Corin ripped the mask off his face and threw it at Silas's feet. Ragged coughs tore through his throat, each one jerking the steering disc. The boiler lurched off the road, tossing Silas in his seat. He clung to the door, praying his harness would hold and he wouldn't tumble through the windshield.

  Corin sucked in a gulp of air, then choked out, "Why… are you not… ill?" He closed his eyes—snapping them open when the boiler veered into loose soil. "You were… with her in the” —wheeze— "tent without a… mask."

  Silas shook his head. Maybe it's because of how I was made. Maybe it's because… I'm not entirely human. But he couldn't convey this with gestures alone. He'd need something to write with. Either way, Corin was in no condition to read anything Silas wrote. His rheumy eyes could hardly focus on the road. The young soldier was fading fast. Silas feared he'd collapse before making it back to the Garrison Mordant.

  In the backseat, Ilyra was faring worse. Silas couldn't bring himself to look at her. If his hands weren't manacled, he'd press his palms over his ears so he wouldn't have to listen to the way her chest rattled with every infrequent inhale. Soon, she might gulp down her last breath. Silas was still grappling with how he felt about that.

  Guilt was the most prominent emotion. It chipped away at his composure, whittling him into a gnarled figure of regret. How could he have been so naive? What did Silas think Echo meant when she said she was preparing a counterattack? A peaceful gift for the human soldiers wrapped in affirmations?

  Stupid. So stupid. Silas wished he could rewind the day and slap some sense into himself. Instead, he had to live with the consequences of his actions. He glared at his reflection in the window.

  You will make this right, he told himself. People have died because of you. You can't undo that. But you can take responsibility, and you will.

  Silas resolved to admit what he had done and move to correct his error. He didn't know how he would do that yet, but he would not shy away from it either.

  Corin slammed on the brakes. Silas flew forward, his harness the only thing keeping him in his seat. Blood spattered the windshield and steering disc, the spray thickening as Corin hacked and sputtered. When the fit was over, Corin eased back onto the road, hunched over the steering disc. Silas tried to pretend that Corin's lips weren't turning blue. He stared down at his feet, watching Corin's mask wobble back and forth, swaying with the boiler's frantic motion. The mask's inner chamber dripped scarlet all over the boiler's floor. Silas crossed his left leg over his right so Corin's humors didn't stain his boots. Shame at his cowardice brought both feet back down.

  Finally, the boiler gurgled to a stop in front of the Garrison Mordant's enormous stone doors. Corin didn't even wait to remove the starter rod; he unbuckled his harness, opened the door, and collapsed into the sand.

  Silas paused, peering upwards at the battlements. Guards stopped mid-march, their patrol interrupted by Corin suddenly keeling over. Their voices filtered through the open boiler door.

  "Isn't that Lieutenant Corin Cyr?"

  "That boiler belongs to General Curne."

  "But… weren't they supposed to be in the Western Quadrant?"

  "Look—someone else is getting out!"

  Hesitantly, Silas climbed out of the boiler, tilting his face to the sky to address the Guards. He held up his bound hands and waved, urging the Guards to come down and help Corin and Ilyra. They murmured to each other before disappearing over the wall. Silas looked around, studying the horizon with longing. Now would be a good time to run—to escape from the Garrison Mordant. Yet he knew that would accomplish nothing. He wouldn't survive in the wild on his own. And he couldn't run from what he'd done. When the doors groaned open and Guards rushed out, he lifted his chin. The time for cowering was over.

  A Guardsman swore. Leaning over Corin's prone form, he said, "What is this? He's… He's so ill."

  "General Curne!" cried a Guardswoman. In her haste, she struggled to open the backseat door. "It's got her too!"

  The Guards ignored Silas. They swarmed Corin and Ilyra, trying to wake them. When that failed, they picked them up by their ankles and shoulders, carrying them toward the doors.

  That's when the first Guardsman fell. He reached for his throat, dropping Ilyra's ankles. Then, his knees buckled. On hands and knees he heaved, choking on his own blood. The rest of the Guard succumbed soon after, joining Corin and Ilyra on the cold sand.

  Silas stared. Why? I thought it was the vapor! He examined his hands for white residue. Is it that potent? Are we all contaminated with it?

  The steady thumping of approaching bootsteps alerted Silas. Two figures emerged from within the Garrison Mordant, their white coats billowing in the breeze. Dr. Veyl planted his feet, his arm shooting out to prevent Dr. Korrel from taking another step. A group of figures emerged behind them, hidden by the shadows. Dr. Veyl gaped at the scene before him, his eyes lingering on Silas standing alone in a throng of malady.

  "Back!" ordered the physick, turning around and pushing the group deeper into the Garrison Mordant. "Do not approach until clad in sanitary vestments. I repeat, do not approach—"

  The doors slid closed, leaving Silas alone once again, this time with more victims at his feet. He willed himself to keep his chin up and his gaze forward.

  Dr. Veyl returned, but Silas didn't recognize him. "Sanitary vestments" sounded gentle—clean and refined. What the physick and his colleagues wore when they emerged from the shadows nearly sent Silas panicking. He clenched his jaw so tight he feared he cracked a molar, every muscle in his body screaming at him to flee.

  The suits were shiny and black, the rubber reminiscent of a stethoscope's outer casing. Monstrous boots and oversized gloves were affixed to the ensemble with grey tape. Wrinkled hoods draped over respirators of such thick glass Silas couldn't see the wearers' eyes. Tubing protruded from the respirators, trailing to bulky air canisters worn at the back like a rucksack.

  The suited figures rushed forward, loading the afflicted onto stretchers. Silas watched Ilyra be wheeled inside, squinting hard at her prone form. He couldn't tell if she was breathing.

  Dr. Veyl approached; Silas could only tell by his voice. It was garbled through the respirator, muted like he was talking underwater.

  "Come with me, lad," he said, reaching for Silas with a shiny glove.

  Involuntarily, Silas staggered back a step. He told himself he would be brave—that he wouldn't run from what he'd done. But those suits, those masks—

  Silas took slow, even breaths in and out of his nose. Without Vera's breathing exercise, he would've been wheeled inside on a stretcher, too.

  The corridors of the Garrison Mordant were eerily vacant. There were no soldiers, no white coats. The only other people in the empty halls were dressed in sanitary vestments. They flitted around in the darkness of the military wing, spraying the floors and walls with a soapy substance. Silas's boots slipped over the slick stone underfoot; Dr. Veyl had to steady him several times.

  Furious activity beset the logics wing. Black-clad figures stood out in stark contrast to the white floor, walls, and ceiling. The raspy sound of their respirators haunted the acrid air. Silas's throat burned with the stench of disinfectants, his eyes watery and irritated.

  Dr. Veyl led Silas into a chamber of lockers and benches. The air was so chilly Silas might as well have still been in the Western Quadrant. Dr. Veyl stepped into a shallow square pool and sloshed around, scrubbing the bottom of his boots with a foamy brush. He motioned for Silas to do the same. Unlike Dr. Veyl's boots, Silas's were not waterproof. Frigid water seeped into the leather and saturated his socks. Shivering, Silas stepped out of the pool and onto a metal grille, water dripping off his boots to land somewhere in the chasm below. Dr. Veyl guided him past a heavy metal door and into a narrow, brightly-lit shower.

  "Remove your garments and place them on the floor before the bootwash," Dr. Veyl rasped through his respirator, pointing between Silas and the ground. The physick reached into the locker room, leaning around the corner to avoid stepping away from the bootwash. He returned a moment later with a translucent bottle of orange-pink liquid. "Then, bathe yourself. Thoroughly. Cover yourself head to toe in this” —he held up the bottle— "and rinse one, twice, thrice. When you're done, there is a door on the opposite side of the shower. Go through it. Do NOT step back into this room where it is contaminated. Do you understand?"

  Silas bobbed his head up and down frantically.

  Dr. Veyl handed Silas the bottle and pushed him into the shower, closing the door after him. Silas watched him disappear through the second doorway before cutting his gaze down to the bottle in his hands, then the manacles still circling his wrists.

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  The door flung open. Silas jumped, fumbling with the bottle. Dr. Veyl strode toward Silas, a key held awkwardly within the folds of his bulky gloves. Without a word, he unlocked Silas's manacles and left him alone, this time for good. Silas kicked the chains away and got to work.

  He stripped out of his military uniform and sopping boots, dropping them to the floor before the bootwash. Arms wrapped around his chest for warmth, he tip-toed back into the shower. He cranked the spigot all the way to the left, sighing under the pleasantly hot stream. Then he examined the bottle dubiously.

  I don't think this is meant to be rubbed into the skin, Silas thought, scrunching his nose at the liquid's sharp, sterile tang.

  He upturned the bottle and dispensed a dollop of syrupy product onto his palm. It stung. Starting with his hair and working down, Silas coated himself in the caustic syrup. It burned and left his skin red and sensitive. The hot water no longer felt good.

  Finished, Silas turned off the spigot and cracked open the second door. At his feet was a bundle of cloth: a new gown. When he picked it up, something fluttered to the ground like a piece of parchment. Silas knelt to collect it, studying the thin piece of cloth in confusion. It was rectangular, with loops at either end. Unsure what to do with it, Silas stepped into the gown and held the piece of cloth, waiting for Dr. Veyl to return.

  "Put that on your face, lad," the physick said, rounding a corner of the brightly-lit hallway. At Silas's frown he added, "It's a surgical mask, for extra precaution. You wear the loops around your ears, covering your mouth and nose with the cloth."

  Silas blinked at the cloth in his hands. Extra precaution? What's this thin strip of material going to do against that white vapor of death? Still, he followed the physick's instructions. The mask was so big on him Dr. Veyl had to twist the loops several times around his ears until the cloth no longer hung off his chin.

  Dr. Veyl pressed a wet glove to Silas's back, piloting him down the hallway's twists and turns. The boy looked up at him, noting the water glistening on his black suit and glass mask. He decided Dr. Veyl must have taken a shower too, only in his sterile vestment.

  I was right. That orange goop was not supposed to be applied to the skin. Silas scratched at his red arms, his skin so dry it was cracked and peeling.

  Silas was deposited on a cot in an examination room. Without a word, Dr. Veyl examined Silas with significantly more intrusion of his privacy than he had in the past. The physick's uncharacteristic silence worried Silas. He mimed that he wanted a notepad to write down his questions, running pinched fingers against his palm. Dr. Veyl ignored him. After probing every inch of Silas's body—to the boy's humiliation—Dr. Veyl exited the room. The door sealed shut behind him, the lock engaging from the other side.

  Alone with nothing but his thoughts, Silas's mind whirled. He kept replaying the events of the day again and again, nitpicking his actions and criticizing his choices. If he had refused to follow Echo's tug toward the cave, would she have let him go, or forced him on anyway? Could he have fought her off, or would he have been helpless against her like he was against the ten Unspoken several days ago? Surely, he could have done something differently.

  He shook his head. It doesn't matter now. What's done is done. Stop wallowing in the past and think about how you can shape the future.

  If he was immune to the white vapor, could he be used to make a cure? Silas straightened. The Garrison Mordant was a research facility. Perhaps Dr. Korrel and Dr. Veyl could study Silas and find the solution. Silas didn't care how much of his humors or saliva it took; he would do whatever he could to right his wrong.

  A raspy inhale drew Silas's attention to the door, followed by another. Then, Dr. Veyl's voice—muffled behind his respirator—spoke.

  "Remarkably, the boy displays no clinical signs despite his proximity to the dispersal device. However, his status as a carrier cannot be ruled out yet. He should be monitored and quarantined until we know for certain."

  "I agree," Dr. Korrel said with a hiss of compressed air. "Sputum samples from the patients, as well as environmental samples from General Curne's boiler, suggest the agent is biological in nature and highly communicable."

  "That cannot be," protested Dr. Veyl. "No known biological weapon has such an immediate incubation period. It has to be chemical."

  There was some back and forth that Silas didn't catch—an argument passed between the physick and logister in hushed tones. When their disagreement settled, Dr. Korrel asserted, "That is why I believe we're dealing with a novel respiratory virus. The question remains how the Unspoken acquired such an agent, and how they gave it to the boy."

  Silas's throat tightened. Novel respiratory virus?

  He knew of biological and chemical warfare. Humans had been using it against the Unspoken since the dawn of time. Physiological differences between the species were so vast it was easy to tailor a weapon such that it would devastate one and not the other. But this was the first time Silas had heard of the Unspoken wielding such a weapon. When humans had employed them in the past, Unspoken died by the millions, decimating entire colonies with ease. His shoulders shook with tearless sobs. How many people were going to die because of what he'd unleashed?

  The door banged open with such force the handle dented an adjacent cabinet. Silas stifled a gasp and swallowed down the last of his sobs. Dr. Korrel stepped forward. Silently, he clamped an uncompromising glove around Silas's forearm and hauled him to his feet. Silas stumbled into the hallway after him, passing Dr. Veyl lingering in the doorway. The physick moved to follow. Silas shot him a pleading, questioning look that was left unanswered.

  Silas was ushered into a cramped room. The compact space was inhabited by a lone circular table and two chairs. Dr. Korrel sat Silas in one of them and plonked himself in the other, leaning forward so his air canister didn't dig into the seat.

  "Lutheran, bring a notepad and stylus," the logister said, glaring when Dr. Veyl hesitated.

  The physick uttered a quiet, "Y-yes," and hobbled away, his heavy boots clomping down the corridor.

  Silas stared at the table, his neck bent by the weight of Dr. Korrel's accusatory glower. Silas was glad he could hardly see the logister's face behind his thick mask and respirator. He traced the table's surface with his eyes, mapping its imperfections to distract himself from the terror trying to fracture his composure. Sweat rolled down his temple, clinging from his chin. The droplet fell to the table, absorbed by the grain of the wood.

  Dr. Veyl returned toting a spiral-bound notepad and a stylus filled with ink. They were placed on the table next to Silas's folded arms. The physick then bowed, hovered awkwardly in the doorway for a moment, and left with an impatient grunt from Dr. Korrel.

  Dr. Korrel sighed—his breath hissing through his mask. "Look at me, boy," he demanded.

  Silas dragged his gaze up. Dr. Korrel regarded him over the bridge of his nose. He nodded at the notepad and stylus. Silas picked up the writing implement. He removed the metal splint from his index finger, setting it aside. His finger was sore and so stiff he could hardly move it. Still, it was easier to write without the clunky splint getting in his way.

  "You will answer my questions honestly and clearly," Dr. Korrel began. "Don't even try lying to me. Lieutenant Cyr managed to explain his side of things once we got some oxygen into his lungs. We know what you did. What you need to tell us is how you did it."

  Silas decided there was no point in prevaricating. He pressed stylus to parchment, wincing at the sharp ache that stabbed through his knuckle. Silas explained how Echo lured him away from camp to the cave set into the rockface. He detailed his discovery of the canister, and his uncertainty as to its purpose. Echo's evasion of his questions was as frustrating to recount as it was when it happened. The stylus nib tore the parchment to shreds at the strength of Silas's vexation.

  "I don't remember walking back to camp," Silas wrote, nearing the conclusion of his retelling. "One moment, I was in the cave, the next, in front of Ilyra." Silas scratched out her first name and wrote “General Curne” to hide his blunder. “She eventually took me into a tent with Cor—” Silas made the same mistake again. "Lieutenant Cyr. The canister sort of collapsed in on itself and then a thick, white gas came out."

  Silas finished and turned the notepad around so Dr. Korrel could read. His finger throbbed, sending pulses of pain to his wrist. Reaffixing the splint helped a little.

  The longer Dr. Korrel read, the hotter his anger blazed. "You are hiding something," he seethed, slamming the notepad to the table. "The Unspoken must have told you more. How did they get this weapon? Such primitive creatures could not have developed it on their own." Dr. Korrel stood with a screech of protest from the legs of his chair. Palms pressed to the table, he said, "Who helped them? Was it the Covenant of Fallen Stars?"

  Silas's mouth fell open. No, he shook his head. No, it couldn't be. Was he trying to convince himself, or the logister? They wouldn't do something like that. They're trying to save the world, not destroy it!

  Dr. Korrel leaned over the table, his respirator inches from Silas's face. Silas shook with fear but kept his head up, meeting the logister's eyes. It's the truth. Look at me and see that I tell you the truth. I told you everything I know.

  Dr. Korrel sat back down. His leg bounced under the table. "I see," he said quietly. Through his respirator, it sounded like "Shh."

  Silas tilted his head.

  Dr. Korrel ignored him. To himself, the logister mumbled, "Perhaps that is the Covenant's ploy. I must tell Archarbiter Sorne when he returns from Droswick."

  Silas's lips parted. The Archarbiter went to Droswick? Why? His fear turned outward—to Pa and Vera. They were in Droswick. What had happened there that forced Sorne to return? His eyes widened. Had the Unspoken attacked the city too?

  With a groan, the door opened. Silas blinked. Then, he rubbed his eyes and blinked again. It couldn't be. The timing was so precise it bordered on the absurd. Silas wanted to laugh. He held it in, knowing his giggles would dissolve into tears.

  Malrick Sorne glided into the room. Face set like stone, the Archarbiter stalked toward Silas. The boy scrambled out of his chair and retreated to the wall. Sorne didn't react. He didn't grin. He didn't chuckle. He only continued his relentless march toward Silas, his grey eyes so cold they froze Silas's heart. Silas's knees threatened to buckle. He wished Sorne would yell at him. Somehow, this impassive fury was worse.

  Without a word, Sorne seized Silas by the hair and hauled him toward the door.

  This woke Dr. Korrel from his fugue. "W-wait, Archarbiter Sorne," he said. When he was ignored, he rushed to block the door, his arms outstretched. "The boy may still be contagious. You shouldn't touch him with your bare—"

  Sorne acted like Dr. Korrel wasn't there. He squeezed past him, dragging Silas along by the hair. Silas didn't struggle; he knew such resistance would be futile.

  The Archarbiter marched slowly, inexorably, gripping Silas's hair so tightly his fist shook. Eventually, Silas came to recognize the hallways and intersections. He started struggling then. He dug in his heels and tried to prise Sorne's fingers away from his tresses. He was being led back to his cell.

  Ravelin waited beside the door. When Sorne and Silas approached, she opened it, holding it wide to permit them entry. She offered Silas a glance in parting. Pity flashed behind her eyes before she shut the door, leaving Silas alone in his cell with the Archarbiter. Sorne released his hair and stepped back, watching Silas with detached calculation. Then, he approached, a cruel grin finally finding his face.