"Cheese," Isaac said.

Tristan looked at him incredulously. "That's it? Cheese?"

He shifted. Damp hay crunched underneath him, accompanied by something that either could have been grout or rat bones. Water dripped from the rotting ceiling. He'd grown used to the smell of mould and faeces, but there was a new scent today. Something that smelled suspiciously like vomit.

Isaac shrugged, kicking his legs out. "You asked me what food I missed the most. That's the honest answer."

"What about a cucumber sandwich?" Tristan asked.

Isaac cocked his head. "I mean, I'd take that too, if it was going."

"Or a steak-and-ale pie."

Isaac pointed a finger. "Also fine."

"Or a truffled mushroom pasta." Tristan's stomach rumbled. "In a white wine sauce."

"Again," Isaac said, "much better than gruel and stale bread."

He hopped to his feet. Tristan leaned back, half-closing his eyes. He'd grown used to Isaac pacing his cell every few minutes, although he didn't know how the other boy had the energy; he could barely stand up without getting dizzy.

"But you'd still choose cheese," Tristan said. "Over all that."

Isaac considered this. "Yeah."

"Incredible." Something that wasn't quite fondness filled him. "Your lack of imagination continues to astound me, Webb."

There was a plaintive mewing sound. Shambles slinked into the cell, slipping between the bars like a white ghost; he butted his head against Tristan's hand. Isaac leaned against their adjoining bars, squinting at the cat suspiciously.

"D'you reckon he'll eat us?" Isaac asked. "Once we die?"

Weariness filled him. "I hope so. Beats Eris finding our bodies. Gods only knows what he'd do with them."

"Here, kitty." Isaac clicked his tongue, dangling his fingers through the bars. "Do you want a piece of bread?"

Shambles gave him an affronted look. Then the cat darted back through the bars, scampering down the corridor. Tristan frowned. "Did you need to scare away my cat? He's the only tolerable company down here."

Isaac ignored the jab. "Where would you go?"

"What?"

"You asked me what I'd eat if I was free." Isaac's grey eyes were bright in the darkness. "Now I'm asking you where you'd go."

"Right now?" Tristan pushed his tongue to the roof of his mouth, thinking. "Everblue. It's just off the Gongo Islands."

Isaac's eyebrows flew up. "You'd want to go on a beach holiday?"

"You sound surprised."

"No offense, Beauchamp," Isaac said, "but you strike me as the sort of person that likes to sit in dungeons and tinker with explosives."

Tristan stretched his arms. "Like a good bottle of wine, I am composed of many layers." He relaxed. "Where would you go, then?"

"Heartcairn." Isaac's response was immediate.

Tristan frowned. That was a village in Lucerna, wasn't it? He didn't know much about Heartcairn, except that it was small, isolated, and populated almost entirely by elderly people. Also, the weather was meant to be hideous. Odd choice for a holiday.

Then again, Tristan reasoned, Isaac had picked cheese as his food of choice. So perhaps he was expecting too much.

"I've never been," Tristan said.

Isaac's eyes were distant. "It's beautiful there. The stream is warm enough to bathe in, and there's a blue rose garden that blooms at midnight. And they have this old stone library, so Camille could–"

He broke off.

It was horrible, Tristan thought, to watch it hit someone all over again. The agony. The grief. He closed his eyes, listening to the sound of Isaac's laboured breathing. The scent of damp mould drifted between them.

"What about Tarhalla?" Tristan asked.

Isaac's voice was rough. "What about it?"

Tristan opened his eyes. "What if I told you that I knew where the Nightweaver camp was?"

A pause. "Then I would say that's the last place we should go."

"Think about it, Webb," Tristan said. "Ryne's dead. Camille's possessed. Anna's locked in a tower. For all I know, Grayson and Penny never made it to Lox." His heart was racing. "The only people left on our side — the only people that hate Lucia as much as we do — are the Nightweavers."

Isaac shook his head. "You're mad."

"It makes sense," Tristan said.

Isaac's laugh was hollow. "Do you know how many Nightweavers I've killed? We might as well wrap ourselves in bacon and walk into a dragon's den."

He resumed pacing. A white cat slipped back through the bars, settling at his feet. Tristan sat forward. His mind was turning, pulling at invisible wires and gears.

"What if it could help Camille?" he asked.

Isaac paused. "Go on."

"Let's say that she's still somewhere inside there. That Lucia hasn't fully possessed her yet. What better way to separate them than using nightmare magic?"

Isaac leaned against the bars. "They'll kill us."

"They might not."

Some of the light guttered from Isaac's eyes. "It doesn't matter." He kicked at a stray bit of hay. "We're never getting out of here."

"Ah," a male voice said. "That's where you're wrong."

Silence.

Tristan rose, scanning the darkness. There was no sign of figures. No sound of approaching footsteps. "Did you just hear...?"

"Yeah," Isaac said.

The other boy stalked toward the barred door. His hand went to his hip, as if he wanted to grab a sword. Tristan's heart thundered in his ears.

"We're going mad," he muttered.

There was a flash of light.

Tristan cried out, stumbling back. Isaac swore. A tall figure rose from the ground. He was young, Tristan observed dizzily, with a muscled body and a shock of red hair. White tattoos swirled up his arms. And there was something graceful about his movements; something almost...

Cold filled him.

Something almost feline.

"Fuck." Isaac's voice reverberated off the stone walls. "Fuck."

"Holy mother of gods," Tristan whispered. "Shambles?"

The stranger sighed. "I detest that name." He dug in his pockets. "Now, quiet. There are guards upstairs."

Tristan watched incredulously as the young man withdrew a key, reaching through the bars to slip it into the lock. His brain seemed to be short-circuiting.

"You're a person," Tristan said.

"Technically, I'm a shifter." The stranger unlocked the door. "I have some Salvatorian heritage. Just like you."

Bile rose in his throat. "I let you sleep in my bed."

"I know." The stranger's mouth quirked. "Terribly uncomfortable, too. You really ought to do something about those pillows." He unlatched Tristan's cell next, wrenching open the door. "Come, now. Quickly."

He started down the hall.

Isaac and Tristan exchanged a glance. Then they hurried after him.

"Wait!" Tristan hissed. "Who sent you?"

The stranger paused, an ear cocked toward the stairwell. "That's a long story."

Tristan swallowed. "What do you want?"

The stranger raised a thin red eyebrow. "Right now, I'd like to make it out of this prison cell without being skewered. So, again. Keep it down."

He turned back toward the dark stairwell. Tristan closed his eyes, trying to stop the world from tilting sideways. He hadn't run that fast in... well, in weeks. His legs were trembling with the effort of staying upright.

The stranger started up the stairs. Tristan seized his shoulder.

"Wait!"

The young man looked exasperated. "What?"

"What's your name?" Tristan asked.

"Owain." He took the first step. "Now hurry."

"Stop!" Tristan said.

He darted in front of him this time, almost sending them both toppling down the dark staircase. The stranger — Owain, Tristan thought — swore in a language that he didn't recognize. "What?"

Tristan's heart was hammering. "We can't go yet."

Owain pinched the bridge of his nose. "Tristan, I swear to the holy stars—"

"Do your keys work on every cell?" Tristan cut in.

Owain's gaze was flat. "I refuse to start a prison riot."

"It's just one prisoner," Tristan said. "Tarquin."

"Are you mad?" Isaac hissed. "His wife tried to kill us!"

Isaac was standing at the bottom of the stairs, wearing an expression that Tristan could only describe as "exasperated-father-dealing-with-toddler-trying-to-lick-a-hot-frying-pan." He took a step down.

"We need him," Tristan said. "If we go to Tarhalla, we can offer him as an act of good faith."

Isaac's eyes narrowed. "As a bargaining chip, you mean." Tristan remained silent, and Isaac sighed. "Fine. Whatever. Let's break him out."

Owain raised an eyebrow. Still, he must have decided that it wasn't worth arguing about, because he handed Tristan the keys. Tristan started down the corridor. Most of the cells were empty, although it took him a good five minutes to locate Tarquin. And when he did, he wished he hadn't.

Tarquin was curled up in the corner. The former guard was clutching a handful of hay as if it was a plush toy, and his breathing was wet and ragged. Tristan squared his shoulders. Then he unlocked the cell.

"Tarquin?" he whispered.

The man didn't stir.

Isaac stepped in after him, wrinkling his nose. "Gods. It stinks in here."

"June," Tarquin slurred. "My June."

The older man sat up, his dark eyes glazed. He was still clutching that handful of hay to his chest, whimpering slightly, and Tristan had to battle the urge to look away. A lump rose in his throat.

Owain leaned against the bars. "He's delirious."

"I can see that." Tristan turned to Isaac. "Can you carry him?"

Isaac raised an eyebrow. "You want me to carry him?"

Exasperation filled him. "How did you think we were going to get him out of here? Levitation?" Isaac was motionless, staring at his former colleague with something akin to horror, and Tristan threw his hands up. "Fine. I'll do it."

He started forward. Isaac held up a hand.

"No offense, Beauchamp," Isaac said, "but you couldn't carry a bag of feathers." He rolled up his sleeves. "I'll do it."

Isaac stooped, slinging Tarquin over his shoulder. His legs shook slightly as he rose, his stride slightly unsteady. Prison had eaten away at his muscles, Tristan observed; probably eaten away at his confidence, too.

"Good," Owain said. "Follow my lead." He paused at the cell door. "And for stars' sake, stop talking."