears click down to completion. I stoop down low and slash the ankles of a Mech, rolling out of the way as she falls and chancing a glance towards the gaping maw of the bunker. Mechs continue to spill out, an endless parade of soulless, lethal vessels.

I clench my teeth and spring back to my feet, parrying a Mech's sword as I forcibly ignore the whispers that tell me we're outnumbered, that defeat is imminent. The voices in my head fade to a hum as I slip into a trancelike state, hacking and slashing with an unrestrained savagery. A soldier charges towards me, his saber arcing towards my throat. I throw myself to the side, disregarding the brush of blade against my shoulder and jabbing my elbow into his ribs. While he turns in circles searching for me, I duck in behind him and sever his spinal cord in one swift movement, at once spinning around and knocking aside yet another sword.

My attention is suddenly diverted by a strange movement on the fringes of the battlefield. I place my palm against my blade and shove back the Mech I'm fighting, swivelling my head in an effort to locate the disturbance.

An object rolls into the centre of the action. At first I think that an oak barrel has strayed from its ties, but when it comes to an abrupt stop I do a double take. The gadget releases a high pitched whine, then a resounding mechanical click as its sides spring outwards. The whine rises to a deafening screech and I stumble, covering my ears with my hands.

The object shakes, shudders, then explodes.

I'm blown backwards, flying through the air before colliding violently with the ground. My head rings with the force of impact as an inky shadow begins to worm its way in from the corners of my vision. I struggle to stand but find that every limb has become leaden and impossibly heavy. The darkness works its way in further as every fibre of my being tempts me towards the sweet release of sleep.

Stay awake.

A sticky stream of blood tickles my brow. I focus on the sensation, willing myself to stay conscious. My ears ring as the world fades in and out.

Stay awake. You're in danger.

My eyelids pry open. Everything is tilted sideways. I catch glimpses of prone bodies lying in unnatural positions. My eyes drift shut again.

Wake up.

Pinpricks of light dot the nothingness before me. In my muddied mind I am unable to distinguish the stars from the ground and wonder vaguely whether my spirit has left my body. The light grows brighter and I claw my way towards it, somehow managing to force my eyes open once more.

Sand billows into my face as passing feet kick and stir the ground before me. I watch disinterestedly, counting the Mechs while they march past. So many soldiers. Where are they going? Why haven't they bothered to finish us off? Is Luca all right?

A groan escapes my lips and I roll onto my side, looking up at the Mechs walking by. Their unseeing eyes stare straight ahead, their arms plastered to their sides while they stalk forward in perfect synchronicity. One head swivels slowly in my direction. I blink heavily, the pounding in my temple urging me towards sleep. The face swims into focus and I squint, fighting to make sense of what I'm seeing.

I only briefly manage to grasp onto his familiar features before pain and disorientation pull me under.

The broad shoulders. The dark, scruffy hair. Even under a nearly moonless sky, I catch the glint of his unmistakable grey eyes.

Will.