Jack tries to tell Corva to crush the crow. Smash it out of existence. But it’s too late.

Thegn materializes before them as a kind of spinning assembly of ash and blood. It takes less than a second and he’s there, towering in height, seething in anger. Caffiel crouches on the Reaper’s shoulder, all pretense of amusement wiped from the rat’s face.

“You’ve ruined everything.” Thegn points his scythe at Jack and growls the words more than he speaks them. “Your people always have.”

“My people?” Jack readies himself. There isn’t a single part of him that doesn’t hurt and he’s got no idea how he’d ever defend against any kind of direct attack from the wrinkled old Reaper. But none of that matters. The longer he can keep the old man talking, the more time people have to get out of town. At the very least, Jack is determined to make sure he sees Thegn’s attack coming, whatever it is.

Thegn stops pointing and squares his shoulders, lifting himself to his full height. Haughty. His wiry body shows through the torn and tattered holes in his cloak. “Yeah. Your people. Mages, wizards, witches, tinkers, Shadowfold … whatever you call yourselves. There’s a natural order to things. A balance. You’re agents of chaos. You fuck it up. All you’ve ever done is make things worse.”

A lull is starting to fog over Jack’s mind, but he can’t contain himself. He can’t let that comment stand. “Balance? How exactly is killing off whole towns of people balanced?”

Thegn glowers. His lined and worn face doubles up in a menacing mask of furrows and rotten teeth. “I don’t need to explain myself to you boy. Shouldn’t need to. How many outposts like this did your people destroy? Fucking hypocrite. There are bigger things at play here than the fates of a few thousand people.” He nods at Corva, also standing at the ready, but her face is tired. Unfocused. Bits of spit fly from Thegn’s mouth as he speaks. “No one can know you exist. No one.”

The haze on Jack’s mind grows heavier. It would be so nice to lie down and sleep right now. Jack feels his shoulders slacken. But no, he can’t let this argument go. “Hypocrite? I was fucking four. I didn’t do any of that shit. But at least they had a reason. What’s yours? Keeping a secret? Making sure you’re still the last of the Four? Selfish fuck. You got no right.”

“Selfish? You have no idea what I sacrificed! Everything I cared for. Everything I loved. All for the fragile balance you currently enjoy.” The Reaper walks closer to Jack. He’s only a few steps away. The white rat paces from one of Thegn’s shoulders to the other.

Jack can no longer stand. He drops to a knee. A quick glance around shows that nearly everyone else on the rooftop—Corva, her grunts, even Zeke—has done the same. Some have even collapsed entirely.

With effort, he raises his head to look at Thegn’s face. “You call this balance?”

Thegn is nearly close enough to touch. He speaks at just over a whisper. “What do you care? I’ve heard the people here talk about you. Even this girl hosting Durga’s spirit.” He points his scythe in her direction, slowly extending its blade. “You’re as much a nuisance to them as you are to me. They hate you.”

If Jack could reach up right now, he’d punch Thegn in his wrinkled old vulture face. Smack that rat in the mouth, too. But Jack can’t do any of that; he’s so tired. Nonetheless, he manages to keep his chin lifted and stare Death in the face. “Doesn’t matter. I stopped you. We stopped you. Took out your crows before you could get everyone. Half the town is probably outta your reach by now. And they’ll have vid of everything that’s happened. Ain’t that right, Slim?”

“Well, kinda, kid.” Slim’s voice on the scratchy comms is sheepish. Almost embarrassed.

“What?” The surprise is enough to momentarily clear some of the fog from Jack’s mind. He speaks through his teeth while still staring at the spectrum of expressions flitting over Thegn’s face. “Tell me you’ve been recording; that you’re gonna push to the satmesh.”

“Oh yeah … that bit’s covered, kid. Streaming it out live. His secret is out. And so is yours.” Despite the rough, crackly nature of Slim’s voice through the comm kneak, the news allows Jack to relax. Who cares if anyone knows he was from the Shadowfold? He’ll be dead soon anyway. However, it’s the next thing from Slim that rankles his anxiety. “It’s the other thing you said about folks gettin’ away. That … that isn’t exactly true.”

Confused and groggy, Jack can’t piece together what Slim means. He just knows he doesn’t like it. All he wants to do is lie down and sleep. He doesn’t even have the energy to ask Slim to explain himself.

Somewhere in the blurry haze of Jack’s perception, he hears a deep thud and feels a gust of air rush over his head. It’s actually enough force to push him facedown onto the ground. Indignant, Jack jumps to his feet. Who’s the asshole that knocked me over? Just as quickly, he realizes that the fog has lifted from his mind, as well as the others on the rooftop.

Still, who did that?

“Hey, Jackie-Boy. You didn’t think we were gonna stand by and let you save our asses, did you?” An air cannon slings from the shoulder of a man with a familiar balding head and annoying toothy grin.

The rasp of Slim’s voice sounds over the comm. “Sorry, kid. Lyia changed the plan on us a bit.”

Alternating waves of anger, panic, and relief wash over Jack as he sees small crowds of people clustering on the rooftops surrounding him. Not just the militia, but folks from all over Bule are here. Maybe half the town. Some are armed, but a lot are just standing there, hands balled into fists, ready to fight as the sun starts to set across the canyon. Each of them now carries the same signature streak of white in their hairline that he does.

And right there behind him, standing with one foot on a roof’s edge with a rebuilt version of his air cannon, is Harris. Fucking Harris.

Despite himself, Jack finds himself smiling back.