Something stops me. A feeling. Guilt mixedwith strength mixed with anger. Someone has to end this, and itmight as well be me.

I run—no, sprint—up the beach, chasing afterthe Stormer Rider girl. Beyond her the battle rages fiercer thanever. Riders, on horse and on foot, battle seamen and officersalike, cutting, slashing, ending each other’s lives.

My father is locked in a one-on-one battleagainst the Stormer war leader. He’s outmatched, but his red-faced,deep-lined hatred is making up the difference. So much hatred.

Enough for all of us.

Enough to fill the world.

Enough!

The Stormer leader pushes Father back, seemsto have him right where he wants him, and then he—

—I can’t believe it but he—

—he stumbles, loses his balance, falls.

My father springs at him and the war leaderbarely manages to block his attack from his knees, raising hissword.

Enough!

I make right for my father—who continues toslash at the fallen Stormer leader—from behind, and he doesn’t seeme coming. I’m almost positive Gard sees me, but he doesn’t give mypresence away with his eyes, just continues to protect himself frommy father’s slashing sword.

I’ve got him in my sights, closer, closer,closer, on silent feet. I close my eyes and—

—lower my head, flexing every muscle in mybody in preparation for the impact, and—

—crash into the backs of his knees, sweepinghim off his feet, only then opening my eyes to find my arms wrappedaround his legs, his body flush with the drenched sand.

His sword scattered off to the side.

And Gard’s sword at his neck.

Father’s face is awash with the paleness ofsurprise, just a flicker as he stares at me in bewilderment. Butthe flash is gone in an instant, replaced by an anger so red and sofierce I wonder if his head will explode. He spits in my face, buthe has so little moisture in his mouth that I can’t feel it amidstthe rainfall. “You’re no son of mine,” he says.

“If only that were true, Father,” I say. “Ifonly.”

I stand, turn toward the remains of thebattle, which is finally winding down, with most warriors on bothsides exhausted, injured, shooting glances in our direction, tryingto figure out what’s happened, which leader won the day.

“STOP!” I scream.

Any heads that were facing away from me turn,the Soaker girl who saved my life included. Her eyebrows lift insurprise, as if I’m the last person she expected to see back up onthe beach.

“Stop,” I say more calmly. “Enough. AdmiralJones is defeated. We must fight no more. The time for war is over.He”—I point at my father—“is to blame.”

My father goes to say something, but Gardwarns him off by poking him in the skin, drawing a trickle ofblood.

“He’s lied to us all,” I say, my voicegaining strength with each honest word. “He created ourhatred for the Stormers, because he lives for violence, forcontrol, for war. When really it’s him and him alone that hasbrought us here. He trades bags of dried seaweed for the childrenof fire country, only to force them into battle, only to beslaughtered by his own men. You should be ashamed of yourselves. Weall should.”

There’s silence, and then a laugh.

My head twists back to my father, whoseentire body is convulsing with laughter, oblivious to his neckbouncing against Gard’s sword, which continues to slice into him,spilling blood from ragged breaks in his skin.

He looks completely mad.

“Shut it or you die,” Gard says.

“No,” I say. “Let him speak.” Gard’s eyesbore into me, but then he pulls the tip of his blade back aninch.

My father’s laughter fades. “So what?” hesays. “So what if I live for this—for all of this? So what if I getmy slaves for worthless bags of sea plants? So what? It’s my life,I’ll do what I want.”

One of the Heater warriors—the girl with thesword—steps forward, by my side. “What the scorch did you say ’boutthem bags of sea plants?”

The admiral laughs again. “Goff, Roan—yourleaders are fools! They perpetuate the child slave trade to savetheir own lives from the disease, but guess what? There was nomagical Cure! They were just worthless plants! None of us are safefrom the Scurve. None of us. Which is why none of this matters.What we do, what side we’re on, who we kill. We’ll all die in theend anyway.”

“Kill him,” I say. He has nothing left tooffer us. He’s caused so much death, drove my mother to take herown life. “Kill him,” I repeat.

My father snarls at me. “You don’t give thecommands! You’re nothing! You never were! You couldn’t even saveyour mother’s life.”

No more. I will hear no more. Calmly, I drawa knife from my belt, step forward, and drive it into hisheart.

Sadie

Although the lightning is distant now, thestorm moving past us, I’m as shocked as if every bolt is runningthrough my body. He came back. The boy came back.

No, he did more than that. Much, much more.He helped end the battle, killed his father. Showed he’s not likehim at all—not the enemy.

He leaves the knife stuck in his father’schest, stands, looks away, out to sea, toward one of the ships.

Still riding Passion, I approach him and heshrinks back slightly, eyeing my sword warily.

“I’m sorry about before, I didn’t—”

“It’s okay,” he says quickly. “Iunderstand.”

I nod. That’s all I need. “Go to see her—thegirl you were talking about. We’re okay now.”

If I chased him with my sword he wouldn’t goany faster. He sprints away, down the beach, shoving a boat withall his might and clambering on board, his arms working the paddlewildly.

I look away from him, take in the carnagearound me. Bodies—so many bodies—broken and bleeding, many of themnot moving, some of them groaning and rolling about in agony.Realizing the battle is over, the Healers who rode behind theRiders are creeping from the forest, picking their way through thebodies, tending to those that still have life in them.

Gard says, “That was unexpected.”

I shrug. “My father was right,” I say. “Asalways.”

Gard looks at me strangely, but doesn’trespond.

“Is it really over?” I ask.

“There is always evil in the world, Sadie.But for now, I think it’s over.”

The pain in my hip screams out, but I ignoreit, urging Passion toward the plains, where I last saw Remy.

Skye and Siena wave at me to stop, but it’sPassion they should be heralding, because she halts without anycommand from me. “Where’s that wooloo boy goin’?” Skye asks,pointing out at the water. I turn and follow her gaze. LieutenantJones is halfway to the ship that’s missing the wind-catcher, theone where all the activity was when we first arrived.

“To see a girl,” I say.

“He told Feve and Circ there’s a girl on theship that looks like us.” This time it’s Siena who speaks.

“Go,” I say. “Find your sister.”

They look at the water, then back at me.“Uhh…”

“I can take you,” a man says, stridingforward. He’s weaponless, his face covered in streaks of blood.He’s clutching one of his arms, blood seeping through his fingers.He’s wearing a dirty and torn blue uniform.

“We don’t need anything from you,” I say.

“My name’s Lieutenant—” I wait for him tofinish. “Name’s Cain. Just Cain,” he says. “I’m friends with theboy…the young man that just killed the admiral. I’ll take you towhere he’s gone. As long as you do the rowing.”

“Yes!” Skye and Siena say at once.

“I don’t know a searin’ thing ’bout whatrowin’ is,” Siena says, “but we’ll do whatever you tell us if youcan take us to our sister.”

“Are you sure—” I start to say.

“Yes,” they repeat, once more in unison.

“I don’t know anything about your sister, butI’ll take you to meet the Heater girl that Huck’s going tosee.”

Excitement flashing in their eyes, Siena andSkye follow Cain down the beach to one of the boats.