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“Is he okay?” Orpheus cracked open an eye to find Gwen. She stood close, Soot blinking down from her shoulder, eyes bright despite the rain clouds gathering overhead.

“Gwen, he’s fine. But Lamont is right. It’s too unsafe to stay here. Too much can go wrong.”

Silence capped the rumble of a thundercloud in the distance; Orpheus didn’t need to look at Gwen to know they were both thinking the same thing. This was the end. The ruse was up. He wouldn’t be able to hide his inability to cast without Gwen as his cover. However pathetic Atticus thought him to be now, soon he’d find out he was just as useless, too.

“You said I could learn from him, that I could help.”

“You can’t help if you’re dead, Gwen.”

“He won’t hurt me,” she insisted, voice cracking. “I know because he hasn’t yet—“

Gwen cut off with a choke, realizing, suddenly, her grave mistake.

“Gwen.” Atticus had gone stiff, his voice low. “What did you just say?”

“N-nothing—”

“Do not lie to me.”

Gwen breathed through her nose, her nostrils flaring, eyes shimmering with tears.

All hells. All fucking hells.

“I can’t cast,” Orpheus said in a rush, the words coming from a distance, as if a ghost had replaced his body and he’d long jumped over Sanctuary’s wall. “I can’t cast, because I lost my magic when I closed the chasm, so I’ve been showing Gwen what to do.”

Silence crashed, more violently than the thunder overhead.

“You’re not lying,” Atticus said. “You’ve been teaching Gwen.”

Orpheus couldn’t meet Atticus’ eyes, but that didn’t leave him with much else to look at. He knelt on the ground before him, the dog at his master’s feet, cowed by the lie he’d been caught in—a lie that would cost him his life. Because this was it. The end of his disguise. The false mage, discovered. The impostor savior, unmasked. Just like he had with Lore and Fenrir, Orpheus would inevitably let down everyone in his life who needed something from him, and whether that was for the good or bad of all people didn’t seem to fucking matter this time.

“Orpheus,” Atticus said, voice rough, his posture stiff, his hands…

Bolstering?

“You two have a plan, correct?” Atticus didn’t look between them, he stared at Orpheus, voice pitched low enough to not carry, which only mattered for as long as Lamont didn’t grow suspicious. “Your plan, fast.”

“I—I don’t know,” Gwen sputtered. “He has a spell, but he needs my Netherflame to work it.”

“I understand.” Atticus’ mouth pressed tight, eyes hardening on Orpheus’. “But they cannot know. Do you hear me? They must not know.”

He’s helping? Orpheus’ head spun, but he didn’t know if it was from Atticus or his fall because the Architects were approaching, which meant they were out of time.

“There’s a utility tunnel that runs the length of the wall and connects each sphere,” Atticus hissed, loud enough for Gwen to hear. “Head down the wall to the next tower, enter the shaft there and return to this one. They won’t see you. They won’t know.”

Orpheus blinked at Atticus, as if seeing him for the first time. “Are you—you can’t be—”

“Believe me, my incredibly unfortunate mage, I am as shocked as you are.” Atticus’ face hardened and then his grip returned. “Stand up, now. Gwen, go.”

Atticus hauled him to his feet while Gwen took off down the length of the wall, the hunch of her shoulders easily mistaken as a scolding. Without his crutch, Orpheus’ bad leg buckled, but Atticus caught him before he could fall, the two of them limping towards the sphere together despite the disparate paths that had brought them both here.

Lamont’s eyes burned on him when they passed.

“Ignore him,” Atticus whispered, and Orpheus obeyed.

They settled on opposite sides of the sphere, Atticus gathering the fallen tools while Orpheus picked up his grimoire to cradle it against his chest. When Atticus handed the tools to him, their fingers brushed and Atticus asked, “What else do you need?”

“For them to not be here.”