True to his word, Dr. Korrel arrived at dawn to retrieve Silas. The boy recoiled, startled when the lock clicked open. Dr. Veyl followed, pausing when he saw Silas huddled on the cold floor. He looked like he wanted to say something, but kept glancing at Dr. Korrel, swallowing whatever he meant to say. Silas couldn't see any Guards, but he knew they lingered beyond the doorway. His shoulders hunched, breath catching as he fought to steady himself. He worried Ilyra was among them, ready to strike at the slightest emotional slip.

  Calm down! Silas forced slow breaths. If he panicked, he'd never write or sign again.

  "Get up," Dr. Korrel ordered, looming over him.

  Silas gathered his scant courage and lurched to his feet. Dr. Korrel jerked his head toward the door, where Dr. Veyl waited, offering Silas a tentative smile. Silas ignored it, keeping his eyes on the ground as he exited his cell.

  Guards clustered around the doorway, sealing off every path. It wasn't necessary; Silas was imprisoned by fear alone.

  When Dr. Korrel stepped forward, the armed retinue parted. Silas and Dr. Veyl followed at the logister's heels—the Guards forming a semi-circle behind them.

  "Are you alright, lad?" Dr. Veyl whispered, tugging at his collar. "Does your finger hurt?"

  As a matter of fact, it did. But the throbbing digit was the least of Silas's concerns. Bare feet slapping against the unforgiving tile, Silas was guided deep into Garrison Mordant's logics wing, wondering what flavor of torment awaited him today.

  He racked his brain, trying to remember what Dr. Korrel told him yesterday. The memory was submerged under thick desolamine fog, the drug addling recollection. The first phase was something about measuring my 'psionic capabilities.' What does that mean? Silas stared at Dr. Korrel's back, lost in the soft swish of his white coat.

  Shivering, Silas drew his arms close, trying to coax warmth into his skin. A frigid mist percolated the corridors, exuding from cracks in the walls and ceiling. Silas's flimsy gown provided no shelter from the inclement atmosphere. He wished he'd wrapped himself in his bed’s sheet before stepping into the hallway. At the very least, the gossamer linen would have covered his bare arms and legs.

  They came to a bolted door. Dr. Korrel unlocked it with a key from his white coat. He then vanished into the hallway beyond, the door swinging shut behind him. Dr. Veyl ushered Silas inside, holding the door for him. Silas hesitated—paralyzed by dread. He had a strong suspicion that if he relaxed his knees, his trembling legs would fail him.

  "Go on," the physick said, beckoning him forward. "I'll be right behind you."

  Carefully, Silas loosened his joints, swung his right leg forward, and planted his foot on the other side of the door. When the leg held, he moved the rest of the way, swiveling around when the door slammed behind him. Dr. Veyl locked it—leaving the Guards outside. Silas stared at the physick, confusion giving way to fear.

  Why do they linger behind? A knot tightened in his gut, nausea rising. Is there something lurking in here that they don't want breaking free?

  "It's alright." Dr. Veyl reached out a hand, then froze. He dropped it to his side and began walking. Over his shoulder, he added, "This is merely a separate wing. There's nothing to fear."

  Easy for you to say. Silas begrudgingly followed, feeling claustrophobic in the narrow, sterile hallway. You're not the one who's about to be experimented on.

  The long tunnel opened into an empty hall. Doors branching to unguessable destinations were scattered along the walls, spaced evenly from each other. Silas stopped, head whipping around to take it all in. The physick kept moving, only turning back when he held open a door for the boy who was no longer at his side.

  "This way!" Dr. Veyl called, his voice bouncing along the tiled floors and glistening walls. "We're almost there!"

  Silas grunted. He hastened after the physick, his feet drumming an indignant beat as he stomped through the doorway.

  Great. Another narrow hallway. Silas scowled, his jaw tightening. At this point, he stopped worrying about his emotions seeping out. Let them. Ilyra can have my hands. I don't care anymore.

  

  Silas's head snapped to the right, a gasp escaping his mouth. His hands flew to his temples as he backed away, crashing into Dr. Veyl. The physick cried out in surprise and whirled around. He brandished a key—the door behind him still unlocked.

  "You hear it already? Astounding." Door forgotten, Dr. Veyl switched the key for his notepad, scribbling down observations. "Your senses are even more heightened than I originally hypothesized."

  Silas let go of his head and fearfully looked up at the physick. They brought an Unspoken in here? he thought, disbelieving. Panicked, Silas shoved the physick aside, reaching for the door handle. I have to get out of here. I have to—

  Dr. Veyl grabbed Silas's good hand and spun him around. Silas was about to break free, but one look at the physick's face made him reconsider. Eyebrows lowered, bottom lip quivering—Dr. Veyl was pleading.

  "Please, Silas," he whispered, letting go of the boy's wrist. "Please, come with me. I don't want to have to bring the Guards in. Neither one of us wants that." His eyes slid down to Silas's bandaged hand.

  Silas sighed. How he wished he could ask the physick what awaited him! He nodded and shuffled away from the door. Dr. Veyl beamed.

  At the end of this corridor was yet another door. Silas shifted his weight impatiently as Dr. Veyl stooped to unlock it. Silas felt like he was trapped in one of those wooden dolls that nested inside each other, getting smaller and smaller until only a tiny nub remained in the center. How many more corridors would he need to walk down? How many more times would Dr. Veyl's nervous hands drop the key? Silas nearly snatched the key himself when—with an ominous creak—the door opened from the other side.

  Dr. Korrel stood in the entryway, arching his eyebrows. Dr. Veyl fumbled with his key, finally slipping it into his pocket.

  "T-thank you, Dr. Korrel…" he said with an awkward chuckle, wringing his hands. "Slippery little things, those keys are, eh?"

  Dr. Korrel said nothing. He glided into the darkness, propping the door ajar with his foot.

  Wait, darkness?

  Silas craned his neck, squinting into the gloom. Every other room and hallway in the logics wing was blindingly illuminated, starbloom lanterns cranked to maximum volume. Silas swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. The shadows flitted, indistinct shapes drifting in the murk.

  Anything could be hiding in there.

  As if in answer to his thought, the Voice spoke up again, louder this time—more distinct.

  ? it said.

  Silas flinched. Now, the sound came from his left. Was the Unspoken moving? Is that why it sounded clearer? Before, it was garbled, barely decipherable. Now, it was distinct, almost as loud as if it had spoken into Silas's ear. But there was still something off—a low hiss that softened the sound, making it subtly distorted. Silas clenched a fist in conviction. He decided to answer it.

   he asked, his eyes flicking left and right.

  There was no response for several moments. Silas relaxed, shoulders falling away from ears. The physick and logister were staring at him, watching his every move. Dr. Veyl wrote furiously, his attention popping up to look at Silas, then falling down to scratch out another note. Dr. Korrel's stolid expression betrayed nothing, but his piercing eyes flickered every time the boy shifted.

  Without warning, Silas was hit by a surge of noise. It crashed against him, impossibly loud. He couldn't make sense of it. Silas staggered to the wall and sank down. He folded in on himself, pressing his forehead to his arms.

   Silas begged, gritting his teeth.

  Silence. Then, more muffled, chaotic rambles. But it was quieter this time, more bearable. Silas lifted his head. Dr. Veyl was looking down at him, his notepad nowhere in sight.

  He held out a hand. "What's wrong? Is it too loud?"

  Silas strained, trying to understand. The physick's words were shrouded by the Unspoken's Voice, so quiet Silas had to read his lips to comprehend. He nodded and accepted the hand, the clamor finally softening.

  Silas allowed himself to be pulled to his feet. Dr. Korrel still hovered in the doorway, his mouth pinched. Finally moving into the corridor, the logister leaned close to Dr. Veyl and whispered something into his ear, eyes trained on Silas. The physick frowned but held his tongue.

  Dr. Korrel approached the boy. He opened his mouth, but before he could speak, Silas was once again alerted to a Voice only he could hear.

   it said, clear as ice melt.

   Silas answered, gaze on the ceiling. He didn't know why his eyes drifted there. The Voice no longer had a direction. He simply found himself looking up.

  

  Silas blinked. Echo had said the same thing. What else did it say? Something about wanting to "fix" Silas?

   He remembered Echo saying his strange Voice is what drew it to him. His lips parted, realization dawning.

  Is that why carrion wolves and the like are attracted to me?

  

  With a shrill whistle, the Voice cut off. Silas whipped around, scanning his surroundings like he would find it somewhere nearby.

   he said, but there was no answer.

  "Enough of that for now," Dr. Korrel said, clamping a hand over Silas's forearm. The boy shook off the touch.

  "You've wasted enough time already." The logister turned sharply and disappeared into the dark corridor. "There will be an opportunity for more… psionic projections shortly." His body was hidden, but his voice slipped hauntingly from the darkness.

  "We're almost there," Dr. Veyl said and ushered Silas along with a nudge to his back.

  Silas stood in a dimly lit chamber, staring in horror at what lay before him. Trembling, he looked to Dr. Veyl for reassurance, but the physick was behind him, blocking the door in case he tried to flee. Silas was seriously considering it before he saw who was in the chamber, flanking a lone chair. Malrick Sorne and Ilyra Curne stood rigid, chins raised, hands behind their backs. They studied Silas, ready to pounce the moment he made a move. The chair they framed looked like a torture device. Its sturdy metal armrests were looped with restraints to hold the sitter's wrists. The legs had similar fastenings for the ankles. And the headrest—cushioned not for comfort but for confinement—had a strap to fasten around the forehead.

  The chamber was large, but its scope was obscured by impenetrable shadow. Silas could hear mechanical whirring and clicking emanating from the darkness, but he couldn't see what produced the sound. There were black cords strewn about the tiled floor, connected to machines both visible and not. Silas had never seen such contraptions. They towered above him, affixed to the walls. The wall Silas faced had a rectangular mirror-like object attached to it. An unfamiliar symbol floated in straight paths across its surface, bouncing back when it hit the edges. Silas followed the meandering symbol with his gaze, using it to calm himself. He couldn't look at the chair or the people guarding it. Worse was the machine beside it; a tall, boxy contraption with a shiny mirror that was black and lifeless. Why didn't this mirror have the bouncing symbol? Why did a series of wires branch from it and drape over the top of the chair? Why did these machines feel similar to the cryogenic suspension chambers at Coldspire?

  Dr. Korrel—who had been hovering at Silas's side—pushed him toward the chair. Silas dug in his heels and shook his head forcefully. The logister glanced at Sorne and Ilyra. When they took a step forward, Silas shuffled a step back. His breath came in shallow, rapid gasps. Where had all the air gone? Ilyra's hand inched toward one of her sheaths. Silas whimpered.

  "Lad, it's not as bad as it looks," said Dr. Veyl with a gentle smile. "You can trust me, I promise."

  But I don't trust you! Silas wanted to scream in his face and run, never looking back. But Ilyra was almost upon him. Silas clenched his good hand into a fist and tried to compose himself. He sucked in a shuddering breath and held it, commanding his heart to slow.

  Slipping out a blade, Ilyra lunged at Silas. With surprising agility, he sidestepped her advance and casually strolled to the chair. Right before he sat, he risked a peek into the darkness beyond. What he saw made him pause.

  Elsbeth Ravelin lurked in the shadows, a tight bandage circling her head. She glared at him, shaking with unrestrained fury.

  Where did she get that injury? Silas wondered absently, turning around to seat himself.

  The moment his rear hit the cold chair, a huddle of white coats materialized from the darkness. They tightened the restraints around Silas's wrists and ankles. He yelped when a strap pressed against his injured finger. The white coats ignored his distress and moved on to his head.

  Silas was forced to tilt his head back so his neck and skull were snug against the headrest. He began trembling again. Closing his eyes, Silas focused on calming his nerves. It was easier to do when he couldn't see the way the room's occupants watched him with clinical curiosity. Silas didn’t feel like a person—he felt like a specimen.

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  Something cold and sticky was pressed to Silas's temple. His eyes flew open and he flailed, trying to shake it off. The restraints held firm. Was it Silas's imagination, or did they dig into his skin deeper the more he struggled?

  Other sticky things were adhered to Silas's forehead, jaw, and even scalp. Through his peripheral vision, he saw white coats adjusting the boxy machine. The sticky pads protruded from the wires attached to its mirror. Silas wanted to cry, but he bit his tongue to hold in the tears.

  What is that thing? What's it going to do to me?

  Dr. Veyl was beside Silas's chair. He knelt down and whispered, "Everything will be okay. This device measures—"

  "Silence," Dr. Korrel barked from somewhere to Silas's right. "You are here to observe, not narrate."

  Dr. Veyl's sputtered reply was muzzled when Ilyra loudly cleared her throat. The physick laughed nervously and fidgeted with his collar, defeat written between his brows.

  Dr. Korrel flipped a switch on the boxy machine, and the mirror came to life. The sticky pads tingled, making Silas's cheeks spasm. From the corner of his eye, he watched jagged lines drag across the mirror. The lines sharply went up, then dropped down—ascending and descending in jerky, erratic patterns. When they reached the far right side of the mirror, the machine made a grinding noise, and spat out a piece of parchment. It was a print—a perfect copy of the lines on the mirror. Silas stared, marveling at the technology. The printing presses he knew of could only type words, not shapes. And it was a slow, arduous process to print a single document. Was this machine new—something the Empire hadn't yet revealed to the public?

  The white coats murmured, fluttering about the machine. They conversed in low, hurried tones, exchanging notes and pointing at the zig-zagging lines. A particular line near the bottom was especially exciting to them. Silas didn't understand why; to him, it looked the same as the others.

  This went on for a while. Silas fixed his eyes on the door. To keep himself occupied, he imagined the experiment concluding and being guided back to his cell, away from these strangers and their even stranger technology.

  Dr. Veyl didn't lie, he thought, easing into the chair. This isn't so bad after all.

  That's when he heard it. It was the same Unspoken as before—its Voice growing precipitously louder. Silas stiffened, his heart fluttering. Where was it coming from? Was it hiding somewhere in the chamber?

  The moment Silas perceived the Voice, the white coats went into a frenzy. The single line they were infatuated with soared—spiking so high it cut through the others. The mirror's persistent hum evolved into a buzzing crescendo. The response perturbed Silas; it personified the machine, giving the impression that it was alive.

  "I was right," Dr. Veyl breathed. He laughed, softly at first, but his chuckles soon grew into a manic roar.

  "I was right!" he shouted, grabbing the white coat nearest him.

  She exclaimed in joy and looped her arms around his neck. Together, they hopped about the chamber in unadulterated euphoria—waltzing a jubilant meter.

  Silas cringed. Right about what?

  The Voice swelled. Silas pulled against the restraints, wishing he could cover his ears. It sounded hysterical, desperate. Silas couldn't make sense of what it was saying. He was about to ask it what was wrong when the door flung open, and a horde of Guards rushed inside. Air caught in Silas's throat. In the center of the throng, heavily shackled and tugged along by chains, was a lone Unspoken.

  A Guardsman forced the creature to its… knees, perhaps? Silas wasn't aware of the correct anatomical terminology. A jarring clang issued from the floor when the Unspoken's chains dragged across the tiles. Ilyra stalked toward the creature. When it saw her, it winced and then dropped its head, cowering. Silas clenched his teeth. The Voice in his head was so loud it hurt. It sounded like the Unspoken was screaming at the top of its lungs, crying for mercy.

  The buzzing mirror shrieked, then shut off. It coughed out smoke that smelled like burnt hair. Silas scrunched his nose against the caustic odor. The white coats cursed and swarmed the machine, trying to fix it.

  "I'll hail the machinists!" one of them said and scurried out of the chamber.

  Ilyra lodged a blade beneath the Unspoken's articulated neck—prying open the creature's exoskeleton. It howled in pain, but only Silas could hear it.

   Silas begged.

  The Unspoken jerked its head up.

   Silas said.

  The boy and aberration locked eyes.

  Everyone froze.

  The Unspoken's vestigial mouth quivered. Its black, compound eyes lacked lids, but Silas swore he saw them open a fraction wider.

   The Unspoken leaned forward, ignoring the blade that sliced deeper.

   Silas laughed softly. This is absurd, he thought with a smirk.

  Silas heard a grating rumble. The Unspoken's shoulders shook. Was that… laughter?

   it said, the rumble simmering down.

  Silas's brow creased.

  More rumbling.

  Silas thought for a moment. Was this what they meant when they said he sounded unwhole?

  "Where are the machinists?" Dr. Korrel demanded, glaring at the door. "I'll go find one myself," he huffed and exited, shoving past the Guards and Unspoken.

   The Unspoken cocked its head.

  Ilyra seized her blade and tore it from the Unspoken's neck with a wet squelch. Sticky green hemolymph oozed from the resulting hole, dripping onto the floor. Silas grimaced in sympathy, but the creature didn't cry out. At least, Silas didn't hear it.

  "Cease this." Ilyra wiped her blade on her trousers. She then pointed it at Silas. "Whatever exchange you two are having ends now."

  The door burst open. Dr. Korrel and the white coat that left earlier hurried inside, a young woman filing in behind them. She was carrying a heavy-looking box by a precariously thin handle. Avoiding Silas's gaze, she rushed to the smoldering machine and got to work, popping open her box, laying tools down on the tiles.

  Silas couldn't see all that she was doing, but she started hammering and screwing at the machine, freeing a hatch that revealed its inner workings. A tangle of wires spilled out. In the meantime, Ilyra was threatening the Unspoken with a series of blades.

  "You understand me, don't you, heathen?" she said.

  The Unspoken did nothing outwardly. To Silas, it said,

  Silas tried to nod, then remembered his restraints. He wiggled and made a few noises to get Ilyra's attention. Once she was looking at him, he bobbed his head up and down as much as he could, flicking his eyes at the Unspoken. She pulled a new blade from her hip, slowly to savor the metallic sound of it unsheathing.

  "Good. At my command, you are to attack the boy with your… psionic abilities or whatever they're called." She drove a blade into the Unspoken's thorax for emphasis. "Hit him with everything you have. Try to kill him like your life depends on it, because it does."

  Cold sweat dripped into Silas's eyes.

  "If you fail to obey me, creature, you know what happens." Ilyra yanked the blade out, spilling more hemolymph.

   Silas begged,

  Silas didn't realize the Archarbiter was now near him. When Sorne spoke into his ear, he jumped in surprise.

  "The same applies to you. You are to fight back and win." Silas couldn't see him, but he could hear the smile in his voice. "It's not just your life on the line."

  Silas's shoulders trembled, his mind drawing him back to 47 Brimthorne Lane. The pain. The fight. Vera's injury. Ravelin's behavior. Killing the Unspoken. Breath rattled in Silas's chest, terror arresting his lungs.

  The machinist stepped in front of him. She peeled two of the sticky pads off his head and examined them.

  "I believe I can make a temporary adjustment for now," she said, kneeling again to pick up a tool. "But before the next session, you must let me design new electrodes for his temples. The current ones are too sensitive—he's overheating the machine."

  "Do what you must," Dr. Korrel said from somewhere behind Silas.

  His throat tightened. Next session? How many more of these will there be?

  "Begin!" Ilyra declared and stood, a blade poised above the Unspoken's cranium.

  Silas begged.

   the Unspoken said gently.

  It attacked.

  Silas's back arched, his eyes rolling up. He screamed and thrashed, restraints bruising his skin. Dimly, he felt the sticky pads be reapplied to his head, followed by mechanical humming. Tears—or blood—ran down his face.

  Silas didn't fight back. He didn't want to kill this Unspoken. There were so many things he wanted to ask it. Besides, it was a living, sentient being. Killing it would be murder. He couldn't bring himself to do it.

  The attack eased up. Silas slumped in the chair, breathing hard. It was so dark he couldn't see. When his lids twitched, he realized his eyes had been closed the whole time.

  "Why did you stop?" Ilyra said from so far away Silas could hardly hear her. "Have I not made myself clear?"

   The Unspoken sounded strained, like it was out of breath.

  It attacked again.

  Silas convulsed. His scream came out as a strangled gurgle, foam gathering at the corners of his mouth.

  "Stop this!" Dr. Veyl cried. "You're killing him."

  "That's the point," said Dr. Korrel. "Shut up and watch the screen."

  Weakly, Silas tried to raise a mental shield—but it shattered instantly, the attack behind it slamming into him. He bit his tongue. Blood trickled down his chin. Something warm seeped out of his ears, cascading down his neck. His head felt scalding hot. He wondered if his brain was melting out of his ears, liquefying like molten glass.

  "Fight back, Silas," Sorne growled. "If you die, Vera and Elias fall with you."

  Silas sobbed. What should he do? His life, or the Unspoken's? His life, or the lives of those he loved? He knew what he would choose. The trouble was, the longer this went on, the harder it was for him to fight back. His eyes were open this time, but his vision was slowly fading out. If he didn't gain the upper hand soon, he never would. He curled his uninjured fingers around the chair's armrests.

  Silas took one steadying breath. When he exhaled, he pushed against the Unspoken. He thought about Pa. About his smile. His jokes. His secrets and lies. All of his quirks and imperfections. Alistair Carrow. Elias Harrow. Grandfather and logister—Silas's creator and guardian. Silas's heart swelled with the burning desire to protect him. To see him again. Hear his voice again. Taste his cooking again. Silas remembered how he felt when he thought Pa had died, and used that grief to power his retaliation.

  Silas thought about Vera. Her dry wit. Her raucous laughter. Her nervous tics. Silas was afraid of her when they first met, but she was the first person to treat him with respect after the school attack. She was willing to risk her life to save his. Silas thought about her sacrifice, and what it meant to him. Now he would return the favor. He would protect her, even if he lost his humanity in the process.

  The Unspoken retreated. Its mind faltered and backed away. Silas felt its fear and confusion. He chased after it, following it into the recesses of its mind.

   The Unspoken's Voice was unsteady. It shrank away from Silas, trying to escape his pursuit. The Unspoken staggered, both in its mind and in the physical world. It sagged forward, trying to hold its head, but its shackles were too constricting.

   Silas said. He studied the Unspoken, noting the hemolymph that dribbled from its eyes and ears. Silas pictured the Unspoken's skull rupturing, hemolymph raining down, soaking the floor.

  Reality heeded Silas's imagination. An agonizing cry issued from the Unspoken. It crashed against Silas's skull. The boy was crying now—tears, not blood this time. He hated himself. How could he be so cruel? How could he live with himself after this?

  With all its strength, the Unspoken hit Silas with a new form of attack. It wasn't painful, not physically.

  Silas saw the creature's memories like they were his own. The Unspoken had a family—a wife and daughter. The war had ravaged their home, forcing them to flee from everything they knew and try their luck closer to human settlements. Silas saw Ilyra. The General chased the Unspoken and his family for days, hunting them down mercilessly. When he knew he was out of time, the Unspoken created a diversion so his family could get to safety. He was captured and brought to the Garrison Mordant with the promise that if he cooperated, he would be set free. Hope kept him sane. He was so close he could feel it—all he had to do was defeat one human child.

  This attack was the most effective of all. Silas withdrew from the Unspoken's mind. Thoughts swirled around and around, tightening his chest the faster they spun.

  The Unspoken have families just like humans. They have sons and daughters, mothers and fathers, husbands and wives. They want nothing more than to live.

  Silas wept, tears washing away smears of blood.

  "Why do you stop?"

  Silas stifled a sob. He glared at the Archarbiter, who stood off to the side, hand resting on his ceremonial sword. Silas sneered. How badly he wanted to see Sorne's head burst.

  The Archarbiter reeled back, eyes glassy. Silas stared in horror. He didn't mean to. He didn't know—

  The Unspoken fired off a series of strikes that rammed into Silas like ripples of force. Each strike was more painful than the last. There was a sound like a siren wailing. Silas didn't know if it was in his mind or if he was screaming.

   Silas cried and, with the last of his strength, repelled the Unspoken. Then, he wormed his way into the creature's consciousness. A snag of fibers clustered in the Unspoken's mind. Flashes of light raced down the fibers, pulsing faster and faster the harder the Unspoken fought back. Silas unraveled them.

  The Unspoken collapsed, limp against his shackles. Silas barely noticed. He threaded through the jumbled fibers, ripping those that were tangled around each other. The Unspoken grew weaker with every torn fiber. He could no longer fight back.

  

  With one final tug, the Unspoken's mind collapsed, forcing Silas out with a gasp. He had done it. He'd killed the Unspoken.

  The creature was lying on his side, head in a puddle of hemolymph and some other putrid fluid Silas couldn't identify. Ilyra kicked the Unspoken with her boot, making sure he was dead.

  "Effective," she said, nodding at Silas approvingly.

  "Collect the creature for necropsy."

  At Dr. Korrel's command, white coats snapped to attention, circling the corpse like hungry carrion wolves.

  Dr. Veyl said nothing. His face sagged when he saw Silas, who hung limp in his restraints, vacant eyes seeing nothing. Silent tears flowed, wetting his gown.

  Dr. Korrel stepped forward. "Tomorrow we begin the next stage," he said coldly. "We will increase the number of Unspoken each round until we find your limit." Bowing to the Archarbiter, he added, "And we will challenge that limit to grow your potential."

  Sorne was still shaken from Silas's accidental assault. He nodded absently and took a few steps away from the boy. Silas glanced his way, surprised to see fear etched between the Archarbiter's brows. Sorne looked away first, cape snapping when he turned and limped toward the door. Ilyra watched him leave, her frown deepening the longer she stared. When she focused on Silas, her scrutiny pierced like venom.

  Silas didn't care. Nothing mattered. He had killed something. Someone. Again. The guilt scooped out his soul until nothing but a hollow husk was left behind.

  "C-can I take him back to his room now?" asked Dr. Veyl.

  Dr. Korrel grunted. "As you wish," he said, waving dismissively.

  Dr. Veyl rushed to Silas. Quivering hands loosened his restraints and removed the sticky pads. Silas fell forward. Dr. Veyl caught him. "Up you go, lad," he murmured and hoisted Silas to his feet.

  Silas was shaking so badly he could hardly stand. Dr. Veyl wound an arm around his back and half-carried, half-dragged him into the corridor.

  Dr. Veyl kept whispering reassurance, but Silas couldn't absorb his words. Unresponsive, he let himself be guided back to his cell, empty gaze on the ground beneath his feet.

  The door to Silas's cell was unlocked. Dr. Veyl propped it open with his back and shuffled Silas inside. The boy stumbled to his cot and fell onto it face-first. The physick loitered in the doorway, wringing his hands. His mouth flapped open and closed, but nothing was said. Finally, he left, locking the door behind him.

  Silas covered himself with his parchment-thin sheet, drawing it above his head. He couldn't tell what was worse: letting Vera and Pa be killed because of him, or becoming the weapon to end an entire species. There was no way for him to live without destroying others.

  I want to die.

  He hoped Ilyra would come for him in the night and end him before he was forced to kill anyone else. To his sorrow, she left him alone. He woke at dawn to Dr. Korrel barging in, ready for another day of slaughter. Silas cursed his beating heart, wishing it would stop pumping life into his veins.