Quinn is at the edge when I return. His jaw is clenched, his hands fisted as he watches his sister pull herself onto the river-bank. I loop one end of the rope around a sturdy tree trunk and lash it tight. All around us, survivors cluster at the edge of the drop-off. Some call encouragement down to Willow. Others stare in mute shock at the bridge’s wreckage, and the long line of red-jacketed soldiers standing at the edge of the opposite tree line, their swords gleaming like a row of wicked teeth.

“I’m going down to get her,” Quinn says, and I don’t argue. If Willow were my sister, I’d be the one going down, too. He quickly fashions a harness and then slowly lets out the slack as he lowers himself over the edge.

Several more Carrington soldiers have now climbed out of the river’s swift current on our side of the bank. Three of them lie panting and bleeding on the rocky bank. A fourth starts moving toward Willow, who huddles on her hands and knees, blood pouring onto the sand beneath her.

A faint thwing disturbs the air, and an arrow flies past me and buries itself in the soldier’s neck. He staggers, reaches up to grab the arrow, and falls backward into the river. Three more arrows fly, and all of the injured soldiers stop moving.

I turn and see Rachel standing behind me holding Willow’s bow, her eyes bleak.

“Did I miss any?” she asks.

I scan the riverbank, but the only bodies washing ashore now are already dead. “No, you got them all.”

She lowers the bow and comes to stand beside me. Together, we watch Quinn work his way down the side of the embankment.

“Thom is dead,” I say, and the words burn my tongue like acid. “He insisted on staying behind to blow up the bridge instead of me, even though—”

“You were going to stay behind and blow up the bridge?” Her voice is as bleak as her eyes.

I look at her. “I wanted to toss the jars out of the wagon as we left the bridge, but there were too many people still trying to get across. I had to send the wagon ahead of me to help get everyone to safety.”

She meets my eyes, but I can’t figure out what she’s thinking.

“Thom sacrificed himself. He was poisoned. Bruises already on his arms. And he insisted on staying instead.” I want her to understand. To see that someone had to do it. Someone had to cut us off from the Carrington army or we’d have died like sheep penned in for slaughter.

“You were going to blow yourself up with the bridge?”

“I was hoping not to. I was going to get as far away from the glycerin as I could before throwing the acid, and then dive over the side before the explosion hit so that I had a chance of swimming to the shore.”

Her gaze drifts past mine and lingers on the sea of wreckage floating in the crimson-streaked water. “You wouldn’t have survived.”

She’s right, but the terrible emptiness in her voice keeps me from admitting it. I put my arms around her, but she remains stiff and unyielding. It’s like holding a stone to my chest. Leaning down, I press my mouth against her ear and say, “They would’ve destroyed us, Rachel. Someone had to stop them. I didn’t want it to be me, but sometimes we just have to do what comes next.”

Below us, Quinn wraps his arms around his sister and gently slides her onto his back. She clings to his shoulders and wraps her legs around his waist. Her braid is undone, and her dark hair covers her face as she leans her head against Quinn’s shoulder. I let go of Rachel and reach for the rope in case Quinn needs help pulling them both up to the tree line.

“Sylph is going to die,” Rachel says, and I shiver at the aching void behind her words. “You’re all I have left. How can I live with the fear that every time I turn my back, you might be sacrificing yourself for the rest of us?”

I dig my heels into the soil and brace my arms against the rope as Quinn begins to climb.

“Like you sacrificed yourself to save Jeremiah when Carrington broke into the compound?”

She doesn’t respond.

“Do you want me to promise you that I’ll never risk my life again?” I ask. “Because that isn’t the kind of life we have, Rachel. I wish it was, but it isn’t.”

She still says nothing. I look at her, but she’s staring beyond me, her skin dead white against the brilliant flame of her hair, her eyes filled with cold fury. Turning, I follow her gaze and see the Commander standing at the distant edge of the ruined bridge, his sword flashing in the morning sunlight and his dark eyes boring into mine. Slowly he raises his arm until his sword is pointing straight at me. A row of archers stands along the embankment, their arrows nocked.

“Give me the tech, and I’ll stop hunting you,” the Commander yells, cutting his words into sharp, precise pieces.

Rachel whips the bow up and lets an arrow fly. It sails toward the Commander, but falls short, landing just shy of the opposite bank.

“He’s too far away to kill,” I say.

She says nothing.

As Quinn and Willow clamber onto the embankment, surrounded by hands reaching to help them up, to untie the rope, and to whisk Willow away to the medical wagon, I step to the side. I want an unobstructed view of the man who’s ruined my life and the lives of so many others in his relentless quest for power. Then I whip my sword from its sheath, raise it in the air above me, and lower it until the tip is aimed at the Commander’s vicious, brutal heart.

“You will never get the device from me.” I fling the words at him, and then motion my people to move back into the trees.