It was then that something smacked the back of Henry's head. The blow had so much force that it sent him flying into the blood puddle.

His upper body plunged face-forward into the sickening liquid, and hadn't his stomach already been empty, Henry would have thrown up again. Snorting and gasping, he lifted himself to all fours and gagged. Cold blood dripped from the tips of his hair; it ran down his chin and the rim of his nose and drenched his clothes, making him shiver.

The metallic stench and taste and the overwhelming disgust smothered Henry; it clogged his pores and drowned him from within. His head spun, and he thought he would pass out any second.

"What was that?!"

"I don't know. It came from the direction of that fire. I thought one of us had lit that!"

Through the spinning and pounding of his head, Henry managed to process that the noises must have attracted the attention of the gnawers; their voices were so distant that he almost couldn't make out words.

When he remembered the force that had knocked him into the puddle, he was already yanked up by his leg. Henry dangled upside down in the creature's grip and just about suppressed a scream. He twined and twisted to see who or what was carrying him, but it was too dark, and they moved too quickly.

Before he had time to do or even think anything, they had already disappeared into one of the many openings that led away from the pit. Heartbeats later, Henry was engulfed in darkness again. At least he didn't have to see the gore anymore, he thought. It only made him feel a little better.

***

In retrospect, Henry wouldn't have been able to tell how long they flew, but it couldn't have been long. He quickly discerned that the unknown creature's flight was unstable, nearly falling and dropping him a number of times.

Eventually, he made out the faint glow of water in the distance. As soon as they entered the cave with the river that shone eerily with a kind of bioluminescent algae, the creature released and dropped Henry on the hard floor. He groaned, unable to muster the strength to check whether he was just bruised or seriously injured.

Seconds or days might have passed; Henry could not bring himself to move. Until he caught movement from the corner of his eye, and something stronger than the ache of sore muscles stirred in him—curiosity.

"Not dead yet?" The voice from the shade was barely more than a hoarse whisper, as though its owner hadn't spoken in a while. He thought it was supposed to sound mocking, but there was a different undertone in it too. Something like . . . pain.

Henry pulled himself up and squinted toward the voice, and when he made out who had spoken, his eyes widened in surprise. It wasn't Ares; of course not. No matter how much the dark shape of the flier resembled him at first glance. They had roughly the same size and, from what Henry could tell, the same color, but the voice was not that of his . . . former bond.

The flier did not face his way. He pressed himself against the opposite wall, his wings tightly wrapped around himself.

Henry opened his mouth to fire back but broke into a coughing fit instead. In the soft glow of the algae, he saw that his hands were shaking again. He was scared. Henry hated admitting it, even before himself, but he was terrified out of his mind. Of the gnawers, of this flier, of his own fate—even of his death, which he had so eagerly awaited earlier. Of . . . everything.

Henry cursed the fear. See how far you've fallen, he scolded himself. You said you wouldn't fall, and look at you now. But it didn't help. It only made him feel even worse.

The flier shifted and awkwardly crawled closer to the water. When he then spread his wings for the first time, Henry spotted the reason for the staggering flight: a huge rip of at least five inches tore his left wing.

He gawked at the injury. Had this flier seriously managed to fly with that kind of wound earlier? But then his eyes found the water, and he registered the burning of his mouth and throat with thirst. When had he last drunk?

Henry reached for the rushing stream that emitted a refreshing coolness, trying to pull himself closer. The stink of blood and corpse that still clung to him was unbearable in his mouth and nose, but his body wouldn't move any faster.

The flier raised his head momentarily but remained preoccupied with himself.

So close. Henry could practically smell the water now.

"Won't you ask whether it is even safe to drink?"

Henry froze when the flier spoke, still without looking at him. "Is it?"

"Oh, so it talks."

"Shut it!"

The flier scoffed. "You're in luck. But make sure you do not wash off too much of the blood, lest the gnawers smell you out and have you for dinner. Unless that is what you want."

"I'm good." Was he? Henry didn't know. Had he dropped his plans to die yet? Instead of contemplating that, he dragged himself to the water and barely resisted the urge to dunk his entire head into the heavenly liquid.

Instead, he drank and drank until he had filled his entire empty stomach with water. The simple act of drinking was now the greatest sensation he had ever experienced. When he'd finally had enough, he ceased moving altogether.

Every fiber of his being despised feeling the weakness he so fiercely hated. He had sworn to himself that he would never end up like this, yet now he was powerless, as though something within him had broken and all his strength and confidence had run out, leaving only burning emptiness.

Henry didn't know for how long he lay, watching the water run seemingly infinitely from an unknown spring to an unknown destination. He knew not how much time had passed or whether he would even move on his own accord anymore.

"Get up. We must leave."

Henry jerked up, nearly slipping in the puddle of water that had formed around his head. "L . . . leave?"

"Yes, leave. If you stay here in their land, the gnawers will find you eventually, even with the cover of blood." The flier raised his head slightly from where he had drunk from the river himself.

"Halt, I cannot leave!"

At Henry's desperate cry, the flier jerked up and finally spun to glare at him. "Where have you to be? Or is it that you enjoy your stay here so much that you would risk being torn to shreds for it?"

Henry jerked back in shock—not from the flier's words but from the sight of his face. Most of his fur was black, but around his eyes and mouth, there was a large white stain. The faint glow of the river created the illusion of a white skull mask, disrupted only by a huge scar through the flier's right eye and across the entire length of his face. His eyes glowed with fiery amber, attempting to create an air of invulnerability. But Henry had aimed to appear invulnerable himself so many times before that he wasn't falling for it.

"We leave and head for the Dead Land," the flier resumed speaking. "And there, we part ways. Then you can crawl back to wherever you came from—or go to hell, really."

Henry stared at the strange flier wordlessly, grasping the meaning of his words. He was going to dump him somewhere in the Dead Land . . . and then what? And then he would die, it hit Henry; his chest tightened in shame. Because he had nowhere to crawl back to, not even if he wanted.

But . . . hadn't he accepted death earlier? Frustration boiled in his gut. He had, and then something—someone—he glared up at the flier—had to come along and save him. Why had he even saved him? Not only once, but twice. It must have been him. Henry gritted his teeth.

Well, whyever he had done it, this flier had no right to decide whether Henry lived or died. He attempted to rekindle the resignation that had consumed him when he had decided to no longer fight for his life.

"If that's so, saving me was a waste of your time," he said without looking up. "There is . . . nowhere to crawl back to. Here, or in the Dead Land . . . It won't make that much of a difference where you leave me."

Henry dared a peek at the flier; his gaze was unreadable, and the uncertainty was slowly driving him up the wall. He would die; Henry had already decided that. Hadn't he once prided himself on his independence and strength, on his tenacity? But here, far from home and friends, he was not strong; he was as helpless as a bug in a spinner's web—as good as dead as soon as he found himself alone.

The thought was as truthful as it was terrifying. Henry stared at the flier as a dreadful thought entered his mind, so appalling that, for a moment, he wasn't sure whether he could even find words to express it.

Henry gritted his teeth. No, he himself was the only one who had any right to decide when he should live or die. He had made his decision, he repeated to himself. All he needed to do was not be a coward and follow through with it.

"You heard me!" he spat. "I'm not getting out of this alive either way, but I'm not going to die out there." He spoke as firmly as he could. "The . . . noble thing would be to let me die on my own terms." The words burned in his mouth. He bit his lip so hard that he drew blood. He would not be weak, he repeated to himself over and over. He could not be weak anymore. He would not. "The noble thing would be to gift me with a swift and painless death." His voice cracked. "If you have any idea what being noble means."

Henry swallowed hard. How infinitely glad he was that nobody was here to witness the most shameful moment of his life—the once-so-proud Prince of Regalia reduced to begging his enemy for a swift death.

When the flier didn't reply, he looked back at him. He watched him keenly, but he didn't seem to be in any noticeable hurry to fulfill his request. They stared at each other in uncomfortable silence for what felt like hours.

"Oh, for goodness sake, just do it!" Henry yelled when he couldn't stand it any longer. "Save us both some trouble!"

Despite his entreat, Henry still jerked back when the flier made his move; swiftly and silently, he leaped toward him, and then he was on top of Henry, pinning him to the ground with his entire body weight.

Henry cried and squeezed his eyes shut. He was rendered immobile, feeling the sting of a sharp talon against his exposed neck. When he slowly opened his eyes, he stared directly into the flier's ghastly white face. His mouth tore open for a quiet hiss, revealing rows of sharp teeth.

"Is that so?" The flier hissed. "What the hell did you do to land yourself in this spot?"

Even if he hadn't a talon at his throat, Henry wouldn't have known what to say to that. It pressed into his flesh, making it hard to breathe. He would do it, Henry understood, and an unwanted emotion grabbed hold of his heart . . . fear.

No! Henry clenched his jaw, trying his best not to writhe. He couldn't be scared; he had asked for it. He had convinced himself earlier that he wanted it, but as he fought against his own survival instinct this time, he found himself losing. There was no resignation anymore, only fear that continued to grow like a nasty ulcer in the pit of his stomach, quickly spreading and gripping its icy claw around his heart, pushing and forcing its way up his throat.

Henry swallowed repeatedly. He didn't want to die. Every fiber in his body howled to fight, to run, to save himself. But . . . if he ran, what would happen? He didn't want to die, but he would—killed by the gnawers or some other hungry beast. And who knew what that death would be like?

Henry eyed the flier and the talon grazing his neck. This was his best option. He needed to stop being a scared, unreasonable child and do exactly what he had wanted all along—let death have him with dignity. Out of all the possible futures he could see for himself at the moment, this was the most desirable one.

Attempting to ignore the painful knot of fear and the burning helplessness that brewed in his stomach, he shut his eyes in preparation for the inevitable strike.

"You're having second thoughts."

Henry's eyes flew open, irritated that he had seen through his fear. "Spare me!"

"Fine." The flier tightened his hold on him, but Henry could have sworn he had heard a reluctant undertone in his voice just now. "Besides, you're likely right. A swift death now is miles better than what the world out there would do to someone like you."

Someone like you. The phrase burned in Henry's mind like a seal of hot iron. "I said, spare me the pity!" he hissed. "It's my decision!"

But the longer it wasn't happening, the longer the flier held him at the edge of death, the more time there was for new thoughts to flood Henry's mind and devour the last bit of his resolve. He could tell himself he was as good as dead all he wanted, but . . . he wasn't yet. In truth, he didn't know for certain that he would be killed. He could die a thousand deaths tomorrow, but he hadn't yet. And for as long as he hadn't, there was always a chance that he wouldn't.

Henry dared a peek over to the other side of the river and the black tunnel opening leading away from it. What lay beyond? What other things were out there that he hadn't yet seen or done? He didn't know, but he knew if he allowed the flier to kill him now, he'd never find out.

"It is your decision," the flier said finally. "Although it is also a waste. But no mind. If you're so certain, then fine. Just say the word."

Henry gritted his teeth and found an unexpected yet overwhelmingly powerful surge of determination suddenly sweep over him. Only hours ago, he had been willing to sacrifice everything for the sake of ensuring his survival. And what had changed since? It had become a smidgen more difficult. So what? Hadn't he a claw at his throat, Henry would have scoffed. But . . . what was he going to say? 'Never mind, I changed my mind'? He would look like a flaky coward!

"Well?" the flier asked again, with audible impatience. "Any words coming?"

Henry swallowed. Whatever he said now would decide his fate. He would have to consider this carefully. But instead, a crazy idea dug its way into his mind. It was so unbelievably dumb that Henry dismissed it at once, then instantly reconsidered, eyes on the flier. Maybe it was just dumb enough to work?

Henry swallowed, making a conscious effort to not avert his gaze, and after a final moment of hesitation, he quietly mumbled, ". . . Word."

For a few seconds, the flier remained still . . . then he released his grip and reeled away. Henry forced his sore body to rise and supported himself on his elbows to watch the flier. He stared at Henry with an odd mix of fury and amusement and let out a snort, quickly followed by what Henry believed was the worst laughing fit he had ever seen from a flier.

"You . . . that is the best you can come up with?"

"It is," replied Henry, feeling a satisfied grin spread on his face, followed by an immense wave of relief. "And as we all see, it worked."

"You—" The flier came to a halt before Henry again, who had lifted himself to sit in the meantime, and shook loose strands of hair out of his eyes. "For whatever you may claim, you don't strike me as one to die easily."

Henry's grin fell and he frowned at the flier as he let the words sink in. He was infinitely glad it had worked, though the more he thought about it, the more he felt like it shouldn't have. How did one stupid joke indicate any sort of survival ability? Henry had made a lot of stupid jokes in his life, and while this one most certainly dwarfed them all, he failed to see the logic in the flier's conclusion.

As if he'd read Henry's mind, the flier instantly proceeded: "I was right. You were just too proud to convey your second thoughts normally." The gleam in his amber eyes strengthened. "You don't seem the type to give up on life that easily."

"How do you—?"

"Call it a gut feeling, if you must."

Anxiety and excitement clogged Henry's throat as he attempted to process the words, followed by an unshakable determination to live, followed by . . . hope. The first hope he had felt in forever. He was not one to die easily. Although . . . some of his newfound hope drained when he remembered his situation hadn't exactly changed.

Still, the right attitude could make the difference. Just as he had promised himself before his deal with Gorger, he would survive. Henry clenched his fists until it hurt. It was the next step in his challenge. A challenge that consisted of only one word: survive.

He wouldn't fail.

"I was wrong," he admitted without looking up. "Death isn't inevitable unless you decide for it to be so. And I've decided that, before that ever happens, the world will have to fight me for every ounce of life in my body."

Henry looked up when the flier let out an approving hum. "That's definitely not true, but the attitude is spot on."

"Oh, shut up; you are spoiling my moment. Hey!" Henry scooted toward the cave wall and leaned on it. "How did you manage that?" He pointed at the tear in the flier's wing. "I am impressed that you could fly with a wound like that."

"One of the falling gnawers wanted in on the ride," he replied. "It is not as bad as it looks."

Despite the confidence in his voice, Henry could easily tell he was in far more pain than he let on.

Only then did he take a moment to inspect the flier closer, realizing that the injury was not the only sign of his bad shape. His fur, which may have once been of a rich black, was grayed with dust and clumped, as though it hadn't been groomed in weeks. His claws were stained in a strange substance that Henry thought may be blood, and the tissue on his wings looked strained, marked by visible folds—as if the flier had hung in a spot for too long without opening his wings.

Henry frowned. What had happened to put him in such a miserable condition? Where had he even come from? He had been there to save him, but why? What was he . . . doing here? The questions buzzed in his head, and he instinctively raised a hand to rub his temple.

He had never seen this flier before, of that Henry was sure. He would remember that kind of face. His wing was injured; what would he do now? He could not fix it on his own. Did he not have anyone? Henry thought suddenly. Was he talking to . . . an outcast? An outcast . . . who had saved his life.

Irritation boiled in Henry all of a sudden. Not with the flier, but with himself. He hated owing debts, and now he owed this outcast flier . . . He couldn't afford to leave this debt unpaid for longer than he absolutely had to.

Fervently, he racked his brain on how to repay him. Only when his eyes once more met the tear in the flier's wing did Henry have an idea. "Hey!" His hand flew to his belt pocket and fumbled with the clasp. "What say I do something about your wing, and we call ourselves even?"

Eagerly, Henry fished out the sowing kit one of each Solovet had given to him and Luxa for the quest. Their fliers were immobile if their wings were taken out, so it was crucial to carry one at all times. Henry had never actually used it; he had always been more interested in killing than in healing, but he would manage to stitch a wing if it alleviated his debt. How hard could it even be?

But as soon as the flier saw what Henry had pulled out, he jerked away toward the opposite wall. "You will not touch my wing."

"And who else will fix it? You?"

"It will heal with time," the flier said emphatically. "I do not need your help. And now make your decision: Do you rest here or on the fly?"

Henry froze, sewing kit still in hand. He still wanted to go through with his original plan of dumping him somewhere in the Dead Land. Henry found his hope dwindling further, but no, he could not let this crush his spirits. Who knew what awaited in the Dead Land? He was not dead yet. He was not failing this challenge so easily.

He reluctantly put away the sewing kit. "I'm sleeping here. With how unsteadily you fly in your condition, I wouldn't get a moment of rest."

The flier scoffed but didn't protest; he watched Henry inspect the cave, looking for a place to sleep. It was really all the same—hard stone floor.

"Let us hope you can get a moment of rest without your soft pillows and mattresses," he mocked, but Henry ignored him; he was too tired to properly bicker. All he did was lay down carefully, anticipating to find his limbs even stiffer when he woke.

Already closing his eyes, he suddenly remembered something: "Hey." He didn't bother to turn and face the flier anymore. "You haven't even told me your name." Even more quietly, he added, "I'm Henry."

He felt the flier's gaze pierce his back. "You do not really need a name when you are alone." He paused, as though remembering posed a considerable difficulty. "A long time ago, I was called . . . Thanatos."

Like death, Henry thought and smiled. "As long as I have nothing more striking to call you, it will do."

"You don't say."