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I saw it unfolding in horrific slowness. Through the smoke, rooftops gave way.

The Crafters were losing.

“Hurry, miss!”

What use were shells and pistols and ticking mines against thousands of soldiers?

Kenton Hill couldn’t win. It was plain to see. Somewhere in the chaos, I saw Gunner’s arm swing wildly, a blade in his grasp. His eyes were deadened, his teeth gritted. I realized that he must have discerned, surely, that it was all hopeless.

But they would all keep fighting. The Miners Union would bleed themselves dry into the square to keep the Lords’ Army from filtering outward for as long they could. They would place themselves in the way of these soldiers and their families, their neighbors, and give them time to run. Many would make it to the tunnels, to safety.

That was all they could hope for now.

I saw Gunner’s head descend below the fray and let loose a sob. I prayed that Patrick was still in Baymouth, far away.

The doors to Margarite’s materialized through the smoke, its windows shattered, the strange wooden mannequins riddled through.

“Get inside, miss,” said the soldier at my back, his breath saturated in fear. In urgency. A stray bullet hit the last remaining window at our side.

But a different sound was growing. Something that quelled the booms and bangs of the square. It was enough to halt the scream of the artillery. I turned abruptly, as did every pair of eyes, and they each settled on a glinting wall of glass.

No, not glass. Water.

It grew and morphed into a monstrous mass above. Swallowing the rooftops to the south. Smothering the flames. Coursing closer at a tremendous speed.

And the men began to run. They ran to the perimeter of the square and curled their bodies like snails or else bashed at the confines that imprisoned them beneath this wave. It skirted the southern rooftops.

And I closed my eyes before the water hammered down.

For several manic moments, the only sound was a violent rush of water. It ripped the hand from my shoulder, knocked limbs in every direction. I was being carried, rolled, spun head over heel. I felt my bones strain against that which they collided with. And I only had enough sense to hold my breath. To shut my eyes.

I was discarded onto the cobbles. Limp, bruised, panting. The water dispersing supernaturally, as quickly as it had arrived.

I coughed among the cacophony of a thousand coughs, tried to make sense of that which had become senseless. I was dizzy. Displaced. There was a man lying across my stomach who I feared was dead. He did not flinch as I crawled out from under him. All around, soldiers and Crafters lifted their heads, peeled themselves off shop fronts and away from broken glass.

Through the square’s brick arch, three figures emerged.

I could have distinguished them in less favorable conditions. Even in the night, amid the haze of steam, I knew these men.

Patrick. Theodore. Donny.

Theodore walked forward on legs that looked unwilling, exhausted, but it was Patrick that I watched. He stalked to the middle of the square, his shoulder blooming red. And he stood alone.

Then, horrifyingly, he held a pistol to his own head.

There was sudden movement from my left, a man standing. Gunner. “Patty,” he called brokenly. Gunner held on to his stomach, where a wound bled profusely. He stumbled. “Patty, what’re you—”

Patrick looked once to Gunner, and his face crumpled slightly, but he looked quickly away. With a thunderous voice, he bellowed, “I am Patrick Colson, the last remainin’ Alchemist,” and he pulled from his pocket a black rock, no bigger than his palm.

More men stirred. Many in navy uniform stood unsteadily. They raised their weapons.

But the terranium rock was instantly recognizable. So coveted in recent months. It stayed them. Patrick let the rock rise from his fingertips, let it float high above them all, and pulverized it. It turned to powder and fell to Patrick’s feet.

The Lords’ infantry seemed to pause collectively. Barrel ends wavered. Soldiers looked warily to one another.

Patrick did not lower the pistol from his head. “If you leave this town now, with no further fight, I will go with you willingly.” His hand around the pistol tightened. “But if another bullet is fired at any man or woman of Kenton Hill, I will pull this trigger, and the water Charmer behind me will fill this entire square.”

“No,” I muttered, though I could not seem to fish oxygen from the air. I tried to rise to my feet, but there was a long cut on my thigh. It burned fiercely, and I stumbled. “NO!” I yelled.