Haider comes running.

He dives in front of his friend with a cry, knocking Stephan to the ground, protecting his body with his own, throwing something into the air as he goes.

It explodes.

I’m thrown backward, my skull ringing. I lift my head, delirious, and spot Nazeera and Warner, each locked in hand-to-hand combat. I hear a bloodcurdling scream and force myself up, toward the sound.

It’s Sam.

Nouria beats me to her, falling to her knees to lift her wife’s body off the ground. She wraps blinding bands of light around the two of them, the protective spirals so bright they’re excruciating to look at. A nearby soldier throws his arm over his eyes as he shoots, crying out and holding steady even as the force of Nouria’s light begins to melt the flesh off his hands.

I put a bullet through his teeth.

Five more guards appear out of nowhere, coming at me from all sides, and for half a second I can’t help but be surprised. Castle said there were only twelve bodies, two of which belonged to Anderson and James, and I thought we’d taken out at least several of the others by now. I glance around the battlefield, at the dozens of soldiers still actively attacking our team, and then back again, at the five heading my way.

My head swims with confusion.

And then, when they all begin to shoot—terror.

I go invisible, stealing through the single foot of space between two of them, turning back just long enough to open fire. A couple of my shots find their marks; the others are wasted. I reload the clip, tossing the now-empty one to the ground, and just as I’m about to shoot again, I hear her voice.

“Hang on,” she whispers.

Nazeera wraps her arms around my waist and jumps.

Up.

A bullet whizzes past my calf. I feel the burn as it grazes skin, but the night sky is cool and bracing, and I allow myself to take a steadying breath, to close my eyes for a full and complete second. Up here, the screams are muted, the blood could be water, the screams could be laughter.

The dream lasts for only a moment.

Our feet touch the ground again and my ears refill with the sounds of war. I squeeze Nazeera’s hand by way of thanks, and we split up. I charge toward a group of men and women I only vaguely recognize—people from the Sanctuary—and throw myself into the bloodshed, urging one of the injured fighters to pull back and take shelter. I’m soon lost in the motions of battle, defending and attacking, guns firing. Guttural moaning. I don’t even think to look up until I feel the ground shake beneath my feet.

Castle.

His arms are pointed upward, toward a nearby building. The structure begins to shake violently, nails flying, windows shuddering. A cluster of supreme guards reaches for their guns but stop short at the sound of Anderson’s voice. I can’t hear what he says, but he seems to be nearly himself again, and his command appears to be shocking enough to inspire a moment of hesitation in his soldiers. For no reason I can fathom, the guards I’d been fighting suddenly slink away.

Too late.

The roof of the nearby building collapses with a scream, and with a final, violent shove, Castle tears off a wall. With one arm he shoves aside the few of our teammates standing in harm’s way, and with the other he drops the ton of wall to the ground, where it lands with an explosive crash. Glass flies everywhere, wooden beams groaning as they buckle and break. A few supreme soldiers escape, diving for cover, but at least three of them get caught under the rubble. We all brace for a retaliatory attack—

But Anderson holds up a single arm.

His soldiers go instantly still, weapons going slack in their hands. Almost in unison, they stand at attention.

Waiting.

I glance at Castle for a directive, but he’s got eyes on Anderson just like the rest of us. Everyone seems paralyzed by a delirious hope that this war might be over. I watch Castle turn and lock eyes with Nouria, who’s still cradling Sam to her chest. A moment later, Castle raises his arm. A temporary standstill.

I don’t trust it.

Silence coats the night as Anderson staggers forward, his lips a violent, liquid red, his hand casually holding a handkerchief to his neck. We’d heard about this, of course—about his ability to heal himself—but seeing it actually happen in real time is something else altogether. It’s wild.

When he speaks, his voice shatters the quiet. Breaks the spell. “Enough,” he says. “Where is my son?”

Murmurs move through the crowd of bloodied fighters, a red sea slowly parting at his approach. It’s not long before Warner appears, striding forward in the silence, his face spattered in red. A machine gun is locked in his right hand.

He looks up at his father. He says nothing.

“What did you do with her?” Anderson says softly, and spits blood on the ground. He wipes his lips with the same cloth he’s using to contain the open wound on his neck. The whole scene is disgusting.

Warner continues to say nothing.

I don’t think any of us know where he hid her. J seems to have disappeared, I realize.

Seconds pass in a silence so intense we all begin to worry about the fate of our standstill. I see a few of the supreme soldiers lift their guns in Warner’s direction, and not a second later a single lightning bolt fractures the sky above us.

Brendan.

I glance at him, then at Castle, but Anderson once again lifts his arm to stall his soldiers. Once again, they stand down.

“I will only ask you one more time,” Anderson says to his son, his voice trembling as it grows louder. “What did you do with her?”

Still, Warner stares impassively.

He’s spattered in unknown blood, holding a machine gun like it might be a briefcase, and staring at his father like he might be staring at the ceiling. Anderson can’t control his temper the way Warner can—and it’s obvious to everyone that this is a battle of wills he’s going to lose.

Anderson already looks half out of his mind.

His hair is matted and sticking up in places. Blood is congealing on his face, his eyes shot through with red. He looks so deranged—so unlike himself—that I honestly have no idea what’s going to happen next.

And then he lunges for Warner.

He’s like a belligerent drunk, wild and angry, unhinged in a way I’ve never seen before. His swings are wild but strong, unsteady but studied. He reminds me, in a sudden, frightening flash of understanding, of the father Adam so often described to me. A violent drunk fueled by rage.

Except that Anderson doesn’t appear to be drunk at the moment. No. This is pure, unadulterated anger.

Anderson seems to have lost his mind.

He doesn’t just want to shoot Warner. He doesn’t want someone else to shoot Warner. He wants to beat him to a pulp. He wants physical satisfaction. He wants to break bones and rupture organs with his own hands. Anderson wants the pleasure of knowing that he and he alone was able to destroy his own son.

But Warner isn’t giving him that satisfaction.

He meets Anderson blow for blow in fluid, precise movements, ducking and sidestepping and twisting and defending. He never misses a beat.

It’s almost like he can read Anderson’s mind.

I’m not the only one who’s stunned. I’ve never seen Warner move like this, and I almost can’t believe I’ve never seen it before. I feel a sudden, unbidden surge of respect for him as I watch him block attack after attack. I keep waiting for him to knock the dude out, but Warner makes no effort to hit Anderson; he only defends. And only when I see the increasing fury on Anderson’s face do I realize that Warner is doing this on purpose.