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Okay. Was he okay? He wasn’t, but he thought maybe he could be if…if his coming death meant this singular girl would live.

Orpheus watched Gwen for a long moment before looking back to the window, breathing deeply the scent of rain on the wind. In the not so far distance, the sphere stood out from the shadows—innocuous except for that ever-present violet glow growing brighter and brighter.

“Look, it’s glowing brighter,” Orpheus said with a fond warmth.

“What do you mean brighter?” Gwen dragged her hand down his sleeve, then glanced over her shoulder at the window. Orpheus didn’t understand why she suddenly went stiff.

All around, a roar filled the quiet, a death knell rising from the night.

“The cathedral bells?” Gwen gasped. “But prayer…oh, oh no—”

They looked at each other; two sets of eyes caught in the headlights of the impossible. Then Gwen scrambled from his lap and ran for the window.

Orpheus limped after her, cane clicking across the floor. He reached it at the precise moment lights bobbed out of the darkness beyond Sanctuary’s wall, winking from the shadows in pairs. A roar chugged with the rhythm of a hundred engines, drowning out the patter of rain with a mechanical war cry, as much a warning as a declaration—because—he was—was he—

All hells. Was that Fenrir?

“Gwen,” Orpheus gasped. “It’s Fenrir!”

Through the rain, more and more headlights glimmered, some already disappearing behind the rise of Sanctuary’s wall, others yet cresting the horizon, like a cavalry at charge. He counted dozens—maybe a hundred of them. Vehicles of every size and shape approached at a speed that kicked up the Deadland’s dust despite the falling rain. A veritable army of vehicles, all come for him.

“He came.” Orpheus fought a sob, grin cracking like a grimace while his hands shook atop the railing. Tears stung his eyes and he wiped at them quickly, not wanting Fenrir to find him like this—weak with desperation—brought to his knees with relief. If Fenrir was looking for a damsel to save, he should have shown up weeks ago before Orpheus had to figure out how to survive on his own.

Not that that mattered, anymore. Fenrir was here. Fenrir had come.

“Finally, you fucking bastard,” Orpheus laughed, grinning.

Beside him, Gwen breathed heavily, clinging to the railing so hard her fingertips were white, pale eyes focused on the approaching headlights, one in particular growing brighter. Larger. Swallowing the shadows that surrounded it in an incandescent white light.

A piercing wail rose, growing louder. Closer.

Wait—no. That wasn’t a headlight, it was—

Light erupted, a blast of air and heat and sound punching through the window and sending him stumbling. Molten wet material tumbled across Sanctuary’s rooftops, the shingles kindling into flames. Days of rain didn’t stand up to the force of the Empire’s bomb, a fact made clear when a roof close to them caught fire, dark smoke billowing into the air.

“Oh no,” Gwen whispered.

You can’t say they don’t deserve it, at least a little, he nearly snapped, but Gwen’s attention wasn’t on the roof.

It was on the wall.

There, at the westernmost tower where the power cell glowed, a light surged, and everything Orpheus thought anyone deserved dissolved into static.

Violet lightning sparked. Cracked. A quick crawl up the spire to balance at its tip before lancing across the oncoming caravan in a seamless whip.

Headlights swerved, too many too late. Lighting struck—quick, cold, vicious Netherflame lightning—ripping through the caravan to release hot orange flames.

Wait. No. No—that can’t be—

The power cell flared again. Larger this time. Brighter. Lightning striking not in a blast, but a channeled surge, tearing through the charging headlights faster than they could scatter.

“No,” Orpheus whispered, the power cell charging again. “No, I didn’t mean to—”

Again the power cell flashed. Again lightning surged. Snapping into the caravan over and over like they were so many rats. Fires kindled across the hillside as engines went up in flames, gas tanks ignited, artillery exploding in their cannons rather than behind the enemy’s line. All because of him. That wasn’t a power cell to restore life-sustaining systems. It was a weapon he had given Sanctuary to use against him. A weapon that tore his reality apart when another bolt lashed down from the spire to tear open far more than the fleet who had come to his rescue.

His heart cracked in his chest.

Atticus had done this. Atticus and—