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Their allies had come. Sofia didn’t know how many or what chance they even had at making a difference. But they were no longer alone.

“Vato—”

He cut her off before she finished, placing a hand on her shoulder. “I can lead them out to the rendezvous. We’ll have allies waiting there. Go. He might need your help killing the old man, and at least one of us will have the pleasure of watching that bastard die. We’ll be at the inn if you make it back to us.”

“If,” she said, a small smile on her lips. They both knew the odds of her making it to the rendezvous alive and in time to escape with all of them.

Vato pressed his lips together, clearly regretting the admission.

“Javi’s sister, Dia,” Sofia said, “she was in the prison before any of us. Can you get her out, too?”

Vato’s brows pinched together and he bit his lip. “She disappeared from the records last week while you were gone. I assumed she—I don’t think she’s still alive.”

A part of Sofia had known. Dia would have been thrown in with the rest of them if she’d been alive. But her chest ached with the realization that after everything—she’d been too late to stop the girl’s death.

The hot tears that burned her eyes didn’t fall, and she covered his hand with her own squeezing it lightly. “Get the rest of them out for me. No matter what.”

He nodded and turned, rallying their bedraggled group of prisoners-turned-warriors. Before Sofia ran off, Flor pushed forward, wrapping her in a tight hug.

“If you die, I’ll journey to the Depths and kill you again myself.”

Sofia tightened their hug, pressing her face into Flor’s shoulder for a moment, smelling the musk of her beneath the reek of prison.

“I love you, too,” she said when she was sure her voice wouldn’t crack.

“May the dragons be with you,” Flor said, pushing Sofia away, as if needing to force herself to let go. Sofia clenched her jaw, giving Flor once last glance before she turned and ran.

CHAPTERFORTY-EIGHT

FOX

Fox followed his father’s path. He knew where he’d be going—the tunnel that cut directly from the prison to the chief commander’s basement. It was narrow and dark, but it was the most direct route to the chief commander’s home. So Fox ran, ignoring the looks of the other guards and prisoners as he passed. No one stopped him, word of his betrayal still held secret with his father. But it wouldn’t last for long.

Just as he was turning the corner to begin the descent down to the tunnel, the ground shook beneath his feet. He paused, ears straining. There was some yelling and then he heard another explosion, echoing in the night outside the prison. Help had come for the resistance. He smiled.

But it didn’t change his mission. His father couldn’t get away.

Fox knew when he came to the passage and heard only the faintest whisper of steps ahead of him that his father had slowed down. He hadn’t had his cane with him and his old injury was probably flaring up. Fox kept running, thankful for his time trudging through the forest. He was confident in the dark, not worried about his feet stumbling over the uneven stones beneath him. He’d run through worse.

Even in the darkness with the sound of his footsteps echoing in his own ears, he could tell he was catching up. Just another minute. He pulled his sword as he burst through the door at the end of the hall. The light of a line of torches blinded him. He skidded to a halt, blinking against the brightness and trying to understand which way his father had gone.

Before he could regain his sight, the whistle of wind against his right side told him exactly where his father was.

He swallowed back a scream as his body jerked and he fell, something cold and iron cracking against his shoulder. He rolled to the side in time for the iron to crash down onto the stone where he’d just been. He scrambled, pushing against the nearby wall and using it to pull himself up even as his body protested. He held his blade in front of him, despite the quaver in his arms. His father held the branding iron from the chief commander’s personal interrogation room, wielding it like a sword.

As his father lunged forward, Fox’s arm swung of its own accord, his blade stopping the rod mid-swing. He used the wall behind him, leveraging himself forward to push his father back a few steps.

Fox smiled as his father stumbled back. He was weaker than Fox remembered—his swings slower.

“You won’t win, Father,” he said, savoring the flash of anger in his father’s eyes.

“You’ve never won a fight against me,” his father hissed. “The chief commander can give you as many polished badges as he wants, but you’ve always been useless.”

He lunged forward and Fox parried, but the action sent him sideways and away from the wall. Their feet moved in a familiar dance. It had been cycles since he’d dueled his father, cycles since his father had made him bleed. But the last time they’d fought, Fox hadn’t been trained. He hadn’t spent the past cycles in the military becoming the best soldier he could be.

“You doubt the chief commander’s choices? How brazen can you be,General.” Fox spit the words out like a curse. “Perhaps that’s why the chief commander has always refused to retire or name you as his successor.”

“This has nothing to do with that,” his father snapped.