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“Darrow!” Thistle gasps. “What are you doing?”

“Shut up,” Sevro snaps.

“He can’t do that!” Thistle stomps forward and tries to rip the razor out of Ragnar’s hand. He doesn’t let go. “Give it up. Slave. Give me the blade.” She pulls her own razor out. “Give me the blade or I’ll cut away the hand that holds it.”

“Then I will cut you down, Thistle,” Sevro sneers.

“Sevro?” Thistle turns back to him, eyes wide. She looks at me, at the other Howlers who stand quiet, unsure of what just happened. “Have you gone mad? It’s not his right. It’s ours. He doesn’t …”

“Deserve it?” Sevro asks. “Who are you to decide that?”

“I’m a Gold!” she shrieks. “Clown, Pebble …”

Pebble remains silent. Clown tilts his head. “Darrow, what is this?”

“It’s my army,” I say. “You remember the Institute. You remember how I bleed for those who follow me. How I do not take the allegiance of slaves. Why now are you surprised by this? Because it is real?”

“It’s a slippery slope, is all.” Clown looks at the war around us. “Even here.”

“You’re right. It is.” I bend and find another razor cast in the mud. I toss this one to another of the Obsidians, a nasty-looking woman half my size. She holds it like it’s a snake, glancing up at me in fear. They are raised believing we are gods. To be given Thor’s hammer … how would I hold it? Sevro walks through the corpses and finds several more. He tosses these to the Obsidians.

“Don’t cut yourselves,” he says.

“I’m counting on you. Go,” I tell them. They disappear, sprinting into the swelling darkness toward back side of the colossal wall. I turn back to the Howlers. “Is there a problem?” They all shake their heads quickly, except Thistle.

“Thistle?” Sevro asks.

Clown nudges her. And grudgingly she shakes her head. “No problem.”

There is. She will not follow me after this. Already I feel my friends turning from me. And they know not even a fraction of the truth. That is a problem for another day.

We must move fast. But we only have one pair of functional gravBoots between us. I give those to Sevro. We try to see if he can lift us like I lifted the Howlers on Olympus, but as we load onto the boots in chains, they sputter and spark. Only able to carry his weight. Damaged somehow in the fighting and the rescue. Bloodydamn.

So it will be on foot. And we cannot be slowed.

I point to the recoilPlate of those lucky enough to have it after the starShell amputations. “Armor off.”

“What?” Thistle sputters.

“Armor. Off. Exc

ept scarabSkin.”

“Unarmored against Praetorians?” Thistle howls. “Do you want us all to die?”

“We need to move fast. If the shield goes down before we get to the Citadel, the Sovereign will slip away. If we do not capture her, she will have a chance to regroup. She will join her Ash Lord. She will summon all of the Society, and they will come here with ten times our number to crush us. We’ll win the battle, lose the war.”

“But if we take her …,” Sevro growls, coming to my side.

“We’re talking about the Sovereign,” Clown says. “She’ll have Olympic Knights. Praetorians …”

“And?” Sevro asks. “We have us.”

“Six of us.” Clown shrugs sheepishly when we stare at him. “I just thought someone should point it out.”

“We have fifteen kilometers to cover on foot,” I say. They nod. “My pace.” Then they exchange worried looks and start taking off their armor. “If you fall behind, find a place to hide.” One-third Earth grav. Bodies in prime shape. This will still be hard. Especially with my arm savaged by my own razor.

Sevro saddles up to me as the Howlers strip away their armor. I can hear their terror in the clinking of weapons and armor moved by shaking hands, see it in the frenzied way they then rub mud on their faces to blacken their aspects.