The Standing Goat empties of its guests. Since none are Gloop, they can pass through the checkpoint out of No Town. Only the inn’s permanent residents stay, along with Milo, who’s been put into room 301 with instructions to rest.

The tables in the common room are moved aside, and Hallon, the General, and Safi use the time to train. Noor piles up the cushions around her to watch, while Wahid works in the kitchen and Rahima catches up on the inn’s accounts. When it’s time for dinner, Milo comes downstairs. They all do their best to ignore the gunshots in the distance.

Hallon knows that things are likely to get worse, but doesn’t know how or what she can do in response.

That night, the power goes out, and Wahid pulls several kerosene lanterns from storage. They stay up late telling stories and playing chess. Hallon wins against both the General and Noor.

Late in the evening, Karam comes padding down the stairs wearing dark clothes and a cloak. He must’ve been roof running to get past the soldiers patrolling the streets.

Rahima says, “You idiot, boy. You’re going to get yourself shot.”

Karam snorts. “The soldiers’d have to see me first. Besides I have news.”

The General leans forward. “What is it?”

“The Prime Minister’s been killed. He and three of his staff.”

Milo squeaks in surprise.

“The fools,” the General says.

“It was bound to happen someday,” Wahid says.

Rahima asks Karam, “Will you stay the night?”

“Can’t. I’ve got news and instructions to deliver. This is only a detour for me.” He grins and waves over his shoulder as he heads upstairs, back to the roof and his errands.

“I worry about that boy,” Rahima says.

“I heard that,” Karam yells down the stairs.

“And I meant you to,” Rahima yells back.

Milo looks troubled, his brow furrowed. Hallon sits beside him and asks, “Are you still not feeling well?”

“No, I feel fine. That’s the problem.” He glances at her sideways. “Have you—have you ever confronted a truth so preposterous—so unbelievable—that it completely demolishes everything you’ve ever believed? About everything?”

Hallon nods. “Constantly.”

Milo ducks his head and turns shy. “I see.”

She flashes her best smile. “Come, tell me what’s wrong.”

“Maybe later. I want to think about it some more.”

“You sure?”

Milo looks thoughtfully up at the ceiling. Karam is sure to be moving from roof to roof now. “Yes.”

###

Number 301 is one of the inn’s bigger rooms, with a canopied bed and a sitting area by the window. Hallon has temporarily moved into 302 across the hall, while Noor and the General normally occupy 303 and 304.

Milo lays on the bed and stares at the probabilities. He sets aside his misgivings and asks, “Are you all right?”

On the inn’s roof, the injured dragon answers. “Yes, my wounds are healing, but that’s not important. What’s important is that you tell Hallon about me. There’s something terrible coming—”

“This Calamity you keep talking about.”

“Exactly, and events are quickening sooner than expected.”

Milo bites his lip. There’s a question he wants to ask, but he’s afraid of the answer. “Are you real?”

“It depends on your definition of reality. I might ask you the same.”

Milo shakes his head at the foolish question. “Of course I’m real.”

“Why? How do you know?”

“Well,” Milo says, “I have a body and mind. I’m conscious of myself, and I can affect the world around me.”

“And so have I all those qualities, although my body sleeps on another world surrounded by attendants. My mind is a jewel with thirty-eight aspects. With it and my spirit, I wander the ten-thousand ten-thousand universes. I influence many worlds.”

“Ten-thousand ten-thousand universes?” Milo asks.

“Not a scientific number, I assure you. Universes exist beyond counting, so one needs a handy turn of phrase to describe them.”

Milo closes his eyes, but the probabilities are still there. They won’t go away. “So you’re not a figment of my imagination?”

“Not any more than Hallon or this world is.”

“Why were you hurt earlier?” Milo asks.

“In a fight with the shadows.”

“You’ve mentioned them before, but I find it hard to believe in them. Or you.”

“The world is a more wonderful and frightening place than you imagine it. Open your mind.”

“But how can you be real?” Milo asks.

“Ask yourself this—how did you know the Prime Minister had been shot before anyone else? Your intuition is surprisingly good in places, but that’s a feat beyond your current powers.”

Milo clenches his fists. How had he known? He’d searched his memory for clues—for anything that might have led him to predict the assassination—but other than the typical tension between No Town, Brickside, and Stoneside, there was nothing. Milo shouldn’t have been able to know about the assassination in advance.

And the dragon claims to be real.

But that’s impossible. Like traveling from one world to another is impossible.

Like the weather stopping and the world being chopped up into a jigsaw of meteorological zones is impossible.

Shortly after arriving on Dawrtaine, Milo threw away his understanding of mathematics and the sciences. Since then, he’s reviewed them—step by step, day by day—based on whatever observable phenomena he could collect. He’s made great strides in revising the laws of physics, chemistry, biology, and meteorology, and if he ever makes it back home, the science community will shower him with awards. What’s one more impossibility then? That there are dragons and they send their spirits traveling between universes? That there are shadows—fallen spirits—that possess people and influence them to do harm?

Milo feels like he’s standing at the top of a deep and endless pit. Dread spreads through his belly and creeps through his body. A part of him already knows the answer to this question—the probabilities won’t go away after all, but he doesn’t want to recognize them. He’s spent nearly two years working on the mathematical proofs, but the next step is too daunting. The calculations are incomplete and inconclusive, but the direction they point—

“Madness. There’s no proof.”

“Observable phenomena takes many forms,” Eratosthenes says. “You must open your mind. The time has come for you to see. We can’t wait any longer.”

Milo’s heart beats faster. He can’t get enough air into his lungs. “I can’t breathe.”

“Yes, you can,” the dragon says. “Just breathe.”

The world spins, and Milo grabs hold of the bed. He thought he’d rebuilt his understanding of mathematics from scratch, but now he understands the attempt was half-hearted at best. He’d kept too many old assumptions, and this—this!—is what it feels like to start over, to switch all of the universe’s variables at once.

“I’m falling.”

“Yes.”

“I feel like I’m dying.”

“In a way, you are.”

“Help me.”

“I am.”

The numbers, the equations and calculations, bend and melt, sliding out of the air and down the walls, hanging off the table, the canopy, slipping off his body, as the sound of his blood roars in his ears and the scent of hot iron fills his nose. Milo is cut open and the numbers inside him scooped out. He thrashes on the bed trying to hold on.

Eratosthenes is ruthless. “Everything you know is wrong. Everything.”

The darkness swallows Milo, just as surely as he’d gone down the dragon’s gullet.

###

“This is cruel,” Mary says. She leans against Eratosthenes, green tendrils weaving the tattered edges of her spirit back together. None of the city’s guardians escaped the recent battle unscathed—they’d nearly lost Jawad. He’s holed up with Reem in the Below, recovering.

“Is it? Or would it be more cruel to leave the boy trapped with his illusions, while the world falls into Calamity around him?” Eratosthenes gestures with his claws, as he controls the magics at work within Milo. “And we can’t wait any longer. We’re losing, and we need Milo aware. I’m only speeding up the process, pushing him towards who he’s already meant to be. ”

“Before he’s ready.”

“Every dragonling must learn to fly sometime.” Eratosthenes’s claws clench. “And he’s our only connection to Hallon.”

“I only hope you know what you’re doing.” Mary doesn’t say anything else—she’d made her point.

The magical energy flowing through Milo threatens to tear him apart, but Hallon’s spells are still in place. They’ve become a part of the boy, and they hold true, supporting him even as they make room for something new.

“Your Hallon does good work,” Mary says.

“She’s not mine. And yes, she does.” There’s longing in his voice.

Mary shakes her head and wonders what Milo will choose to do with the changes. Eratosthenes isn’t a shadow—he won’t impose his will on the boy. No, Milo will have to find his own way. All Eratosthenes has done is open the door. If anything other had been the case, Mary would’ve interceded. Done her best to anyway. The thought of having to fight Eratosthenes is a daunting one. He’d make for a powerful shadow, but only if he chose to give up everything he loves.

Mary glances his way. “You do good work too.”

“I try,” Eratosthenes says. “With all my heart and soul, I try.”

In the distance, there’s flicker, and a pillar of black smoke rises.

“I’ll go,” Mary says, collecting her staff.

“But you haven’t recovered.”

“True, but you’re needed here and all your puppets are needed elsewhere.” She hesitates. “I wish you could’ve waited. It’s going to be a long night.”

“I wish I could’ve too, but I dared not.” Eratosthenes raises a claw. “Good hunting.”

“You too,” Mary says, disappearing in a flash of green.

“To us all,” he says.