There are maybe a thousand of us, maybe a few more, in a long column. Feve’s next to Circ, his long blade swinging from his belt. Circ and I try to make our eyes and face look like his—serious and dark and fierce—but we crack up every time we try. Feve just shakes his head.

“This look isn’t something you can learn. It’s something you’re born with,” he says, which makes us crack up even more. It’s the weirdest thing to be laughing with Feve, who I hated not that long ago. He saved my life once, but then it turned out he was working with my father. But he’s made up for his mistakes tenfold ever since, and I can’t hold a grudge for something he did that he didn’t really understand the repercussions of. These days I trust Feve as much as I trust Circ.

Some of t’other warriors are joking and laughing, too, but most of ’em I recognize as Heater Hunters, those who used to bring home tug meat for the village, and those who have fought against the Glassies twice ’fore. They’re used to the thrill of battle. It’s just another day in their dangerous lives.

But most of t’others—excluding the Marked and the Wilde Ones, who look as serious as Feve and Skye—are just normal people, used to taking care of kids and preparing food and living full and ordinary lives. I can see the fear in their eyes, just like I saw in Veeva’s, ’cept it’s a different fear. Not the fear of people they know dying, but of themselves dying.

Grunt’s one of ’em and, remembering the promise I made to Veeva, I keep one eye on him even as I’m joking with Circ and Feve. His face is already red and sweaty and it looks like he’s struggling to put one foot in front of t’other in the sand.

I feel bad for him. He shouldn’t be here. None of us should be. Why are there so many wooloo, power-hungry people in this world? Why can’t they just live like the rest of us, have a few laughs, help those that need it?

Not caring whether it’s something a warrior would do, I grab Circ’s hand and swing it along beside me. He raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t say anything. Just squeezes my hand back.

Chapter Thirty

Tristan

It’s dark when we reach the cave Adele and I stepped out of what seems like years ago.

Most of the way, Roc was practicing using the words Siena taught him. He only shut up when I pointed out what a live ’zard looked like, sunning itself on a rock. Tawni was pretty grossed out, too. Hawk laughed, said, “You survive offa what the land gives you.”

As we shake hands with Hawk and Lara, say our goodbyes, and step into the cave, it hits me that I’m leaving Adele in another world, while I return to the one so familiar to me. What if something happens and we can never get back to the surface? Will she find a way back down? Does she even want to come back? After all we’ve seen, all we’ve experienced, can any of us just return to a life of phony light and absolute darkness?

But I can’t stop my two feet from taking turns, stepping—one, two, one, two, one, two—moving me forward. Because they know: It was my plan and if I don’t follow through with it the earth dwellers will win, and Adele will die, along with every last person in the Tri-Tribes. And it will be on my head and mine alone.

We reach the pod that will take us home, step inside, remove our masks. Press a button to turn it on. Artificial yellow lighting hits me full in the face.

“What floor?” Roc says, smirking, knowing full well the pod only goes to one place.

“H,” I say. Roc looks at me quizzically. “For Hell,” I explain.

“Oh, c’mon, Tristy. It ain’t all that burnin’ bad,” Roc says, still practicing his—what do we even call it? Desert language? He pushes a button.

“I know,” I say. “I just can’t believe we’re leaving her.”

“We’re doing it to save her,” Tawni says. “It’s the right thing.”

They’re simple, but her words help to comfort me. For a long time, Tawni’s been our moral compass in a world where the shades of gray are as abundant as the shadows. Once she stopped us from killing unarmed and defenseless soldiers. Ever since, I’ve been thankful she did. So if she thinks this is the right choice, then it probably is.

I close my eyes and the pod drops, sending an airy thrill through my stomach. Adele…Adele, where are you? When I reopen them, Roc’s holding Tawni’s hand, his foot directly next to hers. And, of course, he’s grinning, his teeth yellow in the fake light.

“What?” I say.

“Do you think anyone will be waiting with tea and biscuits?” he asks.

I’m as far from a laughing mood as I could possibly be, and yet I laugh. That’s why Roc’s my best friend. That’s why we’ve survived this long. By laughing and joking and not taking ourselves too seriously when the rest of the world seems to be only serious.

“I hope so,” I say.

“Do you think they’ll have the little flower-shaped ones filled with the red cream?” Tawni asks.

“If they don’t, heads will roll,” I say. “After all, I’m the President of the Tri-Realms now.”

“You’re sounding more like your father each and every day,” Roc says in a dramatic voice. “It’s a beautiful thing to see.”

That was a low blow, but it doesn’t hurt as much as it probably should. My father destroyed my whole life, but he didn’t destroy me. My mother, even with her last act, gave me a chance at a real life, and a chance to make things right, to cleanse the Nailin name. And then my father killed her for it.

“Sooo,” I say after the longest stretch of silence, where the only sound was Roc’s incessant tapping of his toe.

“Sooo what?” Roc says.

“What exactly will we be facing when we step out of this pod?”

Roc cocks his head and taps his teeth with a finger, like he’s taking my question seriously. He’s not. “Let’s see, there will probably be an old, crusty scientist—bald, of course—and four walls of rock.”

“You mean walls with pictures of you all over them? My worst nightmare is coming true.”

“Hmm,” Roc says.

“That would be a nightmare,” Tawni says drily.

“Ganging up—not fair,” Roc says. “And my own girlfriend…”

“Seriously,” I say.

“Seriously,” Roc says, mimicking me.

“Did Trevor give you, like, a whole bunch of tips on how to annoy me?” I ask.

I don’t mean to dampen the mood, but speaking our dead friend’s name does the trick. The laughter ceases and Roc momentarily stops with the jokes. He takes a deep breath. “We have to do this, Tristan. We have to do it for Trevor and Ram and your mom and my mom. For Cole and Ben and Elsey. For everyone that’s been hurt by your father and by Lecter.”

“We will,” I say, trying to sound like my old, confident self. “Especially with your fighting skills on our side.” I can’t help it, the laughter a moment ago felt so good, like maybe we weren’t all doomed because we were doing something normal and light.

“You shouldn’t mock,” Roc says. “I’m still injured because I couldn’t figure out which way to aim the sword.”

I laugh ten times harder, because that’s Roc. Cracking a joke about the bravest thing he ever did, when he stabbed himself to save my life.

“I’d take your sword by my side every time,” I say, wiping away a bit of moisture from my eyes that’s mostly happiness.

Roc smiles. “Just as long as it’s not in your side, eh?”

“You stab me, I’ll stab you back.”

Tawni shakes her head. “I’m not sure I’ll ever fully understand you two,” she says.

“That’s because we’re mysterious,” Roc says, wagging his eyebrows.

“So back to the situation below,” I say, because I feel like the half-hour ride is at least halfway over already. “How bad is it? Am I walking into guns pointed at my head, swords thrust into my neck, or fists swinging at my gut?”

Still smiling, Roc says, “All three.”