I TOUCH MY EAR AGAIN. It’s not bleeding, but it sure feels like it is. Other than some mild cuts from the flying debris and a little road rash, I’m not injured. The screaming whistle in my ears has now largely subsided into a faint whine. Keep moving, Mila.

Hours must have passed, though I couldn’t say how many. I’ve been walking along this Vapid path since before dawn. At least I escaped. Unlike that poor, terrified boy. A slave, a weapon in a senseless war. It’s disgusting.

Many were killed or maimed in the marketplace attack in Zopat. And there’s no telling what happened to the rogue Gracile. He’s probably dead, which is fine by me ... I think. Why do I care?

I pick up the pace across the barren stretch of road, hardly more than a lane, and sprint across the Vapid toward the only home I’ve ever known. Ahead, smoke billows.

Logos is burning.

My feet ache with fresh blisters, and the cold has nearly frozen me solid, but I can’t stop now. As I stumble toward the front gate of the enclave, which now stands unguarded, the heavy door hangs wide open. Women and children scatter in all directions, screaming. Fire jumps from building to building. Injured men limp back and forth with pails of water in a feeble attempt to put out the flames.

My home has been sacked. The Musuls? The Graciles? Surely the resistance doesn’t have the capacity or desire to do this, no matter how much they want me dead. Who could be responsible?

As I trudge deeper into Logos, the nightmare worsens. Row after row of burning wreckage. Soot-covered women in rags sobbing and cradling the bodies of lifeless children in their arms and crying out to Yeos in desperation.

I arrive at my block. The sight of the wreckage paralyzes me. Not a stick of wood or a fragment of stone or steel still stands. My whole life, blasted into nothing, like those resistance guys who were deconstructed when ... Oh, by the hands of Yeos. The Creed.

None of New Etyom’s supports were damaged in the attack. The pristine crystal city above still stands, confirming my worst fears. “You. You and your robot slaves did this to us,” I cry out.

The muffled groan of an injured person nearby rises from the rubble, calling something. My name.

“Mila.”

“Where are you?”

“Over here,” the voice moans.

In the pile of debris is an outstretched hand.

“Hang on, I’ll get you out.” I dig, tossing chunks of rubble to the side to expose—“Clief.”

“Mila, I’m sorry. I just wanted to check on my place. I shouldn’t have come back, I know.”

“It’s all right, Clief, just hang on, let me get you—” A wave of nausea. My stomach seizes. A large piece of rebar protrudes from Clief’s chest.

“I don't think I’m going anywhere,” he wheezes.

“Oh, Clief. I’m so sorry.” I collapse to my knees in the rubble next to him. “This is all my fault. I’m responsible for this.”

“Don’t say that.”

“I am. You don’t understand.” I shudder, wiping the arm of my jacket across my face.

“No, Mila. It’s not your fault, but you can be the one to rescue us from it. You’re stronger than the rest of us.”

You’re stronger than me, Mil. You’re stronger than all of us.

“I’m not,” I whisper.

Clief is calm. He pats my arm. “You’ll find a way, my friend.” He offers a weak smile before wincing again.

“Clief, I need to find you some help. You’re bleeding.”

“No. It’s too late. Please, Mila, just sit with me for a while.”

I cover him with my jacket and hold his head in my arms, and together we watch the snow fall across our ruined home for the last time.

* * *

NO SECOND CHANCES. If this plan doesn’t work, we’re all as good as dead. I run as fast as my shaking legs will carry me across the creaking suspension bridge, my lungs burning from the smoke and exertion. There’s a pain in my chest I can’t describe, the ache of something lost.

I know what’s about to happen, but I can’t stop it as the dream shuffles forward, sometimes in slow motion, sometimes skipping and jumping ahead with flashes of light. I know this place. Every sound, every falling snowflake—it’s as real as anything I have ever lived, except I haven’t ...

I have to make it to the launchpad. It’s all that matters now.

“I have to go. I have to do this,” my companion says to me, his tone resolute.

“No, don’t.”

“We don’t have a choice.” He pushes my hand away. “Get in the rocket, Mila. Finish this. Do it for all of us.”

The explosion, the heat of the fireball—my skin feels like it’s on fire. Then for the first time, he’s with me. Demitri. Everything flashes to white, and the darkness cascades over me again, heralding the arrival of something far worse: the Horseman.

My body surges to consciousness. It’s dark and warm, the air tinged with the smell of mountain herbs and incense. My eyes adjust, taking in the arched ceilings with long stone supports covered with elaborate hand-painted murals.

“Where am I? Who—ˮ Hands press me down. “Let me go. I need to see my friend.”

“You should rest now.” The voice is soothing and motherly, but her hands are unnaturally strong.

“I can’t. I have to—hey, get your hands off me.”

The pressure releases, and I’m greeted with silence. Then a voice reaches out to me from the darkness. “We found you and your friend alone in the snow. You might have frozen.”

“Who are you?”

A round elderly face and long flowing crimson robes emerge from the gloom.

“We are the Vestals of the Word.”

The Vestals found me? “Yes, of course. I’m ... I’m very sorry, Mother Vestal.”

“Do not be sorry, child. A terrible thing has happened in our enclave.”

The woman pats at my wounded face with a damp cloth. I can barely find the words. “My friend? You said you found us together? Is he here?”

She nods her head respectfully. “He was. He has since gone.”

“Gone ... Gone, as in ...”

“Worry not for him, my child. We prayed over him and blessed him with the holy remnants before his passing. His troubles are over now.”

A weight the likes of which I’ve never felt presses on my chest, threatening to squeeze out the last gasp of hope. Be with Yeos, my friend. “My friend is dead. Logos is destroyed. Everything I have ever known is in ruins.”

“Not everything. Yeos lives. He will give us each the strength we need to carry on.”

“Will He? Does Yeos still care for us? Or has He abandoned us to the evil of this world?”

The Vestal stops, her slim shoulders unmoving for what feels like an age before she finally speaks. “He has not abandoned us, dear—nor will He ever. His love reaches out to us, even in the midst of this.”

“But He still allows so much suffering, so many of our people to die. How can a god like that be good?”

“You want to trust in Yeos, but you are afraid to place your trust in the unseen?”

“Oh ... I didn’t ...”

“It’s okay, child.” She smiles softly, patting my thigh, then drapes a weathered hand across the edge of my collection of writings, now sitting exposed outside my bag. “This tells me more about you than your words ever could.” Bound together with a bit of dusty string, an old photo of my parents, my brother, and me is wrapped tightly against pages and pages of my scribbling. Rewritten words of faith I’ve heard many times from the people I loved, friends, and mentors. I’ve never showed this to anyone.

“Oh, you found that?”

“I did, while looking for some way to determine who you were, Mila Solokoff.”

She knows me?

“I remember your father. He, and later, your mother, used to bring you here when I was a much younger woman and you were just a child. You all were a handsome family—and he was a good man, your father.”

“You knew my father?”

“He came here to pray for you often when you were sick with the plague as a child. To hear the purity of a father’s prayer—for Yeos to spare his daughter’s life in exchange for his—was something special to witness. Not long after, he took ill himself from the sickness of his child and passed away, but his daughter recovered. Yeos heard the prayer of the father, and we knew the girl had been spared for a reason. You were spared for a reason.”

My throat is dry. “I ... I never heard that story.”

“It is just the perspective of an old woman.” She hands me a clay mug of ice-cold water.

It’s beyond delicious.

The old woman’s hand hovers back over my writings. “You have a sharp mind. This collection of teachings is excellent, Mila. It appears to be faithful to the words of the original Holy Writ. Unfortunately, copies of the true Word disappeared during the years of the purge that followed World War III. The Musuls were intent on seeing our holy teachings wiped from the face of the earth.” Placing my writings safely back into my satchel, she turns to me. “And yet here, in the most unlikely place, the Word of Yeos lives on—with you.”

I take another drink of the nearly frozen water, listening as the senior Vestal continues in gentle tones.

“It warms my heart to see this.”

“Why is that, Mother Vestal?”

“Our days are numbered, no matter how we choose to live them, dear girl. What’s most important is for each of us to strive to know the truth and to understand how we are to best live the days we have. You are choosing to live with purpose.”

“It’s not that simple.”

She winks and nudges me gently with two bony fingers. “Ahh, but it is that simple.” Pulling a basin of cool clear water over, she continues tending to me, washing the grime from my blistered feet. “You were fashioned with love by your creator to do one thing. You have a destiny even you do not yet fully understand. Yeos has placed this fire within you, and in doing so set you aside for this purpose—to endure the path of the Lightbringer. It is a great honor.”

Every fiber of my being comes alive with her words. She speaks to me in a voice that feels like love. Her simple, tender prose flows over me, washing away my fear.

“We were never guaranteed peace or safety. But we were guaranteed an opportunity to change our world.”

“But how am I supposed to do that?”

“With love, dear. We change the world with love—and sometimes, just sometimes, standing in the name of love also means fighting for it.”

“It does?”

“Indeed. But remember this: if you must fight, you fight for love. You must never allow the infection of hate to dim your light—for that is not the way.”

“Forgive my unbelief. I’m just ...” I suppress my tears. “I’m nobody. I don’t know how this became my life.”

The gentle woman wipes her hands and embraces me, then holds my face and lifts my chin to see her wizened eyes. “You are somebody. Do not ever let your fear stop you from attempting the greatest things, Mila Solokoff. No matter how dark the path, you are destined to carry the message of the light.” She winks at me. “For the ways of Yeos are mysterious and wonderful, dear girl; and from the dawn of time until the end of it, they will remain so. You would do well to remember this.”

I want to stay in this place—a place where the true spirit of my faith feels close. But I can’t. To do so would be to concede to the enemy, and defeat is not in my nature. I pull on my boots and clothes and say a reluctant farewell to the good Mother Vestal of the Word. A brief amble through the catacombs and up the stairs leads me to the heavy oak and steel-banded doors at the entrance.

At the mercy offering, I drop the rest of my bills and a few nuggets of raw silver into the ancient chest. Supporting their cause is worth it. The Vestals are one of the oldest organized remnants of my faith. Their convent, nestled safely at the foot of Zhokov Mountain, has remained hidden, sheltered through many terrible storms of fate. These resilient women have long been known for their faith, kindness, and wisdom. I have benefited from all three this day.

Standing shin deep amid the snowdrifts outside the entrance to the convent, I follow the plumes of smoke still rising into the air. It’s slowing now, the blaze controlled as men carry buckets of water from the river to the edge of the dying fire.

Inside my sling bag, the data package is still there. But I need to get some elevation to try to get a grip on what happened here. I need a plan. Another breath of the cold mountain air. It’s intoxicating. Okay, Mila. There’s work to be done.

* * *

THE TRIP ACROSS MY enclave takes more effort than usual, as I now have to navigate the wreckage and debris of my old neighborhood. I stop only briefly at Bilgi’s place to confirm that it—along with the things I stored with him—are gone. I can’t help but wish my mentor were here with me now. He would know what to do.

Climbing the support pillar takes effort but feels good, a distraction from the endless spinning of my mind. Climbing hard and fast, I’m buffeted by an icy wind that snaps against me as I reach the upper ledge. Wiping the ice from my gloves, only now do I notice the bloodstains on them. The knot in my gut tightens. Don’t you worry, Clief. I’m going to get to the bottom of this. I fire a quick e-message to Gil from my PED. He might know something.

At this elevation, the full scope of Logos’s devastation can truly be understood. It’s all my fault. There was no need for the Gracile forces to try to kill all the workers who faithfully mine their precious deep-earth resources for them. This was a tactical strike aimed at killing me and the people closest to me. The Leader ordered this—and he’s going to pay for this evil with his perfect life.

What happened to Demitri? Was all of this really chance? Was he actually rogue? Maybe a double agent planted to interact and gain information from me? What if he went straightaway to tell the Leader all about me, the data package, and where I was from. That would explain the precision attack on Logos. That’s the only thing that makes sense—he betrayed my trust. But, if that were true, why didn’t he kill me and take the package when he had the chance? He would have been more than capable of doing it if he were actually some tough-guy double agent. What if he wasn’t lying? What if he was just a scared scientist running for his life and trying to understand his condition—a condition they’d kill him for having? And why, of all things, is he in my dream? Damnation, I have no time for this.

Still no response from Gil. He’s either dead or too high to care. There’s no more time to waste. I have to get this data to the Opor faction in Fiori. The trip won’t be difficult going straight from Logos. Even though I’ve now violated the terms of the deal a second time, I don’t have much choice. The resistance is the only hope for me now. They’ll know what to do with the information I carry.

The zipline whines as I make my descent, hitting the bumpers correctly and slowing enough to drag my feet and come to a stop. Fixed the stupid thing after all. Detaching my T-bar and pulley from the line, I stow them in my bag and make for the enclave’s main entrance.

The guards have returned, but they’re now arguing with a man outside.

“Let you in? You can’t be serious. Do you see what happened here? It was probably the doing of your people.” The guard jabs a spear at the man.

“No. It was not me—my people, I mean.”

“How should we know, when you send people in here to kill us all the time? You’re a towl’ed spy.”

“I say we kill him.” One of the guards grabs the man, who squirms like a trapped animal.

“Please, I saw what happened. Let me go, I just need to see—ˮ The man sees me approaching and shouts, “Logosian. Oh, uh ... Mila. Help. Tell them.”

It’s Faruq.

“What are you doing here?”

“I’m looking for Husniya, my sister.”

“Okay, okay, let him go.”

“No. He could be involved in this. We kill this towl’ed now.”

I step between the guard and Faruq. “Hey, hey, enough with the slurs, all right? Haven’t we all seen enough hate for one day? This man didn’t do anything to us, and he’s not involved. Trust me. Let him go, and I’ll speak to him.” Reluctantly the guard releases Faruq with a shove.

“Faruq. I’m sorry. They’re on edge. Let’s walk.”

Faruq nods and walks with me through the gate of the enclave and out into no-man’s-land.

“Thank you,” he says.

“It’s been a long day, Faruq. Tell me you know something.”

“I do,” he says, straightening his jacket. “And it’s all much worse than you think.”