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Then I am left alone.

I smoke my cigarette down to its burning end in the span of a minute and a half, and it’s still not enough to quell the anxiety and a broiling panic that’s threatening to overwhelm me.

Part of me wants to sleep, but that part of me is a fool. There’s no time. No time.

The final trial is nearly upon me. And so is God’s judgement.

26

LESSON TWENTY-SIX

The apartments are empty when I finally manage to dress myself. My new fingers are confusing; they work but without the tactility, I’m still clumsy. My reflection remains a bane, too; I tried not to look at myself as I dressed, in case I was overwhelmed by this new human staring at back me. And then came the effort of hyping myself up to leave the room itself, hand poised over the doorknob, my mind going, Cassius, come on, for God’s sake.

After all that no one is around to inspect me.

Outside, I hear collective chatter. Around the corner of the west tower apartments are people. A whole swathe of them. There is more activity than I have ever seen in the yard. It seems everyone who is still alive is packed onto the grass to train. Everyone is physically sparring, or drilling—I don’t know which teras they expect to battle in hand-to-hand combat, but I understand the horror of sitting still and waiting. It feels better to train for some impossibility than sit impotently in wait.

I walk past them, thinking: I need to get away from here. I feel exposed. To my right, a table has been set up for food, since the hall is likely still being scrubbed clean of blood and guts. I make the mistake of veering towards it for a simple meal of bread and butter—my stomach is desperate, I’ve barely eaten in days—but, God, I feel like I shouldn’t be here. That I am not wanted. And sure enough, the moment I go to reach for food, everyone else around the table scatters.

Something curious happens then, a kind of alarm ringing out in the shared consciousness that makes everyone turn their eyes to me. And I can smell it, what I am to them; what I have done holds a contagious power, a pollution seeping through my pores. Everyone is careful around me. In five days, I don’t know what kind of mythology has been conjured for me. But the miasma is unavoidable, and my colleagues are Erinyes circling. I wait for them to pass judgement. But no one says anything. They just stare, and that is somehow worse.

I grab the bread and leave, not bothering to scan this crowd for the one person I hope to see.

Thaddeus would be proud. That night we found the hybrid he told me: If you’ve managed to kill one, that’s the kind of reputation you want to spread.

Well, how about now? What kind of reputation am I spreading?

And for the first time in what feels like months I recall Thaddeus’ letter. It said:

2. Use for trials 2, 4. Library in centre. Massive willow. Courtyard. Meléti helps for a price. Dead: 1

Trial four.

By now I know my brother does not know everything, and I’ll never know why he burned away the rest of his note. But where else am I meant to go? Meléti may tell me nothing, but maybe destiny is on my side. I am like my colleagues drilling uselessly on the grass. Moving feels better than staying still, so I move.

I inevitably have to pass by the chapel. Surprisingly it’s busy. The priest is leading ten-odd people in prayer. Seeing them all bowed before the scylla is something I can’t handle today; I have already sacrificed my arm to a teras. I don’t have the stomach to pray near one.

Perhaps the loss of my arm is punishment for what Leo and I did in there.

(Maybe it was worth it.)

The courtyard is empty, still, and I don’t know if that’s because no one has found it, or because it feels distinct from the area the dean introduced us to. The only people here are the ones the back of my mind was expecting. Leo, Fred, and Silas stand beneath the willow. Victoria is nowhere to be seen.

The trio speak in hushed whispers, but they’re animated. I don’t know what they’re discussing but I can guess. What else is there to talk about these days? They haven’t seen me, so I watch Fred shove a finger against Leo’s chest, then the same one into her brother’s. For whatever reason, Leo is compelled to look up. Drawn to me, maybe, the way I’m drawn to him.

Better stop thinking like that, Cass. It’ll hurt too much when it ends.

“Cass?” Leo calls. The Lins see me, make eye contact with one another, and wordlessly peel away.

“Wait,” I call. “Fred—Silas—I wanted to—”

“Glad you’re alright,” Silas cuts me off. Fred stares down at her feet and eventually concedes.

She steps forward, hesitating, and whispers, “I would have done it, too.”

But even with that collaborating whisper, she won’t stay. She takes Silas by the arm—he gives me a weak smile—and stalks off.

I stare after them, unsure what to do. We were never close, but I’m close with so few that I feel the strain acutely. And what did I do to earn the ire? Is it Bellamy? Does Fred see how I am at once lauded and feared and think: God, I’m glad no one was paying attention in that hall? God, I’m glad only a few people saw me sacrifice an entire table?