Redreach was covered in posters. They were hitched to posts, displayed in windows, and tacked to doors. A face loomed from each one—watching Silas's every move. Frantic, he spun around, looking for somewhere—anywhere—to hide. No matter where he turned, he couldn't escape that empty gaze. Redreach may as well have been a hall of mirrors. Everywhere Silas looked, his face reflected back at him.

  Closer inspection of the posters revealed their purpose. They were Imperial Correspondences summarizing Archarbiter Sorne's speech at the public address. The sketch of Silas's face had been taken during the event by an illustrator in the crowd. Text below the image stated Silas's name, his status as the Empire's weapon, and his role in the war against the Unspoken in the Western Quadrant.

  The Imperial Correspondences were old. Faded ink, warped parchment, and tattered edges betrayed their exposure to the elements. Among these weather-beaten posters were several new additions. They also displayed Silas's face. But where the Correspondences had a wall of text transcribing Sorne's speech, these new documents advertised a large sum of money—an astronomical bounty for Silas's capture.

  Silas reeled away from the bulletin board he'd been examining, hugging his arms around himself. It has been mere days since my rescue from the Garrison Mordant. How has word traveled this quickly to such a remote village?

  Silas took deep breaths to calm himself and returned to the bounty. While only his likeness was portrayed, other names were listed below his. Vera Stroud. Oscar Brenn. Elsbeth Ravelin. Kessara Lynth. Elias Harrow. Halven Quirin. Lutheran Veyl. All wanted dead or alive, with handsome sums of money in return for the deed. Instructions for Silas's capture demanded he be taken alive. The others' survival was optional, but bounty hunters would receive a larger reward if they were spared. The Empire wished to make a spectacle of their deaths with a grand public execution.

  Oscar and Ravelin hovered behind Silas, reading the posters with wan faces and wide eyes. Their fear was juxtaposed by Vera's wrath. She tore a poster from the bulletin board and scowled at it.

  "That damn machinist," she hissed, crumpling the poster into a ball and hurling it at the nearest window. The shop's proprietor sent her a rude gesture, which she reciprocated. "Rest stop, my foot. He wanted Silas to come here and see this, didn't he? What game is he playing at?" Vera paced before the board, her sharp glare slicing into the sand beneath her feet.

  Wind rustled Silas's wig, and it sounded suspiciously like a whisper. When he turned to address the sound, he found a group of locals lingering in a huddle, gossiping to each other and pointing. Silas had to mollify Vera. If she made a scene here, their cover would be blown. In a town full of their wanted posters, such a mistake would be fatal.

  Silas raised his hands to sign, then remembered Vera's warning. Instead, he tugged at the end of her coat sleeve to get her attention. It worked. When she looked at him, she saw his calm, confident fa?ade. The expression placated her, but failed to convince Silas of his own act.

  "The pipsqueak's right, Vera," Oscar said and led her by the arm away from the bulletin board. Lowering his voice, he added, "We should get inside. This place feels hostile toward outsiders."

  The gossiping huddle had infected Redreach with their rumors. The quiet village was now an information danger zone. The longer they stayed out in the open, the faster the rumor mill would churn. Were bounty hunters already here? Silas hastily scanned the area, careful to avoid making eye contact with anyone. He couldn't discern local from potential enemy. Everything in Redreach was unfamiliar—from the attire to the architecture. The housewife pretending to rub a shirt against a washboard could have been an Imperial spy. Silas's hand inched toward the knife bouncing against his hip. Was the young man brushing his horse reaching for a weapon, or a comb to tease through his mount's mane?

  Ravelin walked ahead, fighting to keep her headscarf in place against the constant breeze. She stopped in front of an establishment, tilting her head back to read a sign posted above the door.

  "The Broken Reins," she said when the others caught up to her. "It's a tavern. Should we go in?"

  "Yes," Oscar said before Vera could protest. When he opened the door, a bell chimed. The sound made Oscar wince.

  Silas stared at his reflection in the tavern's window, hyper-aware of his disguise's fragility. So far, it appeared to be working, but an especially strong gust of wind would expose his deception. Silas took one last look—ensuring his wig and hat were secure—before following his companions into the tavern.

  The first thing he noticed was the smell. Acrid smoke hung in the air, suspended above the ground like fog. It puffed from stout cigars and skinny cigarettes, burning the back of the throat with each inhale. Silas forgot where he was for a beat and stumbled, retreating until his back slammed into the door. That white haze was a startling reminder of his vilest sin.

  Vera swiveled, frowning at Silas's tremulous form. She opened her mouth to speak, but Silas held up a hand and peeled himself away from the door. He didn't deserve pity for what he did that day. Still frowning, Vera went ahead, disappearing into the fray.

  The atmosphere demanded Silas's attention next. The tavern was packed—nearly every seat, booth, and bar stool taken. Silas lost himself in the clamor, the din of dozens of rowdy voices overwhelming his senses. Hands clamped over his ears, Silas squeezed between patrons, searching desperately for his allies. Craning her neck, Vera spotted him in the throng and shoved her way toward him, elbowing and kicking through the mass of bodies.

  "Oscar found us a spot in the back!" she shouted and grabbed Silas's hand, leading him away from the rabble.

  Oscar and Ravelin sat in a cozy booth tucked away in the corner. The noise was bearable here, but still loud enough to necessitate shouting, which Oscar and Ravelin were doing to converse with each other.

  Silas slid into the empty seat opposite Oscar and Ravelin—Vera sitting down beside him. Her face was set in a perpetual grimace.

  "We could go somewhere else!" Ravelin yelled, struggling to project her soft voice. "Maybe there's somewhere less…"

  "Unpleasant?" Vera tried, batting her lashes. She sighed. "No. We're already here. We might as well stay and enjoy the 'hospitality' the kind horseman promised." Scorn seeped into her tone as she snapped open the menu resting on the table.

  Silas peered over her shoulder to read it, squinting to make out the text in the dim light. The fare was typical of taverns—hot biscuits, hearty stews, and a variety of spirits. Silas's stomach grumbled as he read each dish's description. Beef stew would hit the spot, but its price ruined Silas's appetite.

  "What are these prices?" Vera glowered at the menu like the parchment was to blame. "A basket of biscuits can't possibly cost this much."

  Silas stiffened. He glanced over his shoulder—making sure nobody was around—before signing, "Famine."

  Vera puffed out her cheeks and closed the menu, sliding it away. "Indeed," she said, massaging the bridge of her nose.

  "What did he say?" asked Oscar, staring at Silas's hands clasped above the table.

  "Famine. These prices are famine economics. Most of the items on this menu include cereal grains and root vegetables as ingredients. It's no wonder the prices are so high."

  Silas's mind whirled. Such ridiculous prices wouldn't hamper the wealthy. Those with money could still afford to eat. Now, only the poor were starving. But if something wasn't done soon—if the Unspoken's attack on the Verdancy Array wasn't stopped—the problem would no longer be a matter of prices. Food would be gone, and the Empire would starve, rich and poor alike. The Verdancy Array had to be protected. Silas clenched his hands into fists so tight they shook. He would fix this by his own power.

  A waitress interrupted Silas's contemplation. Try as he might, he couldn't help himself from blushing. The only time he'd seen a woman dress so provocatively was when he passed through Ashmere's red light district on his way to the Garrison Mordant. Silas found sudden interest in the grain of the wood, studying the table like his life depended on it.

  "What can I get started for ya'll today?" the waitress drawled.

  Oscar openly stared at her, as shocked as Silas was. Ravelin pretended to read her menu. Only Vera's composure remained intact.

  She cleared her throat. "We'd like a few more minutes to decide." She paused. "However, I'd like to place an order of coffee for the table."

  After the waitress left, they decided on their meals. Shareables and an appetizer were agreed upon. Silas was disappointed—he really wanted that stew—but didn't complain. He was privileged enough to be able to afford a meal. He wouldn't take it for granted.

  When the coffee was served, Silas and Vera greedily devoured it. Silas downed two mugs. The caffeine lifted the heaviness from his limbs and cleared the fog from his thoughts. When he went for a third mug, Vera stopped him—grabbing his wrist and shaking her head.

  "That would be your fourth mug of the day, Silas," she said. "Even I seldom drink that much. Your little heart might burst if you have any more. No, it'll be water for you for the rest of the day."

  Silas stuck out his bottom lip in a pout but relented. She did have a point. Silas's heart fluttered so fast it set his chest aching. The speed of it sparked anxiety, which only made his heart beat faster. He clasped his quivering fingers around his water glass and sipped slowly.

  They ate quietly. Silas savored each bite, following the food down with large gulps of water to satiate his hunger. As he was dabbing up gravy residue on his plate with his last bite of biscuit, Silas became aware of a change in the air.

  The tavern had gone silent, so quiet Silas's frenetic heartbeat thundered in his ears. But there was one sound that rose above the hush. Heavy bootsteps thudded against the floorboards, and they were rushing straight toward Silas's booth.

  Halven Quirin ran toward them, panting and sweating like he'd been running for some time. Before stopping in front of the booth, he quickly glanced over his shoulder, his pale face strained.

  "We need to go. Now," he wheezed, still fighting to catch his breath.

  Vera clicked her tongue. "I think not. Until I hear an explanation, I will continue to sit right here." She took a long, noisy slurp of coffee, watching Quirin over the brim of her mug.

  The tendons in Quirin's neck bulged. He sputtered, his lips failing to form a response. Just as sound began to emerge from his throat, a loud bang issued from the front of the tavern, followed by the clomp of several pairs of boots. Quirin looked like he was going to pass out; he pressed his palms to the table to keep himself upright.

  The throng parted to admit the newcomers. Six individuals approached: four men and two women. They weren't locals. They wore dark, form-fitted trousers tucked into sturdy boots. Their leather coats were faded and blemished by tears and cuts. Weapons were on full display: phlogiston rifles slung over their backs, blades snug in sheaths around their hips. The leader of the group—a gruff man with a scar across his forehead—drew a phlogiston rifle and leveled it at Quirin's back. Silas's mouth fell open to warn Quirin with his scream.

  Quirin spun, but not in time to react to the rifle shot. Vera was faster. She kicked him, sending him sprawling. The shot soared over his head—ampule crashing against the wall inches from Silas’s ear. Vera drew her own weapon and fired.

  "Take cover below the table!" Vera cried, firing off another shot. Silas obeyed, crouching low, covering his head with his arms.

  Oscar and Ravelin left the booth, coming to stand beside Vera. The tavern's patrons were no longer silent. They jeered and whistled, eager for humors to spill. Silas stared at Vera's boots, trying to sneak a peek at the scene from his vantage point. Quirin sat up and scooched back until he, too, was shielded by the thick wood. Together, they watched the scene unfold.

  "Hello, little lady," Scarface said to Vera. "Pardon us for interrupting your repast."

  His accent was unfamiliar to Silas. He didn't have the dialect of Redreach's locals, but he didn't sound like he was from Droswick, either. Maris Calloway had a similar lilting accent. Perhaps they were from the same place.

  "What do you want?" Vera demanded, her finger poised above the trigger.

  Scarface grinned. He crouched, tilting his head to peer at Silas under the table. "We're here for the boy." When he waved, Silas shied away, sneaking out of Scarface's line of sight.

  Vera's trigger finger twitched. "What could you fine people possibly want with a random child?"

  Scarface laughed, the sound like thunder. His friends laughed too, doubling over like Vera had cracked a hilarious jest. Slowly, Ravelin's fingers crept toward her crossbow.

  "Drop the act, missy," Scarface said, suddenly serious. "The cheap disguises are fooling nobody. That's Silas Harrow. We're here to return him to the Empire." His cruel smile twisted Silas's stomach.

  Vera was no longer pretending. She fired off three rapid shots. None of them hit their targets. The newcomers scattered, moving with practiced efficiency.

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  They're bounty hunters! Silas realized. He wanted to move—to launch himself at the enemy with his kitchen knife—but fear pinned him to the spot. He tried another avenue. When he attempted to harness the power in his mind, it refused to respond to him. His weak aether slipped away, hiding where Silas couldn't reach. He was useless. Vera and the others were going to get hurt or worse because of him, and he could do nothing to stop it.

  Ravelin had her crossbow in hand now, and Oscar his cudgel. Ravelin slipped a bolt from the quiver at her back and nocked it, firing into the chaos. From where he was, Silas couldn't tell if it felled anyone.

  "Oscar, get him out of here!" Vera called, slowly approaching the bounty hunters, ignoring the barrage of alchemical ampules shattering around her feet. "Take him and run."

  Oscar crawled under the table and clasped a hand around Silas's wrist. Silas was hauled to his feet. Oscar pulled him toward the door. The crowd didn't try to stop them, but the bounty hunters did. Two broke away from the others in pursuit. Ravelin's bolts embedded in the floor at their ankles and whizzed past their heads. They expertly dodged without batting an eye. These bounty hunters weren't amateurs.

  Silas struggled, trying to slip through Oscar's grip. He wouldn't leave Vera alone to fight for him. He looked back, catching a glimpse of her circling Scarface and another phlogiston rifle-wielder. Ravelin stood beside her, her attention torn between Vera and Silas. Whatever Vera said to her snapped her into focus and she fired at the nearest enemy.

  Oscar did not entertain Silas's struggle. He simply picked Silas up and carried him through the door. Silas flailed and kicked, but Oscar gritted his teeth and held firm. Over Oscar's shoulder, Silas saw the two pursuers exit the tavern. They quickly caught up—Oscar slowed by carrying Silas. He set the boy down so they could flee faster.

  It was hard to run over sand. Slipping and sliding, Silas lagged behind, falling closer and closer to the bounty hunters gaining on him. Oscar didn't notice, running ahead with all his might. Silas risked a glimpse back—and tripped. He fell face-first into the sand. A bounty hunter picked him up by the scruff of his collar.

  Silas's scream alerted Oscar, who turned, raising his cudgel. The bounty hunter holding Silas was a man with thickly corded biceps. He tightened one muscled arm around Silas's neck. With the other, he pulled a dagger from a sheath and pressed it to Silas's cheek.

  The muscly man's partner was a tall woman with a fierce gaze. The look in her eyes reminded Silas of Ilyra. Her phlogiston rifle was aimed at Oscar's chest. Oscar fearfully looked between his two opponents, his confidence plummeting. The woman could fire her weapon faster than Oscar could bridge the distance with his cudgel.

  Muscles used his weapon to remove Silas's disguise. The blade sliced through his mask's straps. It fell away, landing at his feet. Next, Silas was stripped of his wig and hat. The lady bounty hunter nodded. She pulled a rolled-up poster from her pocket and compared the sketched Silas to the real thing.

  "It's him," she confirmed, rolling the poster back up. "Let's go."

  "W-wait," Oscar stammered. Cautiously, he shuffled forward, gripping his cudgel with two hands. "L-let him go."

  "Shoot him, Lacy," Muscles said, his elbow tightening around Silas's windpipe. "My hands are full."

  The woman—Lacy—stalked forward, her finger tense over the trigger. Oscar hesitated, his eyes darting around, looking for cover. There wasn't any. Sand dunes wouldn't shield him from alchemical ampules.

  Lacy fired. Oscar dodged. It was more of an accident than a feat of skill. His foot sank into the sand, and he pitched forward. The ampule penetrated the dust inches from his feet. When it shattered, a caustic syrup seeped into the sand. The sand liquified, then congealed into glass, hissing and smoking. The wind carried the odor to Silas's face. He scrunched up his nose, resisting the urge to cough.

  Silas would tolerate this no longer. He'd been playing meek—allowing himself to go limp in the bounty hunter's arms. But the time for pretending was over. Silas couldn't use his mind, but he wasn't defenseless either. He'd brought a weapon. It was time to use it.

  Silas thrashed. The back of his head slammed into Muscles's face with a satisfying crunch. Oscar recoiled in sympathetic pain. The bounty hunter released Silas. He dropped to his feet. Lacy was too stunned to act. She blinked stupidly at Silas as he crouched, his hand diving for the weapon in his pocket.

  With one hand, he freed the knife. His other hand used the knife's own blade to cut away the pillowcase binding. Lacy's eyes widened. She pointed her rifle at Silas's head—then hesitated. She wouldn't get her reward if Silas was dead.

  Silas knew this and used it to his advantage. Knife at the ready, he leapt for the muscly bounty hunter. The serrated edge sank into his soft belly, up to the handle.

  Muscles gasped, his hands fumbling for the knife. Right now, it was holding the wound closed. He could still fight in that condition. Silas wouldn't allow that. He reached for the knife and pulled it out with a wet splurch.

  Bright red blood squirted from the wound. Muscles folded, collapsing to the sand. He landed on his stomach. A crimson flower rapidly blossomed beneath him.

  "No!" Lacy wailed. She threw her phlogiston rifle to the ground and sprang for her partner.

  Silas stepped back, staring at his blood-soaked hands. Red dripped off his knife, raining onto his boots. I killed him. The thought bubbled up from the depths of Silas's mind. The emptiness he felt afterward horrified him more than the act itself.

  It was them or me, he reasoned, elevating his gaze, refusing to look away. I can't be captured here. Too much rests on my shoulders. Without him, the Unspoken would destroy the Verdancy Array. Without him, Brassanthium's lies would continue to propagate, forever withholding the truth from humanity. Silas would prevent these from coming to pass, whatever the cost.

  Silas's glare snapped Oscar out of his shock. He blinked, watching Lacy weep over her fallen partner. Muscles was no longer breathing, his eyes open, unseeing. Oscar crept to her phlogiston rifle. Such precaution wasn't needed; Lacy wouldn't leave her partner's side. When Oscar leveled the muzzle at her head, she closed her eyes and tilted her face to the sky, accepting her fate. Silas didn't look away. Unblinking, he witnessed Lacy's death, cataloging the memory. He would never forget this—the price that was paid for his freedom. For humanity's future.

  Disgusted, Oscar threw the phlogiston rifle to the ground. Then he bent over and spewed his lunch. Silas looked away then, giving Oscar privacy. This was his first time killing someone. He needed a moment to process it.

  When he was done, Oscar straightened, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Wha—" He shook his head and tried again. "Where did you get that knife?"

  Silas shrugged. He wrapped the ripped pillowcase back around the blade and secured it in his pocket. The apathy began to wear off. Silas's erratic heartbeat blurred his vision. A high-pitched squeal assaulted his ears, drowning out Oscar's voice.

  Oscar spat, trying to wash the taste of vomit from his mouth. "Whatever. Let's just get out of here. We'll walk a little in the direction we came from. Hopefully, Vera and the rest will regroup with us soon."

  Silas bit his lip, looking back at Redreach. He wanted to return to Vera's side, but knew that would only make her job harder. He relented, dragging his feet as he followed close at Oscar's heels. The humors on his hands dried. Silas rubbed them together. Crimson flakes lifted from his skin, swept away like flakes of rust on the dry breeze.

  They walked until Redreach was a barely perceptible speck on the horizon. Neither Silas nor Oscar had a compass; they'd get lost if they wandered aimlessly. Quirin claimed he had the means to find their way back to the SCU, but Silas had his doubts. Whatever Quirin did alerted the bounty hunters. He lied about why he wanted to stop in Redreach. What other truths had he concealed?

  Oscar was agitated. He paced back and forth, his boots digging a shallow trench in the sand. Silas mimed that he wanted to check on Vera. Dysol was starting to set. It had been hours since the fight with the bounty hunters began. Something was wrong. It was too quiet. Nobody had come to pursue Oscar and Silas. Was everyone dead? Too injured to move? Hiding, waiting for an opportunity to escape?

  Oscar refused Silas's suggestion, determined to stay put, to wait for the others. But he was getting antsy now too. He mumbled to himself, deliberating the options. Trying to return to the SCU without Quirin was risky. They couldn't wait out here forever, either. Night in the desert was treacherous. Not only did the temperature drop sharply, but predators prowled the sands in search of easy prey. Silas was worried about carrion wolves. If his aether wasn't damaged, he could defeat a pack with relative ease. But in his current state, he wouldn't win.

  As Oscar finally accepted that they needed to return to Redreach, a group of people emerged from the village. Silas sighed in relief and ran to them. They still wore their disguises.

  Vera led the group—Ravelin and Quirin behind her. Ravelin had a nasty gash on her cheek that was weeping blood down her face. Quirin appeared uninjured but despondent—staring vacantly at the sand. Vera had no visible wounds, but was pale and exhausted, stumbling over her feet. Silas noticed the way she favored her shoulder.

  The injury she got from Ilyra! It must have been torn open!

  Vera took one look at the blood on Silas's hands and froze. Silas shook his head. "It's not mine," he signed. She exhaled, her shoulders sagging. The movement made her wince in pain.

  "What happened?" Oscar asked, craning his neck to look at the village. "Did you win? Are you being pursued?"

  "Later, Oscar." Vera held up a silencing hand and walked past him. Silas followed, lingering by her side, watching her closely.

  Quirin jogged ahead, taking the lead. He was carrying a small, boxy device. It fit in the palm of his hand and had one of those strange mirrors on it. The only thing this mirror displayed was a central blinking red dot and a green circle in the top right corner. When Quirin rotated, the green circle spun, an arrow pointing in the direction he stepped. Silas recognized the device as some sort of compass, but he didn't understand the purpose of the blinking red dot.

  Dysol set. Cold descended, fast and brutal. It numbed Silas's fingers and the tip of his nose and set his teeth chattering. He crossed his arms, tucking his hands into his armpits. Quirin's blinking red dot was the only guiding light. It was so dark Silas was blinded, unable to see his feet. But the sky was clear, and the stars were magnificent.

  They spilled across the sky, twinkling like an infinite sea of jewels. Constellations flickered and danced, performing their cosmic waltz as the darkness deepened. Silas followed them with his eyes to distract himself from the cold. Curtains of vibrant purples and muted pinks slid back to reveal the stage. The stars swayed to the music of bootsteps, bobbing in time with the percussive rhythm. One star in particular drew Silas's attention. It blinked and flickered, low in the sky. It took Silas several minutes of staring to realize it was Quirin's strange compass.

  There were two dots on the mirror now instead of one. The new dot was stationary and didn't blink, but the other one advanced on it closer and closer. Silas understood. The blinking dot is us, and the stationary one is the SCU. This is what Quirin meant when he said he had the means to find our way back. Silas needed to know how this device worked. He would ask Quirin about it later, when they weren't in danger of freezing to death.

  The two dots aligned. Quirin sat on his heels, digging in the sand. He found the manhole cover and slid it aside. Without a word, he descended the shaft into the tunnel below. Silas followed next, then the others. Oscar was the last to descend. Before he climbed down, he slid the cover back into place. Silas hoped the wind would cover it with sand soon so nobody would discover the tunnel.

  Quirin found Oscar's starbloom lantern and cranked it high. He walked in the direction of the SCU, still holding the device with the red dots. Silas hurried into the vehicle and sat, blowing on his hands for warmth. Once everyone was in, Quirin booted up the SCU and they sped away.

  It didn't take long for the gentle rocking and steady vibration to return Silas's fatigue full force. He was about to fall asleep when Quirin stormed into the compartment and sat heavily, his face in his hands.

  Silas rubbed his sleepy eyes. Maybe he had fallen asleep. Ravelin's face was now patched up—a thick bandage taped to her wounded cheek. Vera had her coat off and her arm slipped out of the sleeve of her blouse. Ravelin was dressing her wound which, as Silas had guessed, had been torn open in the fight. The skin around the gash was red and swollen. As Ravelin dabbed it with a ball of cotton, Vera grunted, her teeth clenched against the pain. Silas hoped the disinfectant Ravelin was applying worked. Already, the wound looked angry, on the brink of infection. He feared it would soon fester.

  "Explain," Vera said to Quirin when Ravelin had finished dressing her wound. "What in the frozen hells did you do? How did they find us?"

  Quirin said nothing for a moment, his face still covered by his hands. Then he looked up. He was crying.

  "I-I'm sorry," he breathed. "I made a mistake. I…" Quirin trembled. Silas thought he was sobbing at first, but he was wrong. Quirin couldn't catch his breath. His chest rose and fell rapidly, gasping for air.

  Vera swore. "Breathe, man," she said, sliding down the row of seats to him. "Deeply now, I'll show you." Vera demonstrated the breathing exercise she'd shown Silas when he suffered a panic attack before the public address. She'd been significantly gentler with Silas than she was now with Quirin. When he was calm, Quirin began to speak, finally unveiling the truth.

  "I needed to stop at Redreach because one of my contacts from the Covenant's information network resides there. After Silas was rescued from the Garrison Mordant, I sent word along the network that Project Concordia's product was back in Covenant hands. Everyone responded—with varying reactions” —Quirin glanced at Silas as he said this— "but the contact stationed in Redreach went silent. Concerned, I decided to check on them myself. I knew we'd be passing through on our way to the Southern Quadrant. I figured I could disguise the stop as an opportunity to rest and you'd all be fine with that, but you're all more perceptive than I thought." He laughed dryly, shaking his head at his own folly.

  "I see no purpose in your lies," Vera said. "Why not just tell us upfront? If you'd been honest, none of us would have questioned you. Your reasoning for stopping was valid."

  "Because I misjudged you." Quirin sighed. He looked at each person in turn. "I apologize. I made a huge mistake. I'm so used to secrecy—to hidden messages and shrouded meanings. It's been fourteen syzygies since the Covenant has been together, and in that time I've forgotten what it's like to speak frankly with people. Anyways, I digress.

  "Here's what transpired after I parted ways with you all. I circled around the village, heading to my contact's abode. When I got there, I discovered my mistake. I'd led us all into a trap. My contact was no longer a faithful member of the Covenant. They sold us out to the bounty hunters after I sent my message. I ran to find you, desperate to leave before we were discovered, but I was followed. The bounty hunters must have been lying in wait for us."

  Quirin put his face in his hands again. His next words were muffled through his fingers. "I have failed. I don't know what to do. The information network is compromised. I don't know who to trust. Nowhere is safe. Should we continue to the Verdancy Array as planned, or return to the Underhalo? Kessara, Dr. Veyl, and Elias may already be in danger."

  Electric fear struck Silas. He flew to his feet, thoughts whirling. Right now, Pa could be dying. The thought was too horrible to bear. Silas took a shaky breath to steady himself. But if we turn around now, the Unspoken will destroy another greenhouse. Silas gripped the metal pole at the end of his row of seats. He'd made his decision. He wrote it down in his notepad to share with the others.

  "You wish to continue to the Verdancy Array?" Quirin asked incredulously, returning Silas's notepad. "I figured you'd want to return to the Underhalo to check on Elias." Under his breath, he added, "I need to make sure Kessara is alright."

  Silas shook his head. "We will finish what we started," he wrote. "This mission is too important. Trust that the others will be alright. Have faith in them. We will proceed."

  Vera chuckled. "He's rarely this determined, Machinist Quirin. I say we listen to him and continue. He has a good point, too. Believe in your allies. When all else is uncertain, your hope must never waver."

  "I agree," Ravelin said, nodding at Silas approvingly. "Onward we go."

  All eyes turned to Oscar. "What?" he crossed his arms. "Has this turned into some sort of vote?" He threw up his hands. "Fine, then. Yes. We'll go to the Verdancy Array."

  "Alright." Quirin stood and left the compartment, returning to the front of the vehicle.

  Silas stared out the window, his thoughts racing faster than the SCU. Is this the right choice? he wondered. In his soul he knew it was, but he couldn't prevent doubt from taking root. What if I was wrong, and Pa dies because of me? If Silas had to choose between saving Pa and the world, he knew he'd make the selfish choice. Humanity had better find a new savior.