Years ago, when I was a Fiver at Blackcliff, I was sent into the Nevennes on a spying mission. It was deep winter, and one morning, I woke to find the fire I’d kindled the night before had gone out. I had no more flint, so I hunched over a lone ember. The deep red glow at its core promised warmth, if I was willing to give it time and air. If I was patient enough to wait until it was ready to burn.

Laia is far more patient with me than I was with that ember. But I struggle to open up to her. Because if we survive all of what is to come, I will return to the Waiting Place. I will forget her.

Or perhaps I won’t. Perhaps the memory of her will haunt me worse than any ghost, even as she returns to the world of the living and builds a life on her own, or with someone else. The thought brings me perilously close to despair.

All I can do is quell it. For three days, as we march through the forest, I focus instead on memorizing the music of her laugh, the poetry of her body. I savor every touch and every look.

Until, on the third night, I’m compelled to seek her out. I must at least try, for a few moments, to set the Soul Catcher aside and let Elias Veturius speak.

When the moon is high, I slip out of my tent and make my way toward Tribe Saif, where Laia usually sleeps. The fires burn low, and other than Mamie Rila, the Tribe is at rest. The Kehanni spots me. She smiles faintly, then nods at her wagon.

A lantern glows within and Laia’s silhouette moves past a window. My heart thuds faster. What will I say to her? I miss you. I’m sorry. I wish—

I do not complete the thought. For suddenly, the hair on the back of my neck rises.

Almost before I register the feeling, I’ve drawn my scims and turned to the forest, where something moves sinuously amid the trees. Ghosts? No—a fog, low and noisome, creeping slowly toward the army.

Above, the wind efrits shriek out a warning, their sudden cries sending a tremor through the slumbering camp.

“Jinn!” they scream. “The jinn have come!”

Instantly, I am shouting orders as Mamie rouses the Tribes, and the Blood Shrike calls for extra guards to protect our precious salt supply. The sentries already have salted arrows nocked, and the army forms up along the perimeter of the camp quickly, weapons at the ready.

But the jinn do not approach with fire. Nor do they descend from the sky. Their weapon of choice appears to be the fog. Exclamations of fear echo through the ranks as the soldiers attempt to bat away the mist. It curls around them, concealing something vicious and cunning.

Laia emerges from the wagon, scythe in hand. “Elias?” she says. “What’s happening?”

“Wraiths,” I say to her, before calling out the warning. “Wraiths! Draw scims. Take off their heads!”

“Finally, something to kill.” Grandfather strides out from the center of the encampment. “I was getting bored. Elias, my boy—”

But I don’t hear the rest. The mist closes in, muffling sound, blurring vision. My heart clenches. Mamie Rila is near, and Shan. The Shrike and Avitas. Afya, Gibran, and so many others. All these people I care for, death lapping at their heels.

Maybe I should rage at myself for allowing emotion to rule me. But there’s no point. I do not regret the time I spent with my family, my friends.

The wraiths attack, and shouts ring out, warped by the mist. I raise my blades. The map in my head tells me where the wraiths are, and I let the battle rage take me, tearing through them. A tornado of sound shrieks around me as I take off their heads, making sure that none gets close to Laia or Grandfather, the Shrike or Avitas, Mamie or Shan.

Then the fog roils and shifts, taking on a flickering orange hue. Fire streaks overhead. I back away from the mist, until I can see and hear more clearly.

“Protect the supply wagons!” I shout, for if we don’t have food, it doesn’t matter if we reach the jinn grove by tomorrow. We’ll starve there.

The Blood Shrike appears beside me. “Soul Catcher. We can’t see the bleeding enemy. How are we supposed to—”

“We can stop them.” I sense a group of jinn moving just beyond the line of wraiths. “Come.”

She follows me into the mist-choked trees south of the encampment, her scims singing through the air when wraiths approach. She sends their heads flying with little enough effort, and I glance back at her, remembering how we fought during the Second Trial.

“You’ve improved.”

“You’ve lost your touch.” Her smile is a welcome flash of mirth in the murk. “Give me a moment. If the jinn are nearby, I should salt the blades.”

Of course. She wants to kill the jinn, or at least hurt them. I’d planned to scare them off—and get them to take their wraiths with them. I cannot allow the Shrike to harm the jinn. Not when I promised Mauth I’d find a way to restore them as Soul Catchers.

“Wait here,” I say. “I’m just going to—”

“No chance.” She puts away her salt. “I didn’t march an army all the way out here only to be the idiot who stands by as its commander is killed.” She goes still. “Listen.”

It takes a few moments to separate out the distant shouts and scim-clashes of battle from the heavy silence around us. The Blood Shrike meets my gaze.

Then she leaps to the left, barely in time to avoid a group of fire-formed jinn streaking out of the mist. The Shrike roars, her scims lashing the air, and one flaming figure goes down, only for another to take its place. But she is more skilled than the jinn with her blades—and her weapons are coated with salt. That alone cannot kill them—but it will wound them.

She darts behind a tree as one of the jinn attacks her with a wave of heat, then steps out and whips her scim at the creature’s neck. As it skitters away, I shove into the Shrike, knocking her back.

“What are you doing, Soul Catcher?” She wheels, baffled, but before I can explain, a jinn I recognize—Talis—strikes out with a spear and knocks the Shrike down. Her head hits the ground hard, and she goes still.

Talis tackles me, but I shove him off. “Wait,” I say. “Please, wait. I’m not here to harm you.”

The jinn rolls to his feet, his spear at my throat. “Do you know what happened the last time an army of men came to the forest?” he asks.

“I just want to talk.” I stand, raising my hands and thinking quickly. “You were right. Suffering isn’t meant to be controlled. And the—the Meherya cannot control what he seeks to release. Mauth himself told me. Once free, the Sea of Suffering will destroy all life. Even you. He will break the world—”

Another jinn steps forward, still in her fire form. “Perhaps the world needs to be broken.”

“There are millions of people who have nothing to do with this,” I say. “Who live thousands of miles away and have no idea what is coming—”