Vera had been rushed into the Sanctorium, a frantic huddle of physicks and orderlies swarming her stretcher. Silas had hesitated at the entrance, staring lamely upward. A flag bearing the Imperial sigil clung to a pole atop the spire, its chaotic dance holding his gaze. At some point, he scratched his nose and noticed his gloves—crusted with blood. Vera's blood. The memory snapped back into focus, and Silas staggered inside.
He ran through murky corridors, chasing swaying shadows. Just in time, he rounded a corner to see Vera wheeled into the operating theater. Physicks murmured in low voices, nearly drowned out by the rasp of Vera's ventilator.
"Hemorrhaging."
"Pulse weakening—"
"Alchemical poisoning."
Silas halted before the doors, staring at the sign. An orderly quietly shut it and leaned against the frame, watching him with wide, fearful eyes. He blinked, stepping forward. The orderly blanched, so pale Silas feared she might faint. He backed away. She peeled herself off the door and fled, the tink-tink-tink of her hurried steps fading into silence.
He stared at those bold red letters until their scarlet hue blurred into the color of Vera's blood.
Silas wandered aimlessly, mind blank. His bootsteps echoed in the still halls. Where was the usual clamor of the Sanctorium? The hush was eerie after the chaos of the public address. His limbs tingled with paranoia, waiting for someone to leap from a corner—but no one came. Every person he passed treated him like the orderly had, shrinking away as if he were diseased.
He ducked into a washroom, checking first that it was empty. Standing before the mirror, he stared at his boots. His reflection scrutinized him mockingly.
What are you afraid of? it sneered.
Myself, he answered, lifting his gaze.
Dried blood streaked his nose and eyes, cascading down his chin and soaking into his coat. A dark stain spattered his torso—Vera's blood from when she fell onto him.
Silas stripped off his gloves and draped them over the washbasin. His hands were tacky with coagulating blood. He twisted the faucet and scrubbed until his palms stung, nails scraping stubborn residue. Crimson smeared away in sluggish trails, spiralling down the drain.
The stains clung to his clothes. He wrung his gloves beneath the faucet, then sank to the floor, scrubbing at his coat until soap slicked the tiles. Giving up, Silas sat back, arms around his knees. The stains seemed to protrude from the fabric, pointing like accusations.
Your fault, they whispered.
Silas clutched his notepad to his chest. It should have been me.
The memory replayed: Baron Dannel aiming. The ampule flying. Silas hesitating. Vera reacting. Falling—because of him.
Everything was his fault. The Foundry School was attacked because the Unspoken came for him. He'd fled from Echo, and his escape had sparked a battle that left innocents dead. Pa had nearly died—he might never wake again.
Silas thought of all the people touched by his existence. Ms. Adlewood—assigned his homeroom teacher because she knew sign language—dead because of him.
Even Vera's injury at 47 Brimthorne Lane—he'd blamed Ravelin, but that too was his doing. His power could control minds, but he barely understood it. He'd struck Vera at Coldspire, broken Oscar's nose in his pathetic struggle against the animals. Silas swallowed down the bile burning his throat. What he had done to the animals, he had nearly replicated with the crowd at the Foundry School.
Baron Dannel called me an aberration. He was right.
What purpose did Silas's life serve but to make others suffer? Halven Quirin had claimed he was meant to be a savior—but that role was stolen before he could claim it. Now he couldn't save anyone. Wherever he went, the path behind lay in ruin.
He gathered his damp garments and left the washroom.
The halls seemed longer now. Silas glanced through windows and open doors, spotting unfamiliar medical machinery and tanks that gurgled with alchemical remedies. Orderlies and physicks hastily turned away when Silas walked by. Visitors whispered—their derisive stares piercing through his soul. Nothing punctured deeper than the guilt shredding his heart.
Somehow, he found himself in Pa's room. He didn't remember walking there. Pa's hands were clasped in his. Silas sat beside the bed, watching the gentle rise and fall of his grandfather's chest. A new bandage circled his neck—clean, unbloodied. If not for the tubes, Silas could almost pretend he was sleeping.
The last time Silas saw him, Pa appeared on the verge of death—skin pale and clammy, lungs gasping for air. He was healthier now, but still wouldn't wake.
Silas's shoulders shook. I'm sorry, he thought, tears soaking Pa's blanket. This happened because of me.
"Dry your tears, my lad."
Silas gasped, his head snapping up. Pa smiled softly.
"I'm here now. I'll never leave your side again."
Silas blinked—and the vision vanished. Pa lay still, breathing slow and steady. The chair toppled as Silas jumped up, heart hammering. An orderly glared from her station. He bowed hastily, set the chair upright, and fled. As he ran, he tugged on his half-dry coat, pulling the hood over his eyes.
Silas flew down the stairs two at a time, heading to the lobby. He burst from the stairwell and wrenched the door open, not bothering to shut it behind him. Panting, he stood in the hallway. Something was wrong.
The air was too still, the quiet oppressive. Cautiously, Silas ambled to the lobby. He shuffled on the balls of his feet, afraid to make a sound. Holding his breath, Silas craned his neck around a bend in the corridor. The lobby was empty.
Silas exhaled, his heels hitting the ground. Where had everyone gone?
Word has spread, Silas thought, struck with realization. People were looking at me strangely, not because of my stained coat, but because they knew who I was. Silas shook his head, gaze on his feet. It's better this way. People are safer the farther they are from me.
Time lost its shape. Silas paced the halls, frequently returning to the doors of the operating theater. He didn't know how much time had passed. It felt like hours, but it could have been minutes stretched to distortion by the worry splitting his nerves. What was taking so long? Why had Vera yet to emerge from the operating theater? Silas froze. It couldn't be, could it? He wrapped his arms around himself. Vera couldn't be dead, could she?
Breathe in.
Silas choked down air. Vera's breathing exercise would steady him.
Hold.
His chest ached.
Breathe out.
The air wheezed from his lungs, catching in his throat.
Hold.
Tears welled. He hiccuped, struggling to swallow down a sob.
Silas sagged against the wall and sank to the floor. He drew his knees to his chest, his face buried in his lap. She's dead! She died saving me!
The operating theater doors flew wide. Silas startled. Unsteadily, he climbed to his feet. A group of orderlies wheeled a bed through the doors. A lone physick trailed out after them. Silas recognized the man—he had cared for Pa the night of the Foundry School attack.
The physick peered up from the clipboard he had been reading, his gaze locking on Silas. Silas's attention was fixed on the patient: chestnut hair, olive skin. Vera! He gripped the wall, dizzy with relief. She was alive!
The bed disappeared into a private room. The physick approached.
"You there, boy," he said. "Are you her charge?" He jerked his chin at the room Vera was settling into.
Silas nodded and hurried over to the physick, peering past him at Vera's still form. The orderlies were adjusting Vera's pillows, propping her head up. Something metallic glinted at her bedside before a blanket covered it.
"I am Dr. Lutheran Veyl." He extended a hand. Silas only stared until the physick dropped it awkwardly. "I'll be overseeing her convalescence. Would you like to hear her status?"
Silas nodded eagerly.
"She arrived in critical condition—shock ravaging her body. In truth, I doubted we could save her, but I never say no to a challenge." Dr. Veyl smiled savagely.
Silas grimaced. She's not some puzzle for your entertainment! he wished to say.
"The ampule penetrated her umbilicus," Dr. Veyl continued, gesturing absently at his abdomen. "Corrosive alchemy chewed through her small intestine, poisoning her peritoneum. This remains… problematic."
Silas's heart sank. He didn't know what a peritoneum was, but it didn't sound good for it to be poisoned.
"Yet, she lives—for now," Dr. Veyl continued. "Her wound is cleaned and closed, the corrosive purged. Her humors have been replaced. But the alchemical residue… it lingers in her veins. Until she wakes, we cannot know what damage remains."
Silas gaped at him. He fumbled for his notepad. Dr. Veyl watched him write, his eyes brightening in fascination.
"You don't speak, do you?" he whispered.
Silas paused, his eyes narrowing on the physick.
"My apologies," Dr. Veyl said quickly, adjusting his collar. "We've not met, but I've heard much about you from Archarbiter Sorne. If I recall, your name is Silas." The physick tried on an amiable grin.
The boy stiffened, his notepad brandished like it could protect him from the physick's words. A fearful squeak issued from his throat. What had the Archarbiter said when he interrupted Vera and Silas's discussion after 47 Brimthorne Lane? Silas closed his eyes, trying to remember. Sorne's words floated to the surface of his memories, bubbling up like starbloom oil. When the bubbles burst, he heard Sorne's words as clearly as when they were first spoken.
Dr. Lutheran Veyl at the Sanctorium expressed his interest in the boy when I stopped by… The good physick has several… scientific hypotheses that he would like to test.
Dr. Veyl tilted his head, considering the boy cowering in front of him. "You must be worried for her," he said mildly, his eyes flicking to Vera's room. "Go ahead—you may visit with her."
The physick turned and vanished into the operating theater, his white coat flowing behind him. Silas pocketed his notepad, his half-written question left unanswered. He needed to be careful around Dr. Veyl. The physick wanted something from him, and Silas feared that if he let him have his way, he'd wind up a laboratory specimen.
Worry about yourself later, he thought, chastising his selfishness. He gathered his courage, slapped his cheeks rousingly, and stepped into Vera's room.
He hesitated in the doorway. Vera had never looked so vulnerable—so weak. Her pale face was hidden beneath a mask, her breath fogging the pipe that trailed to a boxy contraption behind her bed. There was something like an accordion stuck within the box, contracting and expanding in time with her breaths. Tubes branched from her arms. One of them was connected to a red bag—Silas assumed it was delivering fresh humors.
He took a step forward. Something caught the light, shining into his eyes. He winced, squinting at the gleaming object fixed to the side of the bed. Moving closer, he leaned forward, craning for a better look. When he saw what it was, his legs turned to jelly. Collapsing into a chair, Silas stared, wishing his eyes were playing tricks on him like they did when he visited Pa. A manacle circled Vera's wrist, locking her to the rail on her bed.
After Vera took Silas by the hand and ran into the crowd, Sorne declared her a traitor. She was alive, but for how long? Treason meant execution. Silas covered his face with his hands.
Why? He peeked at Vera through his fingers. Why would you do this for me? We barely know each other. Silas pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes until color exploded behind his lids. I'm not worth your life.
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Silas sat with Vera, holding her hand. A window told the time—hours bleeding by until Dysol's light no longer brightened the room. In the darkness, Silas grew drowsy. His eyelids drooped, his head nodding. Each time he dozed off, he jolted awake a moment later, cursing at himself. Now's not the time for napping!
He stood and paced Vera's room to invigorate his leaden limbs. In his agitation, he began concocting a plan of his own. He needed to get Vera out of the Sanctorium. If she stayed here, the moment she recovered, she would be arrested and eventually hanged for her crime. But how could Silas move her? She was in too fragile a state for a reckless escape. And where was Oscar? Silas wished to speak with him, to figure something out. Did the Warden even know what had happened? Was he still at Crownhold, guarding Halven Quirin, waiting for Vera to come back? Or had he, too, been arrested for his part in Vera's escape plan?
A noise startled him. He whirled. An orderly stood beside Vera's bed, trembling.
"I-I'm just checking her vitals," she stammered, shaking fingers pressed to Vera's wrist, feeling her pulse.
Silas relaxed, his shoulders falling away from his ears. An awkward silence ensued. To break it, Silas reached for his notepad to inquire about Vera's condition. The orderly yelped and backed away like Silas had struck her. He raised his hands placatingly and turned around, his neck burning. Earlier, he told himself it was better that everyone feared him. But already, he was finding it difficult to handle the way strangers treated him like he was a monster. If it was already this bad in the Sanctorium, what would happen to him when he walked outside?
Silas stood still until he heard the orderly finish her check and exit the room. He slunk back to his chair and flopped into it. Thoughts reeling, he stared at the accordion in Vera's ventilator, trying to synchronize his breaths to its rhythm.
He must have fallen asleep. A sound pulled him from a dream that slipped from his memory before he could seize it. Someone was whispering his name.
"Si… ah… las."
Silas's head snapped up. He blinked, frantically scanning the room. Vera was watching him, her bleary eyes struggling to focus.
Silas lurched forward, his mouth falling open. He grabbed her hand. Her fingers weakly squeezed back.
"Wh-where… are we?" Slowly, her head shifted side to side.
Silas grabbed his notepad with his free hand. Suddenly, Vera gripped Silas's fingers so hard he cried out in surprise. Notepad forgotten, he glanced up, meeting Vera's wide, fearful gaze.
"Is this… the Sanctorium?" she asked between coughs.
Hesitantly, Silas nodded. Should he hail the orderly? He didn't like how worked up Vera was getting. What if she moved too fast and reopened her wound?
Her head thrashed. "No…" She began to cry, tears streaming down her face. "No, no, no, no, no. Silas… you must… go."
Silas shook his head, swallowing down the lump in his throat. Vera had never cried like this before. What had gotten into her? Why did she want him to go? How did she expect him to leave her alone like this?
Vera's hand shot out, catching the sleeve of Silas's coat. She pulled him close, her hands cupping his face. "Where is… Oscar?" she rasped.
Silas shrugged helplessly. Gently, he wiggled free from Vera's grasp and rested her hands on the bed. She reached again, her grip clamping over his wrist.
"You… shouldn't be… here," she insisted. She stared at Silas intently, eyes pleading. "Go with Oscar… Don't trust anyone else—"
She was overcome with a violent coughing fit. Silas rose from his chair. He needed to fetch an orderly. Vera must be delirious. If something wasn't done, she'd hurt herself.
"Please." She was sobbing now, hysterical.
Silas turned, studying her over his shoulder. He didn't know what to do. Vera sounded so genuine, so afraid for him. Maybe he should heed her advice after all.
"You must… leave. You… are… not safe… here." Vera's eyelids sagged, consciousness slipping. Her lips moved, but she was so quiet—her voice so faint—that Silas had to lean close to hear. "... For me. Please run… for me…"
Vera's hand went limp, her fingers releasing Silas's wrist. He stood there, frozen with indecision. What if he left, and something happened to her? Maybe the Archarbiter was waiting for Silas to leave so he could swoop in and arrest her? Silas thought back to Sorne's final words before he followed Vera into the boiler. He told Silas to follow Vera to the Sanctorium, but for what purpose? Maybe Vera was more lucid than Silas thought, and Sorne had a trap planted for him here.
Silas nodded to himself, pulled Vera's blanket to her chin, and dashed out of her room. He decided to trust her. Worst-case scenario, she was wrong, and no danger waited for him. In that case, he could simply return to her side and continue his vigil. Silas ignored the orderlies who fled from him as he barreled down the corridor. He found the stairwell and rushed to the ground floor, only tripping a few times in his haste.
The lobby was still unusually quiet. Silas shook his uneasiness away and marched toward the door. He was a step away—his hand reaching for the handle—when someone cleared their throat.
"Going somewhere, Silas?"
Like a phantom, Malrick Sorne rose from a chair and glided in front of the door. He smiled down at the boy, his expression burning with arrogance.
Silas trembled. His eyes flicked around, desperately searching for somewhere he could escape.
"Really, child, where did you intend to run?" Sorne cocked his head at the door. "The Empire knows your name, your face. Word of your inhuman power spreads like pestilence, infecting every mind in Brassanthium. You are feared. Hated. But by my side… tolerated."
Silas bit his lip, fighting back tears. He had cried enough today. In front of the Archarbiter, at least, he could not show weakness. Glaring, Silas took a step forward. Sorne arched his eyebrows, considering Silas with amusement.
"Vera can't protect you anymore. For her little rebellion, she will pay with her life." Sorne leaned forward, challenging Silas's glare. "She will be tried as a traitor and hanged publicly. As a treat, I'll let you watch when the time comes. Her death, at least, will be entertaining, even if her life lacked substance."
Sorne's head tilted back, and he laughed raucously. The sound echoed in the empty lobby, ringing in Silas's ears. The boy ground his teeth, shaking with fury.
"You belong to me now," Sorne murmured. His hand landed on Silas's shoulder. "Come along."
Silas backed away, hand diving into his pocket. Sorne's eyes narrowed, fingers curling around the hilt of his sword. Before he could draw the weapon, Silas grabbed his notepad and hurled it at Sorne's face. Without waiting to see if it struck, Silas whipped around and ran.
He didn't look back—even when Sorne cursed and gave chase. Silas didn't know where to go. This was only his second visit to the Sanctorium—he was still learning the building's layout. But Silas did know there was more than one way out. He just needed to find one of them before Sorne caught him.
Silas's legs burned. He wasn't athletically inclined and never felt motivated to participate in sports. Growing winded after a few minutes of running, he wished he had! He skirted around a corner—and crashed into a physick toting several glass jars. The jars slipped from the physick's arms, crashing to the ground. They shattered at Silas's feet, sticky syrups seeping toward his boots.
"Watch where you're going, twerp—" The physick froze, recognizing him. His fury curdled into fear.
Silas shuffled to the side and sprang forward. Sorry! he thought, risking a backward glance. The physick stared after him, his lips moving in a sputtered retort. That was when the Archarbiter rounded the corner. Silas spun around, pumping his arms, urging his legs to move faster.
"There's no use running!" Sorne shouted, unhurried. "You'll find that nowhere is safe except at my side."
Silas gulped down air. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't run any faster. In fact, he was flagging. Behind him, Sorne chuckled, slowing to a brisk walk, mocking Silas's sluggish pace.
Think! He burst into a stairwell and climbed one flight before slumping against the railing. Perspiration dripped into his eyes. There's nothing I can use as a weapon. With the back of his hand, Silas dabbed at his sweaty brow. His head swiveled left and right, searching for something, anything, he could defend himself with. He straightened, peering over the railing to watch Sorne enter the stairwell.
Unlike Silas, the Archarbiter was in top form. He didn't sweat. He wasn’t winded. He stood tall and strong, grinning up at Silas.
"This game of tag has been a pleasant distraction, but I think it's time we wrap this up." Sorne's grin fell. He planted his boot on the first step.
I don't need a weapon. Silas closed his eyes. My mind is enough.
Silas didn't really understand how his abilities worked. But he knew that he could wrap his emotions around words and fling them from his skull like projectiles. He tried that now.
At the Foundry School, his brain buzzed like it was storing static electricity. Silas thought back to how he felt when Vera was shot.
Fear. Despair. Anger. Guilt.
There!
It was faint, but a spark ignited in the center of his cranium. Concentrating, Silas cultivated it. The power surged, a tingly jolt shooting down his spine.
Sorne's hand clamped Silas's arm—
His eyes snapped open. With a growl, he wrenched his arm free.
Sorne's eyes glazed over. He reeled backwards on his heels, tottering over the stairwell. Silas pushed past him, scrambling back to the ground floor. Behind him, Sorne overbalanced, crashing down the stairs. He landed hard at the bottom and lay still. Silas didn't hesitate; he slammed the door shut and raced toward the lobby.
He didn't make it very far.
Sorne shakily rose to his feet, his eyes unfocused. He spat—bloody spittle stringing between his lips. Snarling, he kicked the door wide. "You dare use your vile tricks on me?" Mind clearing, Sorne glowered at Silas's retreating form. He then lunged forward, catching up to Silas in several leaping strides.
Sorne's legs swung low, knocking Silas's feet from under him. The boy staggered and—failing to regain his balance—sprawled to the floor. Sorne bent and collected the material of Silas's collar in his fist. Silas flailed, lifted into the air. His feet left the ground. He kicked weakly, his nails digging into Sorne's hand. When that failed, Silas unhinged his jaw and sank his teeth into Sorne's thumb.
The Archarbiter bellowed in pain and released the boy. Silas hit the ground running, swallowing down the ferrous taste of Sorne's blood.
Sorne unleashed a string of curses and hastened in pursuit.
Silas was crying now. He couldn't help it—he was so scared. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't escape from Sorne. And the man was angry. Silas had never seen his composure slip like this. Once Silas was caught, what would be the consequences of his insolence?
Hands grabbed Silas by the shoulders and spun him around.
"I've got you now, petulant cur," Sorne seethed, his thumbs digging into Silas's collar bones.
Silas reached for the crackling spark in his brain and charged it with his fear. The voltage spiked and discharged explosively.
Silas hit the Archarbiter with a zap of power. Sorne's hands fell to his sides, limp. Silas pitched back a step, barely staying on his feet. Something wasn't right. Swaying drunkenly, Silas stumbled to the wall. He licked his lips and tasted blood.
He was no longer in control of the power in his mind. It swelled beyond his ability to wield it—seeping from his brain like blood from a wound. A hot ache grew between his ears. Silas clutched his head. It felt like his brain was burning.
With a jolt, the Archarbiter regained his senses. He studied Silas, his lips curling into a sneer. "It appears that your power is finite. The physicks and logisters will challenge you to… map the bounds of your limits." Sorne frowned in mock concern. "Unfortunately, it seems their experiments will be uncomfortable for you."
Experiments? Silas pushed away from the wall. Unsteadily, he trudged toward the lobby, toward freedom. Is this what Vera was afraid of?
Sorne made to follow Silas, but he lost his balance and dropped to the floor. Shaking his head, he asked, "Is this your doing?" He tried climbing to his feet, but his knees gave out. "Cease this at once!"
I wish I knew how! Silas—wobbling—continued onward, trying to ignore the searing pain in his head. It hurts! It hurts!
He made it to the doors. Pitching forward, his arms flew out to brace his fall. The doors bucked outward at the force of his impact. On hands and knees, Silas crawled outside.
The nocturnal wind snapped at him, the bitter cold distracting him from the scorching pain in his head. After several tries, he forced himself to his feet and set off into the dark.
The doors banged open behind him.
Silas stifled a sob.
Slow bootsteps dragged in pursuit. Silas shrugged off the impulse to turn back. The pain between his ears gathered. His vision darkened, blurring with static. Suddenly, he was on the ground, dusty soil coating his tongue.
"Enough of this pathetic display," Sorne hissed. He towered above the boy, blinking hard to uncross his eyes. "Your feeble struggle will not liberate you from your fate."
Silas shook his head, using his arms to push himself into a seat. He stared down, watching blood rain onto his hands. It took him a moment to realize the blood was coming from him.
The Archarbiter scoffed. He unsheathed his sword. The blade quivered in his shaking hand, wavering above Silas's hairline. Silas's eyes traced the length of the blade to Sorne's face. His gaze met Sorne's cross-eyed stare.
With the last of his strength, Silas withdrew from the scene, attention inward. If he was to fall here, he would push Sorne down with him. Silas's concentration quelled the surge, regaining control over the power. The pain lessened—his senses cleared.
Silas cackled, his tears drying.
The Archarbiter's confidence slipped—then returned, grip steadying, eyes uncrossing. He thrust his blade at Silas's shoulder.
Silas smiled, blood staining his teeth.
The Archarbiter obeyed.
Jerkily, his blade rotated to face his belly. Sorne fought against Silas—muscles bulging, eyes protruding. Silas growled low in his throat, pushing with all his might.
Sorne stopped struggling. Blade level with his heart, he drew his arms in. Silas's attention was so focused on commanding Sorne he didn’t hear the boiler squeal to a stop behind him.
A woman emerged from the driver's seat. Her long dark hair fell to her tailbone, twisted in a neat braid. She was clad in Imperial red and gold, but her uniform was slightly different from those worn by Arbiters. A mosaic of chevrons above her heart flashed her advanced rank.
Sharp green eyes narrowed on Silas. In a single motion, the woman lunged forward, wrested Silas's arms behind him and knocked him down. His cheek slammed into the ground, concentration shattering.
Seconds before stabbing himself, Sorne gasped. His sword fell from his grip and landed with a poof of dust. He backed away, breathing hard, staring at Silas in disbelief.
From one of many sheathes fastened to her hip, the woman withdrew a narrow stiletto blade and pressed it to Silas's wrist. When he writhed, the blade nicked his skin. Warmth dripped down his arm, seeping into his palm.
Silas's wrists were bound with a pair of manacles. The woman dug her knee between Silas's shoulder blades. She leaned close, her lips brushing his ear.
"Behave, little wretch," she whispered, gaze flicking to Sorne. "I heard you don't speak." Her blade bit the knuckle of Silas's index finger.
He whimpered but remained still.
"You write instead, yes? Then, you'd struggle if you lost your hands." She leaned back, her knee still pressed firm. "Try your tricks again, and I'll start removing fingers."
Silas froze, a strangled cry stuck in his throat. The woman yanked him to his feet, chains wrapped around her arm. He stared at the ground, shaking with fright.
Scoffing, the woman said, "Malrick, this is unbecoming." She rattled Silas's chains. "How far have you fallen to be bested by a child?"
Sorne bent and resheathed his sword. Straightening, he smoothed the creases wrinkling his coat. "He is no ordinary child," he grunted, voice cracking.
Dr. Veyl crashed through the doors. He huffed and puffed, hands on his thighs. When he felt the weight of Sorne and the woman's eyes on him, he stood up and cleared his throat.
"Pardon the delay," he mumbled, averting his gaze when Silas glanced at him. "I needed to ensure everything was in order before my departure. I see you've collected the boy. Are we ready to leave?"
Silas was dragged to the boiler and thrown into the backseat. He sat up, the door slamming shut in his face. If the physick's out here, who's caring for Vera? Concern for her moistened Silas's eyes. He didn't bother trying to staunch the tears.
The woman coasted into the driver's seat, the Archarbiter sitting beside her. Dr. Veyl hesitated before the windshield—fidgeting with his collar—before clambering into the back with Silas. The boy gaped at him and slid as far to the left as he could, pressing himself against the door. Dr. Veyl flashed him a grin, his eyes shimmering with excitement.
The boiler gurgled to life. In silence, the woman maneuvered the vehicle away from the Sovereign Infirmary. Through the window, Silas watched the spire shrink below the horizon, replaced with the first flickers of dawn light. The night retreated, darkness fleeing behind the cover of thick, dusty clouds. Silas kept turning back, wondering if he would ever see Vera again. And if he did, would she even recognize what he had become?