It’s early; the sun still down and the air chilly. Only a handful of people are out on the street. From the corner of his eye, Milo sees a figure dressed in black collecting the refuse left out overnight. He doesn’t acknowledge the Hidden, and the Hidden doesn’t acknowledge him. They live in separate worlds.

Milo hurries. It’s the second day after the party, and he hadn’t seen Hallon since then. He’d stopped by, but she wasn’t feeling well and turned visitors away. He’d worried all day and night; not sleeping, just thinking and thinking.

Wahid answers the door at the Standing Goat, his forearms covered in flour. He escorts Milo—not upstairs, but to the small yard behind the inn where the General and Safi usually practice a fighting art called Barraket. There, Hallon leans on the General’s arm. She takes a step, pauses to recollect her balance, and steps again.

The weight on Milo’s heart lifts.

Nearby, Safi wields a softly-curved sword as he moves through his morning exercise. A glance tells Milo that it’s from page 221 of the General’s Manual of Physical Training for the Path of Staff and Sword.

Hallon takes another step. The equations in her legs wobble, and she bites the bottom of her lip in concentration. If it wasn’t for the General, gravity would pull her down.

“Ca-can I help?” Milo asks.

Hallon nods, and Milo rushes to take her other arm. By the time the sun rises, she walks to the far wall and back twice, and he’s there to help her.

###

A spirit hides in the Below. Her name is Reem, and her shape is human, perhaps fifteen or sixteen years old, with two short antlers poking from between the strands of dark hair on her head.

The corridor she occupies is blocked by rubble at both ends, a good place to avoid the mortals living in and moving through Dawrtaine’s undercity. This section of ruins was once a place she could take her ease, but not now. As things stand, there’s no relaxing ever. She must be cautious at all times.

Her companion, Jawad, pokes his head through the rubble, enough so that the hunch on his back is visible. “There’s a Silent patrol not far off.”

“Are they accompanied by shadows?”

“Yes.”

Reem frowns. The number of shadows in the Below has been growing. “What are they doing?”

Jawad appears older than Reem, and his brows furrow as he joins her in frowning. “The Silent came with some kind of device and planted it in the dirt—I couldn’t get close enough to see what it was exactly—and when they left, the shadows stayed behind to guard it.”

“We’d better tell the travelers,” Reem says.

###

A week later, Milo is in the small yard behind the Standing Goat to help with Hallon’s exercises. Wahid watches from the door with a cup of steaming tea in his hands. Nearby, the General practices a form called The Sun Ascendant, his staff swinging in arcs so precise, they could’ve been drawn with a compass.

The staff stops mid-swing when Hallon says, “On my own.”

“But your legs aren’t—” Milo says.

“I said on my own.” Hallon pulls away from his support, nearly unbalancing herself.

The General sets down his staff and moves closer, but Hallon glares at him and he stops. When she sees no one else interfering, Hallon closes her eyes. The numbers around her quiet as she focuses, as she stacks her bones one on top of the other to ease the strain on her muscles. The structure breaks when her left knee bends and gravity pulls her down and forward. Her left foot steps and braces against the ground, the muscles engaging to keep her upright long enough to move and brace. She does the same thing with her right and then left again, the right and left.

How had Milo never noticed before? Walking is a dance with gravity, the movement of the body in time with the inexorable pull of the earth. Hallon dances poorly—her legs barely able to keep up with her invisible partner’s demands—but she dances. To the far wall and back.

###

The Half-Cloud Moon tribe gathers in a room that once was a banquet hall. The ceiling has been braced by metal and wood scavenged from other parts of Dawrtaine’s Below. A few old tables remain, currently covered with open bags of dried fruit, cheeses, and cured meats. There’s clean water too, and jugs of milk.

A stage stands to one side, but the Hidden tribe ignores it. They sit in a circle around a representative from the Silent speaking passionately about the need to rise up against the Untainted; about the necessity of violence for throwing off their yoke. The food and drink are his gifts for allowing him to visit their territory.

It’s a secret few know—the Silent do speak, but only a handful. These few wear gray masks.

The tribe’s territory is an important crossroads for goods making their way underground. At one time, this was a place of constant fighting, but the Half-Cloud Moon have held it peacefully for fifty years; their neutrality key to balancing the interests of the tribes around them. The Silent’s representative asks for free passage through their territory and, as always, they are hungry for recruits.

The youngsters are stirred by the representative’s words, but the tribe is fortunate to have an elder among them—Agathe, the tribe’s headwoman. She is a Blessed Null and has lived long enough to remember the last time the Gloop rose up.

Agathe looks like a desert fox given human shape, and her long ears swivel as she responds to the representative’s speech. Her face is as neutral as her tribe when she tells of the day Saket was shot. She was there in the Above when it happened; not three bodies away. Some of the great man’s blood had sprayed in her eyes.

Then came the riots and the government crackdown after. No Town burned for days, and the streets ran with blood despite anyone’s best efforts. The Silent’s representative rebuts the elder’s caution, almost amiably so, but Agathe notes how the representative’s eyes mark those who speak against the Silent.

###

Two weeks later, Hallon and the General chat over tea, while at the other end of the Goat’s common room, Milo pens a report to Mr. Groud. This is his seventh absence in three weeks, and it’s starting to affect the Lion team. They’re happy for Milo that Hallon’s awake, but at the same time, they’re worried about the Lion’s progress slowing down. Especially Rania. She’d been upset every time Milo has seen her.

She needn’t worry, of course. None of them should. The Lion is complete. They just don’t know it yet.

Their client—their secret, confidential, no-one-but-Mister-Groud-knows-who-they-are client—has decided to build a transmission tower and with that, the Lion’s power problems have disappeared. All that’s left is tweaking and polish. Milo wanted to celebrate the news with his team, but Mr. Groud told him the client requested to keep the project’s completion a secret.

“They have their reasons,” Mr. Groud explained, “and as long as they want us working, we get paid. That’s good enough for me.”

Milo couldn’t argue with that. Well, he’d tried but lost.

At the other end of the room, Hallon eases back from the table to stretch. The numbers wobble, but she’s stable enough. The General rolls out a map and points to the landmarks on it. Hallon leans back in to listen, her equations intent.

“Is everything all right?” Milo asks, his report temporarily forgotten.

Hallon waves. “Fine, thank you.”

“I’m almost done,” Milo says.

“Same here,” Hallon says, distracted. “You can start without us. We’ll join you shortly.”

Start without them? What’s Milo to do on his own? He’s only here to offer his support and keep them company. Well, it’s not like the time won’t be useful—there are always calculations to process. He seals the report and puts it away. He’ll drop it off at the factory later. In the meantime, Milo heads to the inn’s yard and doesn’t notice that it’s nearly an hour before Hallon and the General join him.

###

Under the city, Mary waits for Reem to draw the shadows away. She is the faster of Dawrtaine’s local guardians and unlikely to be caught, staying out of reach until they arrive at the place Eratosthenes is hidden. The smile on the Green Witch’s face is grim. The shadows aren’t the only ones who know how to set up an ambush.

In the meantime, Mary stays out of sight, tucked in the corner of a ruined building. In front is a plaza that once held a fountain. It’s been dry for centuries, and all that’s left is cracked stone, a dirt floor, and the ever-present dust falling from the ceiling above. There’s so much history here, and all of it buried.

And the Silent have been burying more. Across the plaza is one of the devices they’ve been planting in the Below.

Eratosthenes’s voice interrupts Mary’s thoughts. We’ve engaged the shadows.

I hear you, she says.

There’s nothing Green nearby, so Mary slides a twig of hawthorn out from its slot on the bandoleer she’s taken to wearing. She tosses the twig across the plaza and watches the spirit tree emerge, dotted with small white flowers. No shadows dart towards it. The way is clear.

Mary strides across the plaza for a closer look at the device. She gets to within ten feet before a buzzing barrier springs up to block her. Surprised, she steps back, her hands going to her bandoleer, but nothing else emerges. The plaza remains dead quiet.

After a breath to steady herself, Mary leans closer. The barrier is the same as the one around the Scholar’s House. The device inside consists of an arrangement of metal cubes grafted onto—what looks like—a charred thighbone sharpened into a stake. Mary plants another hawthorn, but even with the additional tree’s help, she’s unable to push past the barrier and more closely examine the device.

She wonders at the implications of the barrier’s presence, but Eratosthenes intrudes into her thoughts again.

They’ve called their allies. Get out of there.

Spitting a curse, Mary turns away, but before she leaves, she gives one last instruction to the two spirit trees now growing in the Below: “Pierce the shadows. Let them taste the pain they’ve inflicted on others. Make them remember the glory of life that they’ve forgotten.”

###

Three weeks later, Hallon stands alone in the inn’s yard. The equations around her stretch and relax as she breathes. A small audience watches from the side, waiting to see what will happen. Her muscles are still recovering, but she is determined to do this thing—to practice something called the First Circle of the Way of the Soft Fist. She’d worked to build her strength to get to this point.

The equations shift as Hallon’s foot slides to the right, widening her stance. Her hands at her sides flare out and up in a circle, as if gathering the air and pulling it down to her belly. She does this four times, taking a deep breath with each movement. The form begins, but Hallon missteps from the start and sprawls onto the ground. Milo rushes to help her stand, but she waves him off. Angry, she rises and starts again.

###

Shadows rapidly accumulate around the No Town market. Eratosthenes holds his ground in the full glory of his dragon shape—a half dozen of his puppets ringed around the other guardians—to make sure the shadows keep their distance.

“Is this wise?” Reem says.

“We should hide,” Jawad says.

Mary clears her throat. “I don’t disagree. Their numbers are growing.”

Whatever is happening in Dawrtaine, it’s drawing shadows to the city at an alarming rate. Eratosthenes shakes his feathered mane and rakes his claws across the stone. The implied threat causes the shadows to withdraw a pace, but no more than that. It’s worrying.

“The sooner we start, the sooner we finish,” he says. “What do each of you sense?”

The barrier around the Scholar’s House buzzes when Mary touches it with her staff. She closes her eyes in concentration, trusting Eratosthenes to protect her. “I sense the echo of life. Or is it life distorted? It’s too faint to tell.”

“It’s a made thing, that much we know.” Jawad grimaces as he runs his hands across the barrier. He was an artisan, a potter, when he was alive. “Its shape is like the ones in the Below, as is the texture.”

“The barrier’s intent is the same, as well,” Reem says. “The protection of what’s inside from spirits of all kinds.”

“Milo has mentioned the cubes inside the Scholar’s House,” Eratosthenes says. “It’s a reasonable assumption that the Silent have a cache of the devices. Or the Scholar provided them to the Silent.”

Reem shakes her head. “They can’t be allies. The Scholar is the ultimate collaborator with the government.”

“He might’ve given the devices to them out of fear,” Jawad says in response. “If they threatened him or No Town—”

“Extortion, you mean?” Mary asks. “Appeasement?”

Jawad shrugs. “It happens.”

“If the barrier is the result of the devices,” Eratosthenes says, following the line of thought, “the odds of there being a magician inside the Scholar’s House drop. Or at least one powerful enough to help us fight the shadows.”

“There’s still a chance that there’s someone sensitive enough to encourage their use,” Mary says.

“If so, then we’ve not scented them,” Eratosthenes says. “Not a sign or ripple. Unless their influence has already propagated? Or the barrier is somehow masking it?”

“The Scholar collects interesting people,” Reem says. “Useful people.”

“It could be someone who made a deal with a djinn,” Jawad says.

“Djinns don’t like to come in from the desert,” Reem protests.

“True,” Jawad says, “but we wouldn’t know it if one did, not if the djinn stays inside the barrier.”

thenes listens with half an ear as the local guardians discuss the likelihood of a djinn’s involvement. He thinks it unlikely though—the smell of djinn magic is distinctive, and he hasn’t scented it anywhere nearby. At the same time, his multi-aspected mind also focuses on the danger nearby, the market crowd, and his puppets scattered throughout No Town.

At the far end of the market, Safi shops for ingredients for the Standing Goat’s restaurant. One of Eratosthenes’s puppets watches over him for his protection.

At the opposite end of the market, Marid and Sab are also trailed by a puppet, although at a distance and very much not for their protection. Eratosthenes’s eyes narrow. If it weren’t for the shadows clustered around the two...

Abdullah, from Milo’s team, escorts his pregnant wife through the barrier and into the Scholar’s House. There’s a puppet stationed at the garage in which Abdullah works, but Eratosthenes doesn’t have enough puppets to give each team member their own protection. There are limits even to a dragon’s power.

So many people, and so many fates. They wind together in dense, complicated patterns. Eratosthenes does his best to pick through them looking for lines to influence, for a way to avert the Calamity and restore Hallon and this world to wholeness.

###

Early, even before Hallon awakes, the dark and quiet cover the inn’s yard. The only sound is the flutter of clothes as the General slides his feet, shifts, and jumps. He doesn’t notice Milo at the door. His focus is on the footwork Hallon called the Butterfly’s Landing.

The General trips. He laughs softly as he dusts himself off to try again. He finally notices Milo watching but isn’t embarrassed. “We are always learning something,” he says. “Come join me.”

Milo shakes his head. “I’ll make us some tea.”

Lately, Milo feels like all he does is watch his friends. At least, this way he can be useful.

###

Under the city of Dawrtaine, in the ruins of a house long abandoned, a priest named Ali sits with his eyes closed and legs crossed. He has a purple tattoo smeared across his forehead, and the left half of his torso is missing, as if a monster had taken a bite from him. His apprentice Nadia guards the house from an empty doorway. She was born without skin and is wrapped head-to-toe in bandages to protect her muscles and organs.

The air is dusty, stale, and still; the floor dirt. The only sound is the rustle of Nadia’s bandages when she shifts to find a more comfortable position. There’s no fire, but neither of them mind. They’ve spent all their lives in the dark.

Mary watches from the corner of the house, as small as she can make herself. She’s been quietly observing the fasts, the meditations, and prayers—as they prepare to summon a god.

She’s been spending too much time spirit traveling—Mary’s thoughts feel stretched out, her consciousness spooled out like yarn—but she’s determined to hang on. None of their other leads have born fruit—no magicians for allies and no evidence of a power controlling the shadows— but she has hopes for this one.

Shortly after arriving in Dawrtaine, she and Eratosthenes sensed a power under the streets, but the being fled every time they came close, leaving a trail of laughter. As if it were a game. As if they weren’t at war with the shadows. Eventually, they’d learned from the local guardians that the being’s name is Atu, worshiped by the Hidden. Reem and Jawad then pointed them to the priests serving the undercity’s tribes.

A spark lights the dark, warm as a candle, soft as a baby’s breath. The light grows and takes the shape of a child, somewhere between boy and girl.

Ali grunts, his voice cracking from disuse. “Not in a hurry, where you?”

The child laughs. “All things in their time.”

Before Mary can approach the god, she finds herself unable to move or talk.

And your time is not here yet, the child says in her mind, so just wait a jot longer. There are several more gates to pass through before I can join the game in earnest.

All Mary can do is fret, as Nadia approaches the room’s center.

“Is—is Atu here? I can’t quite—”

Ali says, “Don’t try. Just quiet your mind and listen. Let the vision come on its own.” There’s wonder in his voice. “And yes, Atu is here, troublemaker that they are.”

Gods and spirits don’t need gender, but they often take on the appearance of it when they manifest in front of people. Atu, it seems, doesn’t bother.

“Thank you,” Ali says, speaking to the light, “for your presence and protection. For the blessings and challenges you’ve bestowed upon us.”

“You are all precious,” Atu says in response, and the light expands to fill the room. A warmth spreads through Mary’s chest, and the strain on her spirit eases.

Ali must feel it too. Tears well at the corners of his eyes. “Thank you for your grace,” he says. He takes a breath and steadies himself. “Now, can you please tell us… what in the hells is going on?”

The child laughs. “What is it this time?”

“There are Silent in the Below. It was tolerable when they ignored us, but now they’re visiting the tribes with promises of freedom. They say they have a plan to take the Above away from the Untainted. The various tribes’ elders are debating what to do, but in the meantime, some of the young ones have run off to join them.” Ali pauses. “I know you push us to find our own path, but we could use your guidance.”

Atu turns in place, looking outward at things Mary can’t see. A singsong hum underlays their voice. “The Silent are a broken blade, the edge cutting friend and foe alike. Who would choose to wield such a weapon? No one wise.” Small spirits materialize around Atu—a tea cup made of leather, a small mammal with a wet nose, a man with tree limbs for arms, and many more—enough to fill the room. They listen to Atu’s words:

“A time of choosing comes to the Below. Treasure that choosing. It is a gift, a true sign of your freedom. Beware any who would take away your power to choose.” Atu smiles in equal parts compassion and wryness. “You asked for my guidance. Doesn’t do much good, does it?”

Ali laughs. “You’re telling us to figure it out for ourselves.”

“But—”

“—to be careful. We hear you, dear Atu. We hear you.”

Atu smiles widely. “This is why you’re my favorite, Ali. Although you better watch out for Nadia. She’s coming along and may replace you soon.”

“That,” Ali says, his voice hoarse, “is my most fervent wish.”

“And I’ll be waiting for you,” Atu says, touching Ali’s face.

The priest leans into Atu’s hand, the tears spilling out.

“What is the secret of the Hidden?” Atu asks, his voice taking on the rhythm of ritual.

“That all are blessed.”

“And so it is,” Atu whispers. Then they are gone, back to wherever gods and greater powers go. All the small spirits disappear as well.

“They’ve left, haven’t they?” Nadia asks.

Ali nods. He takes a moment to compose himself. “Yes. How much did you catch?”

“Most, I think. You were right. Atu wasn’t much help and was—at the same time. I don’t know if I’ll get used to that.”

“I thought the same when I first started,” Ali says.

“The elders won’t like Atu’s guidance,” Nadia says.

“They never do,” Ali says. “But this is the path we’ve been given. The elders know that.” He struggles to stand. “Do you need a hand getting up?”

“No, I have it,” Nadia replies.

“Then help me,” Ali says, smiling. “These long fasts are hard on an old man’s body. We’ll visit the Half-Cloud Moon first. We can use Agathe as a test for Atu’s words.”

These long travels are hard on Mary too. She’s exhausted. She’d also gotten less than she’d hoped for, but the knowledge that there is a potential ally under the city—even if the timing isn’t right yet—is heartening.

###

A month passes. The inn’s yard becomes the place they gather every morning. Hallon, the General, and Safi train together, while Milo makes them tea and watches, recording their movements in his head. Milo can’t help it. It’s what he does. On this morning, Milo squats beside the General to watch Hallon’s Second Circle of the Way of the Soft Fist.

Hallon pauses to explain the movement. “This section is called the Lotus Unfolding. The motion starts in the ground. You use the ball of your foot to catch the power there and draw it into your leg. Opening the hip creates space for the rest of the body, and then it’s a matter of transferring the momentum into your hands.” She demonstrates the form again—her movements drawing the shape of a lotus, her hands flaring into punches at the end.

Milo gulps. The equations are so beautiful, shimmering in the air. “That’s amazing.”

“Would you like to try?” The General asks.

“No, no, I’d be terrible at it,” Milo says. “Don’t you remember what happened with the staff?” Milo grimaces and stops himself from saying anything more in front of Hallon.

“You would have gotten it eventually,” the General says. “Everything comes with practice, and the fighting arts are no different. To learn the staff in one day is impossible, even if one does remember the whole book.”

Hallon takes a break and sits down beside them. “What’s this? Did something happen?”

The General laughs, but it’s not unkindly. “Our friend Milo picked up my staff one day—understand that this is while you slept and he was reading from my library. He attempted to master the weapon in one go and nearly knocked his own head off. I tried to show him the correct way, but he would not listen—not to me nor the weapon. He kept trying to tell the staff what to do and gave up when it would not cooperate.” The General shakes his head in disappointment. “Such a shame! With those long arms and legs, he could be a dangerous fighter.”

Milo’s face burns. “I didn’t give up. I just need more time to understand the equations.”

The General throws his hands up in frustration. “You and your equations! I keep telling you—the body has its own kind of understanding. Head, heart, and body—they must all work together. If you grow one and leave the others to whither, you will unbalance yourself.”

“It’s true,” Hallon says, nodding. “The body is wise. A person who ignores their body, puts themselves in peril.”

“Yes, yes,” the General says. “Our Milo is good with his hands, but they float in space. Head and hands, he is all head and hands with very little in between.”

Hallon’s mouth teases a smile. “It would be an interesting project.”

“I agree, but how to do it?” The General peers at Milo. “He is so very spectacularly inept. No offense, my friend. You understand that we love you.”

When did this go from being a conversation with Milo to discussion about Milo? “What about what I want and what matters to me?”

“Of course, of course,” the General says, laughing. “You need only tell us your preference: soft style or hard. With weapons or without.”

Hallon’s nascent smile breaks free, and she joins in the laughter. This is the first time Milo’s heard her laugh since she woke up from the coma. The day is brighter as a result.

Learning to fight would be a waste of time. That’s a given. But Hallon hasn’t been well since waking up. Oh, she’s stronger than she was and her equations are getting healthier, but there’s something missing—something important—and it troubles her. She’s not the same person she was before the fight with Sab.

Hallon’s laughter is precious, and if learning to fight will encourage it, then that’s what Milo will do. It doesn’t matter if he embarrasses himself. He does that already. All the time. Without even trying. Milo blushes at the memory of the staff swinging towards his head.

“Okay,” he says. “Soft and without weapons.”

The General nods. “Yes, I think that is right as well.” He makes a gesture towards Hallon, as if to say, Your student.

Hallon looks at Milo, her smile lingering. “All right. We’ll give it a try.”

“But do you think I’ll really be able to learn?” Milo asks, remembering the staff.

“I think you’ll do fine,” Hallon says. “I’ve never met anyone as studious as you.”

“Oh, ah, thank you. That’s kind of you to say.”

Hallon nods, looking thoughtful. “And if that doesn’t work, I’ll just beat the art into you.”

“That’s good too, I suppose.”

###

His name is Khallad. He was born on this day twenty-three years ago, his face covered in bulbous growths. When the Gloop test found him null, his parent dutifully tattooed him and left him at a sanctuary to be taken down into the Below to live among the Hidden. He’s faced the knife every three months since to cut away the excess flesh that would otherwise block his eyes, nose, and mouth. His is a life of pain, but he doesn’t want to die. To Eratosthenes, he smells like bitter oil.

He belongs to the Slow Water Tribe, and five of his brothers and sisters sit with him like spiders in the dark web of tunnels under the city. An elder of the tribe was killed by the Silent for opposing their efforts to recruit Hidden to their cause. The time has come to take revenge.

The stillness is broken when they hear the jingle of metal on metal. A lantern appears at the end of the tunnel, swinging back and forth. Khallad nods to his brothers and sisters, and they unsheathe their knives. They ready themselves to drop down on the Silent passing under their alcoves.

Khallad whispers a prayer to Atu, and silver bands circle around his body. The bands appear around the other fighters as they whisper their own prayers. The god of the Below helps in small ways. Eratosthenes wishes it was more and adds his own blessing, mixing blue with the silver. He spreads his influence to them all, tweaking the lines of fate and luck to aid them. They will need the help.

The Silent outnumber and outgun the tribesmen. Worse, they carry with them a thigh bone wrapped in iron wire, one end sharpened like a stake, the other tipped with a metal cube. A swarm of shadows follows after the device.

The devices are being placed in a pattern that is becoming increasingly familiar and uncomfortable: a circle—an enormous circle of influence under Dawrtaine. Someone intends to work a grand magic at the city level.

Eratosthenes and the shadows have clashed over the devices several times and each time, Eratosthenes continues to be repulsed by the barrier protecting the device. The hope today is that the Slow Water tribe can physically damage the device.

The tribe's warriors appear as if from nothingness, their knives flashing. The Silents’ guns thunder in response, echoing in the enclosed space. Eratosthenes rips into the shadows with his claws. They scatter, only to regroup around the Silent carrying the magical device. He roars, and the shadows shriek in response.

Eratosthenes is stronger than any one shadow, but they are many and regroup, their hunger reaching towards him. The invisible beings tumble in the air, while the mortal combatants desperately struggle in the tunnel. A shadow slips under a tribesman’s foot and causes him to fall. Another whispers, and a Silent ignites a flamethrower. The tunnel roars red and orange. It smells of gasoline and burning meat.

Eratosthenes extends his will across the lines of probability. Khallad ducks and rolls under the fire spray. His knives come up, but the spray follows him. He screams, mouth filling with fire. He screams as his knives sink into the shoulders of the Silent armed with the flamethrower. He screams as he slices the Silent’s neck and the cables feeding the weapon. Blood and gasoline spray in equal measures.

The fire goes out, but it’s done its damage. The tribal warriors retreat. The Silent pick up the magical device and withdraw, the shadows thick around them and growing thicker as more are summoned to the battle. There are too many to fight. This is the truth they’ve discovered here and elsewhere. The guardians are compelled to focus on only a handful of engagements, while the shadows have free rein elsewhere. Even now, Mary is fighting her own battle, as are Jawad and Reem, but the truth is that they are losing this war.

The magical devices continue to escape Eratosthenes’s grasp, and the shadows shiver in anticipation.