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I rouse sometime the next day, in my apartment, on my cot. Afternoon, judging by the sunlight prodding my little window. Ritha sews beside me. My chest feels like an anvil compresses it. Ritha hears me and lifts my head, offering water. It tastes strange. She’s put something in it.

“I know what you did,” Ritha says, feeling my neck. “Don’t do it again. Your heart can’t take it.”

My heart. I press my hand to it. It smells like lavender.

“No monsters and no exercise for at least a week. It’s like Wiln all over again.”

I lay my head back. “What happened to Wiln?”

She tells me a story about the clockmaker’s uneven heartbeat, how it seized on him once. He nearly lost his life. Did I nearly lose mine?

I swallow. “Is Azmar still in the infirmary?”

Ritha’s lips pinch together. “I don’t know, Lark.”

“Perg?”

“I don’t know.”

“Unach?”

Ritha opens her mouth, hesitates. “She was here last night. I know she’s not in the infirmary, nor with the scouts.”

Scouts.“The war ...?”

“Over, for now.” She gathers up her sewing materials. “The monsters fled. Trampled. Devoured, then scuttled back into the darkness. The trollis won the war without ever leaving the city.” She shakes herhead and clucks her tongue, as if she doesn’t believe her own tale. “Now rest.”

“Ritha.” I point to the almanac on my small table. “Would you return that to Wiln for me?”

Ritha picks up the almanac and turns it over in her hands. Tilts her head in farewell.

She departs, and I fall asleep for a time. I wake a few hours later with a sore back and, one vertebra at a time, sit up. That ache still pulses in my chest, but it’s softer now. Ignorable, with the right distraction.

Taking my time, I rise from the bed. My stomach growls. I find a floral disk on my little table and chew on it as I slip into the corridor. I keep one hand on the wall to steady myself and wait for the lift, unwilling to attempt any ladders. I’m nearly to the trade works when a familiar face crosses my path. I halt immediately, my chest aching anew as my pulse speeds.

Agga, from the council. She’s broad and tall and looks at me with a narrow gaze. Hugging the wall, I lower my head.

“Good to see you finally, Lark.” She sounds exhausted and waves a hand. “There’s too much to do to keep up with the formalities.”

Hesitant, I meet her gaze. I’ve never been this close to her before, and I can’t help but gape at her sleeve. She might boast even more turquoise beads than Qequan.

“We know your information was true.” She waves her hand again, as though it’s inconsequential. “And, of course, we know only one person could have flooded our lands with creatures from the deep to drive off the humans. That noted, you may stay.”

Air floods me. I bow my head again. “Thank you, my lady.”

She scoffs. “Do not assign your human terms to me, child.”

“My apologies.” Agga begins to move past me, finished with our conversation. “Supra?”

She gestures impatiently.

“What about Azmar 937?”

Her wide lips turn downward. “He knows the consequences.”

She leaves then, the train of her robe dragging behind her. I watch her go as I lean against a chiseled stone pillar. When I finally push away, another trollis hurries to me. He’s a youth, a couple of inches shorter than myself, with broad shoulders and an abnormally thin waist.

“Lark?” He studies me with a sliver of skepticism.