“NICE ONE.” I TOUCH the corner of my mouth where Ghofaun just struck me and glance at my fingertips. No blood. He smirks and continues to step to my left, his hands raised in a defensive position. I shove forward and our forearms make contact. He folds his elbow over mine and drives it toward my face. I deflect the impact with my free hand and counter with a knife-hand strike toward his neck—a movement he anticipates, trapping me with his free hand. Now we’re all tied up.

He raises his right leg to kick me, but instinctively my leg rises at the same time. Our shins collide. Okay, that hurt. He shoves into me, but his style is familiar. Using his momentum to my advantage, my hips pivot to swing his body around to where I just stood. Our shins clack again. Damnation. If it hurts the tough little man, he doesn’t show it.

In an endless exchange of strike and counterstrike, we shuffle back and forth. I trap his strong side, torque my arm free, and punch him squarely on the chin. His teeth click as his head jerks back from the impact. He freezes, daggers in his narrow eyes. I hold his gaze steady, maintaining gentle pressure with a closed fist against his chin. With a burst of hidden movement, my feet are knocked out from under me, and I slam flat on my back, the air forced from my lungs.

Ghofaun unleashes a broad smile, clasps my forearm, and helps me up. “You are every bit as good as your teacher said, Mila. He called you the Sparrow Hawk. I can see why.” He puts a hand on my shoulder and squeezes in admiration. “Bilgi was right to make you an officer of Opor so soon. There aren’t many with your skill and determination.”

Still struggling for breath, I give a short bow. “You got me. Thank you, Master Ghofaun. Your defense is impenetrable.”

“Nearly impenetrable.” He rubs his chin.

“Thank you, again, for sparring with me.”

“It was my great pleasure, Mila. I will sharpen my steel against yours any time you wish.”

As Ghofaun turns to leave, he slips a set of traditional Lawkshan beads back onto his left wrist. “What is it?” he asks.

I must have been staring. “Oh, it’s nothing. I just recognize those.” I motion to his beads.

“Remnants of an old life.” He nods, his gaze suggesting he is half lost in the grip of a memory. “I was a Lawkshan monk once. But that seems like a long time ago, now.”

“Oh, I didn’t know. That’s a great honor. May I ask why you left?” The question leaves my lips before my brain can stop it. Too personal.

His face darkens. “It was not by choice. I lived at the Lawkshan Temple in Zopat practically my whole life. Did you know Bilgi and I trained there together?” He allows a fleeting smile, but the pain in his expression returns.

“Oh, no, I mean ... yes, I knew he’d trained there at one point. I didn’t know it was with you.”

“I was a boy then. I lived there, but Bilgi, because of his different beliefs, did not take the oath of the monks. He did, however, show up every day without fail to learn our ways and our fighting art, chum lawk. He was much my senior, a middle-aged man in those days, and yet the masters let him come and watch at first. After a long spell, he was allowed to help set up or fetch things, or bring us food, never saying a thing or offering any complaint.”

“Sounds like Bil.”

“After a while longer, they saw his devotion and took him on as a student. I was only sixteen or so, but they assigned me to work with him. We trained together for a long time and became good friends. Those were good years.”

The short man before me is seasoned but much younger than I’d expect a master to be. His disposition is calm and worn, with an air of old-world simplicity. “What happened, Master Ghofaun? Please continue.”

He takes a deep breath, his gaze drifting. “We had a visitor one day. The man asked for a demonstration. It was something we did all the time. I invited him in. The grand masters gathered everyone together for the demonstration, and when we had all circled up inside the temple, the stranger detonated his bomb vest. He was a Musul terrorist.”

“That’s terrible.”

“The temple was ruined. Only Bilgi and I and a few others survived. In the ruins we found the remains of the stranger’s bag. Inside was a New Etyom credit tag. ‘Why would a Musul be carrying a credit tag? We use cash. No one uses a credit tag,’ Bilgi kept saying. No one except ...”

“Graciles.”

“Exactly.” He nods. “It was enough to convince him the Graciles had paid the Musuls to attack us. He became consumed with the thought of some grand conspiracy, eventually leaving the order in an attempt to discern the truth.” He shrugs. “It turns out he was right, and that’s how the resistance was born.”

“I never knew. If that’s true, why would the Graciles pay terrorists to attack the peaceful Lawkshan monks?”

“We were peaceful. But we were also a fighting force to be reckoned with. Maybe the Graciles feared us.”

“And you? What did you do then, Master Ghofaun?”

“Our temple was never the same. The guilt I felt was overwhelming. I had to find a way to make amends for my lack of vigilance.” He looks away momentarily, a flutter of shame in his face.

“So you ended up here?”

“I did the only logical thing I could think of: I joined my friend and helped him to build the resistance into what it is today.”

“You are a remarkable person, Master Ghofaun. Thank you for taking the time to share your story with me.”

He bows again. “Ah, I am glad to share it with you, Mila. Especially if it helps to keep you true to your path.”

“My path?”

“Each of us has a part to play in the ever-changing winds of destiny. Know your path and you shall know yourself.” He winks.

We’re interrupted by a sudden shuffling of resistance fighters as they pass the training room. “One of the scouting parties came back,” a soldier calls to us. “They captured a Gracile.”

* * *

AS WE ENTER THE LARGEST cavern in the Opor hideout, I survey the ancient mining equipment lying half-sunken and rusting in the reddish clay, dormant for hundreds of years in this condemned section of the mine. Everyone is cheering and clapping their hands.

Faruq enters from the command center and approaches me. “What’s happening? Is something going on?”

“It appears so. Someone said they captured a Gracile.”

Faruq’s face holds many questions, but he remains silent.

The group floods into the chamber dragging a tall, muscular figure alongside another much smaller one. They both have sacks over their heads. I step forward and onto the tips of my toes to see better. The sacks are yanked from the captives’ heads.

Faruq cries out. “Husniya.”

“Faruq. Faruq, help,” the young girl wails.

The growing crowd of resistance fighters taunts the Gracile with slurs, throwing trash at him. He hangs his head, unresponsive. The scouting party whoops and yelps, clearly proud of their catch.

“We found these two together,” a scout shouts. “Two for the price of one.”

I shove my way to the front and immediately sock the Gracile hard in the jaw. The crowd roars in approval.

“Who did you tell?” I shout, grabbing his shirt. “Who did you tell about the data? Tell me.”

Demitri casts his gaze toward the floor. “I didn’t tell anyone, Mila.”

Something in his voice steals my anger—the sound of pain, of total loss. I know that sound. I’ve heard it in my own voice.

Faruq rushes up to embrace Husniya. She lays her head on him, her arms tied behind her back. Faruq turns to me, his eyes full of desperation. “Can we ...?” He motions to her bonds.

“How about we untie the little girl?” I stare at the nearest scout.

“But she’s a Musul from Baqir,” calls out one woman from the crowd.

“And?” I snap, motioning at Faruq. “So is he. That makes them what? Naturally evil?” I grab the nearest resistance fighter by his jacket. “Untie her. Now.”

The scouts fumble with the ropes, untying Husniya, who leaps into the arms of her brother. Faruq doesn’t even try to hide his tears.

I step back to Demitri and turn his face to me. “Demitri. The Creed destroyed my enclave. Murdered my people. How did they find out where I lived?”

He just looks at the floor. Another fighter calmly walks up beside me and throws the hardest stomach punch he can into the Gracile’s solar plexus. Demitri doubles over and drops to his knees, coughing and spluttering. But he still does not speak. I press the stocky man back, and he swipes my hand away. We lock eyes for a long, tense moment as the crowd looks on.

“Enough, Giahi,” Bilgi says from the back of the group.

The Robust soldier turns with a look of disgust. “She gets special privileges to strike the cloud prince, but it’s off limits for me?”

“I said, that’s enough.”

Giahi storms from the room, flicking another angry glance at Demitri, then at me. “Sure, it’s enough. For now.”

Husniya pushes between us and throws her arms around our prisoner. “Don’t hurt him. Please, Faruq, don’t let them hurt him. He didn’t do anything but help. He’s my friend.”

“Figures they’d be friends,” someone snickers in the crowd.

“Everyone, listen up.” I shout. “Gracile or not, he’s not to be treated like an animal.” I turn to the fallen Gracile and drop to my haunches. “Demitri. How did the Creed find out where I lived?”

Husniya covers him with her arms.

“It’s okay. We’re not going to hurt him anymore, but I need to talk to him. Okay? Go to your brother now.”

Husniya reluctantly releases him and moves back to Faruq’s side.

“Demitri.” Has he been crying?

The Gracile raises his head to reveal two weary, bloodshot eyes. “I told you before: you were iso’d. They could track you by DNA. Your apartment would have been full of it. They just followed the trail. Not that it matters. Everything will end now, anyway.”

The crowd roars again, this time in disapproval. “Not if we kill you first,” someone screams.

I’ve got to get him on his own or this is never going to work.

I flick my head toward the scouts. “I’m going to question him further in private. Search him and bring everything he has on him to me. Then confine him to a room and post two guards.” I take note of the Gracile’s oversize chest and biceps. “Make that three guards.”

“Get moving, cloud prince.” the scout says, kicking Demitri and narrowly missing Husniya.

I whirl on the scout. “And that’s quite enough, you understand?” If a look could kill, he’d be six feet under.

“Yes. I ... understand,” he stammers.

“That goes for everybody here. Hate him all you want, but anyone who further mistreats this Gracile will have problems with me. Secure him, allow him to rest, and give him food and water.” I jab a finger in the scout’s chest. “I want you personally overseeing the humane treatment of our cloud prince.”

Humiliated, the man looks to Bilgi, who has been silently observing in the back of the room.

“Don’t look at me. Do what the lady says.”

Grumbling, the scout pulls on Demitri’s arm. Demitri stands and shuffles out into the mineshaft. Husniya steps toward him, watching him leave, then runs back to the arms of her brother. Faruq simply nods to me, holding his sister tight.

The crowd disperses, unhappy I’ve ruined their fun. Bilgi leans against the far wall, watching me. He may not say it, but by the look on his face, he approves.

* * *

THERE’S NOTHING CEREMONIAL about this. Standing at the simple wooden desk, I dump the contents of the duffel onto its marred surface. These are all of the material possessions Demitri brought with him.

Rice, barley, and some protein and carbohydrate goo packs. But there’s too much for him alone. He must have packed food for Husniya as well. Why does he care about a little Musul stowaway? A few more items. It all looks like junk. Wait, what’s this? What would a Gracile need with a book? The tome is dense, with a heavy leather cover and flaky gold lettering, too disfigured to read, that falls away at the touch. The smell of old parchment and the feel of thin, uneven pages makes my skin prickle.

This volume is clearly ancient. But more than that, it feels like I’m on the brink of some great discovery. I cautiously leaf through the first few blank pages—and then my breath catches in my throat. There on the page are five incredible words: The Holy Writ of Yeos. It’s not possible. This precious book shouldn’t exist, and yet here it is, safeguarded among the belongings of a Gracile. None of this makes sense.

Forgetting its fragility, I clutch the book close and storm from the room, heading straight for the holding cell, the book tucked under my arm as I approach the guards outside Demitri’s room.

Faruq strides out of the cell. I almost collide with him.

“Hey, what were you doing in there?”

“Talking,” replies Faruq, his voice calm. “Bilgi gave me permission.”

“About?”

“About Husniya,” he answers. “I had to thank Demitri for saving her. From the Gracile Leader. And Vedmak.” He gives me a knowing look before sauntering off. “It seems I do not have enough lives to give to repay my debts,” he calls over his shoulder before disappearing into the dark.

Diverting my attention back to the guards, I toss my head toward the hallway. “It’s okay. You can go.” We lock eyes. Eventually they get the message and amble off.

Pushing into Demitri’s room, I pull the door shut and stand waiting for him to look up. He doesn’t. I clear my throat. Still nothing. I drop the heavy volume against the wooden table next to me with a thunk. “You know what this is?”

He glances at the book, and nods.

“It’s an original volume of the Holy Writ. Handwritten from memory by the last scribes of my people and compiled from the burned fragments of a previous age. Where did you get it, thief?”

“Does it matter?” Demitri resumes staring at the floor.

“Yes. It matters.”

He sighs and sits up, his swollen eyes registering me for the first time. He has a small red blemish on his jaw where my fist made its mark. “You can call me a thief, but I’ve had that since I was a youngling. Because we’re Graciles, we can’t enjoy things from the old world?”

“Why this book, Gracile? You don’t believe in this.”

“No, but you do.” He offers the weakest of smiles.

He brought it for me, a Robust, just as if we were old friends. For the first time, I actually see the big Gracile for what he is: broken. He was right; the Graciles wouldn’t abide someone like him in their culture. He’s too ... human. I lower myself into a chair across from him, my voice softer now. “What happened? After the kid ... I mean, after the bomb in the marketplace. Where did you go?”

“I had to get away. I didn’t know where to go, so I went back up.” He motions with his head.

“And the little girl?”

“She was scared. I couldn’t leave her there in the middle of the chaos. You won’t believe it, but she has a voice in her head, too. She can talk to it. And for the first time, I realized I wasn’t crazy—but I had to know why.”

“Dare I ask?”

Demitri gives a snort. “I doubt you could understand it any better than I do, but suffice it to say, you were right.”

Ignoring his obnoxious tone, I sit forward. “About?”

“My voice, Vedmak, about him being tangled with me, or attached to me somehow. He’s not me. He’s somewhere else.”

“Where exactly? Hell?”

Demitri shakes his head. “I don’t believe in that, and yet, he’s not here. It’s like our signals got intertwined. I think he died, a long time ago, and his information was encoded somewhere.”

I can’t help but smirk at his description of a soul.

“The girl has it, too,” he continues. “Except her voice is good to her. I don’t know why I’m telling you all this. There’s no point anymore.”

“I need to know what you know, Demitri. There are people in this base who would kill you if I let them. Tell me why I should vouch for you.”

“Vouch for me? We’re all going to die, and it’s my fault. I wouldn’t vouch for me.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I leaked the data onto the net down here. I tried to tell you. The Leader’s plan, I was the key. Or at least I am now. I didn’t mean for it to be like this.”

“We know Kapka knows. His radicals are blowing themselves up all over Etyom. They’ve even succeeded in crashing a few lillipads.”

“I saw them falling, on my way down.” His face drops.

I hadn’t even considered his people would suffer in this—just as mine have. “Look, it’s my fault as much as yours. I forced you to access the info.”

“I’ve killed us all because I’m the key.”

“To creating the black hole?” I ask.

He nods sheepishly.

“Explain to me, Demitri.”

He huffs out a breath. “Look, normally I’d tell you it’s impossible to create a black hole. It would be so tiny it would disappear before it could gain enough mass. Pop in and out of existence.”

“Okay.”

“That’s based on the standard model of physics. Exotic physics states you can create and sustain a black hole, but for the equation to work, you need to assume multiple dimensions exist. That’s never been proven before. Until now.”

I search his eyes. He’s willing me to find the answer myself. “Vedmak?”

He nods. “He’s proof of other dimensions—purgatory, Hell, whatever you want to call it. I did the scan on Husniya’s and my DNA. I found the protein responsible for our connection, for the entanglement. The Leader only needs to recreate the protein and generate enough to study the interaction of the subatomic particles. He’ll figure out how to manipulate another dimension. Now he just needs a powerful enough supercollider. I thought he already knew, but he didn’t. I gave it to him on a plate—shut up, Vedmak, it’s not my fault.”

Half of that went over my head. All I heard was: black hole, possible, and everyone will die. “Can we stop him?”

“With what? Against the Creed? The Musuls?” He shakes his head. “We’re dead. You, me, everyone here. My brother ...” He breaks down again, fighting back tears between arguments with Vedmak.

“Demitri, focus on me.”

He taps his forehead with two fingers.

“What about your brother?”

“The Leader ... That monster executed Nikolaj just to hurt me.” Demitri scrunches his eyes closed and buries his face in his hands.

I don’t know what to say.

He stares at the floor, waging some internal battle, alone. He’s an outcast, without a home or a family. Just like me. And in the midst of all that has happened, he thought to bring me something priceless he knew I would take comfort in. I don’t want to care. The Graciles are cold and cruel, with no love for anything but themselves—but this one is different. I cast a glance at the old book. What would Zevry do? What would Yeos want from me? Judge a man not by what he is but by what he is to become, as he searches for the path of the Lightbringer.

“Demitri.” I lean in, touching the outside of his knee. “I’m sorry about what happened to your brother.”

“Are you?” His large hazel eyes are full of sadness.

I give an earnest nod. “Yeah. I am.”

There’s a long silence before I continue, my tone steady, my words more confident than my heart. “Listen to me. The people we love shouldn’t have to die for nothing. Tell me what we need to do to stop this, Demitri. I need your help. We all need your help. You’re the only one who understands this well enough to stop it. Do it for the little girl you saved. Do it for Nikolaj, for yourself. Your life is more valuable than you know.”

My words seem to strike a chord. Demitri sits up and makes firm eye contact with me. “Okay, Mila. I’ll try. We’re going to die anyway, but I’ll try. Are you going to bring your people into my prison cell so I can explain everything to them?”

“I can do one better.” I stand and place my hand on his shoulder. “We’ll walk out of here and go tell them together.”

“Together,” Demetri says, as if only to himself.