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“There’s not enough dust left. We’re sitting ducks without Daedra!” Serval thrust a finger in Orpheus’ direction. “We’ve got ourselves a real fucking mage now, don’t we? So, put him to work!”

Oh, hells no. That wouldn’t just expose him—it would get them all killed.

Would that really be so bad? You’re dead already, whichever way this plays out.

“And risk him escaping? I think not.” Atticus stared at Orpheus past the bars of his cage, like he was actually considering what Serval suggested.

“Then we have to feed it, boss.” Serval’s voice went quiet, private, the other white cloaks too far away to hear. “It’s the only way.”

Atticus continued staring at Orpheus instead of Serval. “Gwen can’t produce enough Netherflame, we’ve already tested this.”

A stillness settled over Serval, hands gripping his reins like what he said next may cause them to be ripped away. “You know that’s not what I mean.”

“What is he saying?” Gwen shrieked, leaping for the bars of her cage like it was her who was their prisoner and not Orpheus. Soot yowled from her shoulder. “Are you going to feed me to that thing?”

“No, darling. We’re not.” Atticus turned towards Serval and pitched his voice low. “Serval, listen closely, because I will only say this once.” Like the man who had crouched behind Orpheus at the fire, Atticus’ tone brokered no argument. “The next time you suggest we sacrifice one of our own, it will be you taking their place. Understand?”

Despite the glass of Serval’s goggles, Orpheus could taste his fear. Like the ash on the wind, it stung a caustic burn, dragging at Serval’s swallow so badly Orpheus could see how his throat dipped. Then, it fled, a rigidity taking its place that made Orpheus want to shout at Atticus to watch his fucking back.

Instead, Orpheus ground down on his bit and Atticus jerked his horse around to speak to the gathered white cloaks.

“Daedra is likely dead.” Orpheus didn’t miss how Gwen flinched. “And I won’t run from that thing just for it to follow our trail and put our families in danger. I can’t. We’ve come this far, and we will not give up now. We will kill this Prometheus, or die trying, because if we return to Sanctuary empty-handed, let alone with this monster on our heels, we are already dead.”

In another place, at another time, Orpheus could imagine Fenrir giving a similar speech. Granted, Fenrir probably would have broken the tension with some kind of joke rather than give a grim ultimatum, but there was no denying that Atticus cared for the white cloaks. That whatever greater plan he had in mind was for their benefit and not simply his own personal gain or motivation.

Atticus’ plan. A plan that—according to Gwen, and Serval, and now Atticus—should have required Netherflame but didn’t because Orpheus couldn’t be trusted and Gwen was too weak to produce what the Prometheus needed. But that didn’t change the fact they it was the key to surviving this titan of a hell beast. A key these people believed they lacked.

Netherflame. The Prometheus wanted Netherflame.

Orpheus looked to the iron lung and wondered…a cannon of fire, but the wrong kind…What if he could make it the right kind?

Teach me. Everything. All that you know about magic—and what better time than right now?

Maybe Orpheus didn’t have the magic Atticus wanted any longer, but he did have knowledge, and there was power in that if he wielded it right. All he had to do was play along with Atticus’ plan long enough for Fenrir to save to him.

All he had to do was survive.

Orpheus leaped for the bars of his cage at the exact moment Atticus lifted his arm to signal to his riders.

Listen to me, he couldn’t shout. He banged his broken hands on the cage instead, chewing on the bit like he could tear through it. It was enough. Atticus lowered his arm and met his eyes, a long-held breath shared between them. Orpheus put his encased hands to his mouth and bared his teeth.

“I think he wants to talk,” Gwen said, voice barely carrying over the roar of the fire.

Atticus’ hands went white with how hard he gripped his reins.

“Fine.” He reached through the bars and yanked the bit from between Orpheus’ teeth. “Speak, dog!”

“You want me for my magic, right? You want my help? So let me help. I can turn that cannon into a real weapon. A spell that will allow it to shoot Netherflame.”

“I am not fool enough to let you use your magic now—”

“Not me,” Orpheus breathed. “Her. I can show her how.”

For all the chaos surrounding them, the world slowed its spinning, a molasses-thick drag that left Atticus staring at Orpheus from beyond the cage’s bars, face masked by so much more than those hells-damned goggles.

“It’s what it wants, right? Netherflame?” He’d fought off enough hell beasts to understand exactly why that Prometheus was here. “What is your other option?”

“I will not put Gwen in harm’s way. I won’t let you hurt her.”