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Here she gestures to me, and back into the room. “Everyone is—”

“Collectively about to implode. Holding on by our fingertips. But you. . .”

She makes a face like a disappointed grimace and spins back around. “But I’m worse. I’m slipping.”

I glance back at the room. “You’re handling it as well as anyone. That wasn’t what I was going to say.”

“No?”

“No.” I think about reaching out to her, and stop myself when she instinctively tenses. “What’s happening with Bellamy?”

A scoff, a muttered word I don’t quite catch. “He’s just an asshole.”

I press my lips together and think about what I want to say for a moment. Bellamy has always been impulsive. Capricious. A bit of pressure, or stress, and I think he could very easily slip into aggression. “What did he do to you?”

“Nothing,” she snaps. She spins back. “Really. Nothing. That’s what makes it all so awful: I suddenly can’t stand him. I can’t stand any of this. I can’t stand myself. Do you understand that? Something in my—my head, or my heart—it just wants to give up. I want to—I don’t think I can—”

In the last moments of her awareness, Victoria’s body carefully lowers her to the ground, where she promptly becomes hysterical. I go down with her. I notice her knuckles clenching, the grinding sound of gritted teeth, and I realise she’s trying to hold back.

“I thought,” she shakes her head; I let her cry into my shoulder. Her voice muffles and the tears soak through the fabric and I can hear her trying to speak, but it’s coming out choked and—

I hold her. I hold her and I rock her and I try to find a rhythm that feels safe and calming for the both of us.

It only takes a few moments before she swallows it. I know she has more tears to cry, but I equally understand there’s little point in shedding them. We have more trials to get through. More death to contend with. When she sits upright and dabs at her cheeks, I offer her my hand and we stand together.

We arrive back in the room just as the veil ripples and resolves into the Blood Hunter—and another.

“Really, the proper processes—”

“—both know there’s more to it than—”

“—not difficult to—oh.”

The Artificer—I assume that’s who she is—is not quite what I expected. She is tall and waifish with an anaemic wash over everything; her skin is bloodless, the warmth of her hair is washed away. Her eyes are the most troubling eyes I’ve ever seen. They are set deep in her head, and low, uniquely hooded; dull and hardened. She gives us all a once over and shifts, turning to the side, which only makes her body look even more insubstantial.

“You’re all here,” she says with pursed-up scrutiny.

The Blood Hunter clears his throat. “Right. Mr Jones, this is—”

“Don’t,” the Artificer snaps. “Don’t say my name. I was never fucking here, was I?”

She doesn’t wait for his reply, just walks over to his desk and sits herself on it. When a beat of silence passes, she starts gesturing impatiently to the lot of us. “Well?”

“Nemean Lion,” I say hurriedly, getting right to the point.

She sighs heavily, tries to catch the Blood Hunter’s eyes. “There’s no weapon that will—”

“Pierce its flank. I know. But we’re not trying to get through its flank,” I say. “Unless you have one of its own claws.” (She stares at me like I’m an idiot, but that’s how Hercules skinned it. Whatever). “I need to get into its mouth.”

She frowns, and says, “Letting it eat you is the easiest way,” and kicks off the table before I can say anything. There’s commotion on our side immediately.

“Hey—”

“What do you—”

And she’s ignoring us, murmuring something to the Blood Hunter, until all at once she’s yelling. “I can’t! God, I’m not an idiot. Every bullet has an artificer’s signature. They’ll know. Immediately, they’ll know.”

“Then tell us how you beat it,” Leo says.