Anxious and apprehensive, Gregor stared straight ahead as the boat sailed across what appeared to be a gargantuan, circular pond; the surface was as smooth and unbroken as a mirror. So this was the Tankard. He didn't really know what he had expected, but a gut instinct told him that things were not going to end well.

When he leaned forward to see better, he noticed there were no beaches; the water went straight up to stone walls on all sides. Tunnel openings dotted the walls, some almost concealed by the waterline, others hundreds of feet up.

Gregor inched back and tensed when he noticed that in many of them waited rats. No one moved. Not the rats, not the visitors. An eerie silence hung over them; Gregor twitched when it was broken by a scraping sound from above.

Splash!

Something landed off to their right, spraying a fountain of water into the air.

Splash! Splash!

Only when he strained his eyes to look closer did Gregor realize the rats were tipping boulders out of the tunnels and sending them hurling into the water. Were they . . . trying to sink the boat?

"Well, that's weak. None of the rocks are even getting near us," mumbled Gregor. The boulders were missing them by a mile! He took a deep breath to calm himself. Maybe this wouldn't be so bad. How bad could it be if the rats were launching such a trashy attack?

Splash! Splash! Splash! Splash!

"Something is wrong here." Luxa put into words the unsettling feeling that Gregor had been trying to push aside.

"Yes," said Mareth. "It is not like the gnawers to waste their energies on futile attacks."

"Not wasting, they are. Not wasting."

Gregor whipped around to Temp and found his antennas anxiously twitching. He meant to ask what the cockroach meant but then froze when, from somewhere behind him, Howard screamed. "Get the boat up! Fliers! Get the boat up—now!"

"They're waking! They're waking!" Twitchtip sprang up at nearly the exact same moment. "Fly! Fly!"

For a moment, Gregor was confused. But then Mareth's question crashed back into his mind: What of the serpents? Do they still sleep? And Twitchtip's answer: Yes, but it won't be long before they surface. And they are deadly.

His gaze flew to the rats in the tunnel openings, and a sickening realization dawned on him—they weren't trying to sink their boat with the rocks. They were trying to wake the serpents.

Gregor thought about the last quest and the tail that had peeked out of the waterway on their way home. Was he about to find out who or what it belonged to?

Then the boat jerked in the air, and he nearly lost balance. Aurora and Andromeda had latched on to the front ropes, and Ares had gotten his claws around the two loops in the back. Gregor clung to the side of the boat and watched his bat struggle to keep the boat balanced.

Gregor gritted his teeth at the images of Pandora and her fate. She should be here, he thought. She should hold that fourth loop. But he had no time for sorrow. Another jerk of the boat nearly flung him off his feet again, and as they rose higher, they began to spin. "Where to?" asked all three bats. Over and over, "Where to?"

"Twitchtip!" Mareth called, clutching the pole and attempting to keep their last supply bag from slipping. "Where lies the tunnel?"

"Stop spinning so fast, and I'll tell you—ahh!" Twitchtip tumbled and slid to the pole, hitting it with a loud thud. The bats maintained a slower circle, and Twitchtip gripped the pole with all fours, then carefully removed a front paw and indicated a tunnel opening opposite from where they had come. "There! The one shaped like an arch!"

Gregor caught it in his flashlight beam—oh, how glad he was he had taped them onto everyone's arms in advance! The tunnel was only about six feet high, and . . . you could've swum right into it. "But it's half underwater!" he called. "Does it even have a floor?"

"Further in. Look, this is no time to be picky," snapped Twitchtip. "The serpents are—!"

BAM!

Gregor jerked back from the side of the boat when something collided with it, ripping a chunk out. They all screamed. Gregor was knocked sideways, hitting his back on the opposite side of the boat. He saw stars for a second, and the boat rocked as the bats barely hung on.

Had it been one of the rocks the rats were still throwing? Gregor slowly inched up to see, only to freeze in terror. "Oh! Oh, gee!"

So, they're not extinct after all, was his first thought. He meant dinosaurs, but, on second glance, that wasn't quite right—dinosaurs walked on land. The creature rising in front of him propelled itself with flippers. Some kind of aquatic reptile then, but surely as old as the dinosaurs and as big as the biggest skeletons at the museum in New York.

Its body was a flattened oval. A whip-like tail—the same he had seen before—beat the water, disturbing the calm pool. Gregor swallowed. He'd been so much better off not knowing what was attached to it. The neck was at least thirty feet long, and atop its sinuous, scaly pink length sat a bullet-shaped head. There were indentations where eyes might have been, somewhere in the creature's evolution, but they were long gone. What use were eyes to it down here, after all?

Its mouth opened, letting loose a low howl that chilled Gregor right down to his DNA. And then his light hit the teeth. Hundreds and hundreds of teeth in three rows headed their way.

Gregor meant to close his eyes in anticipation of the hit, but then he made out a light from the corner of his eye. It came from somewhere up the steep cliff, and it was inherently different from the artificial beams of the flashlights.

Somewhere on his right, Luxa screamed. But not in terror—in excitement. He followed her pointed flashlight beam with his eyes and had to blink multiple times to make sure he wasn't seeing things, but no. There, in one of the higher openings in the wall, stood a figure holding the light source, which appeared to be some sort of torch. Below him was the sea with the dinosaur monsters, and before Gregor could shout or even breathe, the figure jumped.

Gregor could not do anything besides observe his fall in what felt like slow motion. He fell, and . . . only when he stabbed it into one of the necks to break his fall did Gregor realize the thing he was holding wasn't a torch—it was a sword. A sword that was . . . on fire. A legend, Overlander, Nerissa's words rang in his ears. An old myth describes a menacing figure wielding a burning sword. A burning . . .

It was him! Only then did Gregor process who he was looking at—the outcast they had traveled with. He was . . . here.

"His sword burns!" Mareth screamed, and Gregor knew they were all watching the scene. They watched the guy—the Death Rider—lock his limbs around the serpent's neck and yank it back before it could have taken a bite from the ship. The creature gave a primeval roar, attempting to shake him, but he had his burning blade lodged deep in its flesh. It didn't move an inch, not even as the serpent began twisting and swaying violently, producing more sounds that seemed to be piercing the veil of time, reaching them from an archaic, primal era of monsters and living fossils.

"He's riding it!" yelled Howard.

"He is the Death Rider," whispered Luxa reverently, despite the dire situation. "I must one day have a sword like that."

Gregor's stomach coiled. Of course, she would say that. He wasn't even comfortable with normal swords. Lighting them on fire seemed like it would only make things worse.

Before he had time to ponder the thought more, Gregor was knocked back again when an enormous force hit the boat from below, splitting it in half. A different serpent had come up underneath them.

"Abandon ship!" Mareth managed to choke out before the floor broke right under their feet.

Gregor clutched the side of the boat, and for a split second, he had it in himself to be impressed that Mareth had managed to form a coherent sentence at all. But then his blood froze in his veins because then he heard a tiny scream. His head whipped around to where he had thought he'd seen Temp secure Boots. He barely managed to slide over to scoop his sister and his pack in one swoop, then stumble for Ares.

But then Mareth screamed something else: "Jump!"

Of course—off the side of the boat. The bats couldn't catch them otherwise. Gregor abandoned his initial plan and scrambled up onto the edge, feeling Boots' tiny arms encircling his neck. "Hold on!" he choked out. "One—two—three!"

His legs pushed off the boat, and then it was gone, but Ares was under them almost immediately. The bat dipped and swerved, and Temp landed behind them. The roach was shaking like a leaf. Well, who wasn't?

For an undefined amount of time, Gregor clung to Ares' fur, attempting to control his own trembling. When he looked up again, he found everyone's flashlights on high beam. In their light, he helplessly watched their single torch hit the water with a sizzle.

When he turned ahead, he found a prehistoric nightmare unfolding before him. Half a dozen serpents had broken the surface of the pool now, and Gregor had a feeling more were coming. They swung their heads and tails, trying to take down whatever they could. They had no eyes, so Gregor guessed they had some other direction system, maybe even echolocation.

For a moment, Gregor considered whether he should draw his sword, but it would be of no use. He could only cling to Ares' back as the bat dodged the heads and tails frantically.

Where was the Death Rider? Gregor pictured the masked figure with the flaming sword and searched the boiling kettle of enraged serpents for a light source that differed from the flashlight beams. And there—Gregor finally spotted him, still clinging to his own serpent's neck. His blade was no longer wedged in its flesh. Instead, he swung it, slashing at every head and tail that came in range. Multiple serpents already wore bloodied marks.

Gregor had no idea where he had come from or why he was here, but he felt a wave of immense gratitude that he had come despite being sent away. We will never be far off either way, he had said and apparently meant it too.

But as he watched him send a serpent under, hissing in pain, he processed that something wasn't right . . . If the Death Rider was here, then where was Thanatos?

Before Gregor had the time to dwell on it, Ares took a sharp turn right to dodge the head of a serpent, almost knocking Gregor off. He screamed and loosened his grip on Boots, whom he was holding so tightly that he was probably choking her. A shadow darted by them, and only then did Gregor catch glimpses of Mareth and Howard on Andromeda and Luxa on Aurora, but . . . He dazedly counted everyone in his head and was speared by fear when he realized: Where was Twitchtip?

Only when he heard a high-pitched shriek did Gregor whip around to find Twitchtip dangling from a serpent's mouth by the tail. "Go, Ares!" he yelled, and the bat flew straight for the rat.

Only moments after Gregor decided to, at last, draw his sword, a tail caught Ares broadside and sent them hurling. He was knocked off Ares' back, and both the sword and Boots flew from his arms. "Boots! No!" The scream ripped from his mouth as he desperately beat the air with his arms. "Ares! Get her, Ares!"

But the bat caught him first. "Aurora has her!" Ares hissed before Gregor could panic. "Aurora has her and Temp!"

"Get in the tunnels!" Howard shouted as Andromeda whizzed by, and, horrified, Gregor registered that he was sitting upright, trying to hold an unconscious, bloody Mareth. "The tunnels!"

But before he could ask about Mareth, he caught a glimpse of Aurora's golden coat; she whizzed past the serpent that still had the Death Rider on its back, and for a moment, Boots' little face peeked over Luxa's shoulder.

Gregor meant to blow out a relieved breath, but it lodged in his throat when a new serpent came up in front of Aurora with a split jaw and an earth-shattering scream. The golden bat veered sharply, but . . . she wouldn't make it. Gregor saw that she wouldn't make it. Not Aurora, not Luxa, and not . . . "Boots!" he screamed at the top of his lungs.

Just as Ares was about to respond, a sudden, flaming blade appeared and swiftly struck the serpent. It whizzed across the monster's face, sending specks of blood flying at them.

As though in slow motion, Gregor watched the agile form that wielded it . . . fly. He was leaping . . . from his own serpent to the one that had threatened Aurora.

And then he was . . . falling.

He veered back and twisted his blade in mid-air, attempting to lodge it into the serpent's neck, but he was too far away. Instead, the motion ripped the sword out of his hand entirely. In the so-gained second, Aurora performed such a narrow twist that Gregor was surprised Luxa managed to hang on—but she escaped.

Gregor watched the flaming sword fly out of reach into one of the tunnel openings, but then his gaze became transfixed by the Death Rider again. His arms flew and twisted, and then there was a serpent head beneath him.

Gregor watched in horror as, for lack of options, his hand latched onto one of the creature's saber-like fangs. He clung to it, pulled himself up . . . and ended with his head between the serpent's jaws when they jolted shut.

Unexpectedly, a . . . sound? disrupted the silence of the flier's self-made grave.

Didn't you find something worth dying for?

The flier's head jerked up. But it was not the boy. It was . . . His mind hadn't spoken to him through this particular voice in a while: the girl.

Do not act so startled; you look like you've seen a ghost!

Her laughter rang painfully in his ears, and he shut his eyes.

Oh, come on, she chimed. You would have laughed had he made the joke!

Guilt suddenly swept over the flier; he had not seen her in such a long time. Not ever since . . .

Of course, you've not seen me, she called. And I was so happy about that too! Finally, some peace and quiet. And now stop lying to yourself, dumbass! You know why I'm here.

The cause worth dying for. He shifted. The boy wasn't his cause. They were the boy's cause. And he didn't want anything to do with them.

That may be the worst lie you have told yourself today . . . and you've done little but lie to yourself since the two of you fought. He is your cause, and he is scampering off on his own while you are sitting idly. Ha! You know what? For once, you actually surprised me.

The flier shook his head. In fact, nobody needs you. He cast his eyes down and smiled. It was true. He could barely believe he'd been so close to allowing himself to believe anything else. Why had that been?

He made you believe, the voice said. He needed you.

The boy needed him. The flier allowed his limbs to relax. That sentence held so much power that it had driven him to do so many things he hadn't expected to ever do again.

The boy had needed him to save him.

The boy had needed him to protect him.

The boy had needed him to teach him.

. . . And then the boy hadn't needed him anymore. He attempted to breathe calmly. Nobody needs you. Nobody . . . nobody . . .

Oh, cut it out, will you? We both know he did not actually mean that. Just as I am certain that you didn't mean what you said either.

The flier shook his head to get the pecking voices out. There were so many tangled strings of emotions that he felt unable to exercise any sort of control. There were so many words and instances that he didn't understand. This time, not because I require your company, but because I enjoy it.

And . . . he hadn't had a response to that, not in all the time that had passed since. But it didn't seem to matter. The boy hadn't needed a response. The boy was—

I can honestly not believe it, said the girl. There I was, claiming your reason wouldn't magically drop on your big, thick head—I have never been so glad to have been wrong.

He was . . . his reason. His lids fluttered. The boy should be here. He had to be here. If he was not here . . . The flier allowed his body to grow limp. He had been . . . his reason. He was not there anymore. He was gone.

Nobody needs you.

Of course he needs you! The flier bothered not to open his eyes. He wanted not to look, to see the empty beach, to be reminded of . . . And he would still be here too, had you a better grasp on your own emotions, dumbass.

The flier's head jerked up.

You know I am right. He is unable to let go of his past and he made an impulsive decision because of it. You've been around him enough; this should not surprise you. After all, this is the boy who agreed to kill a gnawer general on a whim, chased after a quest to prove himself, and extended a hand at you for no reason other than that he wanted to. He will not give up—not on them, and not on himself.

The flier gritted his teeth, but the voice of the girl only laughed. Have you not admitted to yourself that you care for him? Don't deny it, she heeded.

He gritted his teeth, unable to muster the strength to chase her off. Why was he so powerless all of a sudden? He had nearly flown over the waterway only a few days ago. The flier forced himself to rise and spread his wings, only to almost collapse again; he almost reeled into the river, heaving.

It did not matter whether he cared for the boy because the boy did not care for him. He clenched his jaw, barely keeping himself standing. He only cared for himself. His sympathy was wasted on him, so why should he bother? He had irrationally decided that he wanted his company, and now he had changed his mind. And, so what?

Is that seriously what you think? She sounded scolding. Wasn't it you who told him that his survival and his success were meaningless? You who told him that he may not run into certain death for the sake of his family? What is it that you are so scared of? She laughed. What is it? To be left behind if he actually manages to find his place with them again someday?

The flier stared into the streaming water, unable to argue with a fear that ran so deep that he hadn't even properly processed it yet. Was that why he had attempted to dissuade the boy from this mission? He suddenly thought. Was he the selfish one?

What you are is a hopeless overthinker! The girl scolded. And such a stubborn pessimist. Remember how long it took me to make you trust me as much as you trust him now? Under different circumstances, I would be a little jealous, but I have not seen you so happy in such a long time.

The flier blinked. She—give up hope?

My hope is your hope. It is finite. Maybe his is not. Considering it managed to break through your skepticism and apathy so quickly, it wouldn't surprise me. She sighed. But you found him, and the hope he gave you also reached me.

The flier attempted not to tremble. It was . . . this was all so unreal. The boy was not the girl. He would never be her. Never be like her.

Of course not, she scoffed. And he doesn't have to be. He is he, and I am . . . was I. But I am your past. You accuse him of clinging to his past, and then you do the same—you cling to me—when your future is right there.

No; he breathed out shakily. There was no future. Was there a . . . future?

Of course there is, dumbass! Your future, to whom you told that his accomplishments and his survival do not matter. But they matter! Do you not understand that they matter as long as there is anyone still around to whom they could matter?

But there was no one. The flier stared into the water. It had a purpose. Creatures depended on it to survive. They remembered it. No one remembered the forgotten.

You are not no one!

His head flew up.

Yes, you! She heeded. You! You may be the one to whom he matters. You may be the one to remember him. As he may remember you. As he may instill you with hope. With light. Did you seriously not consider that?

But the boy did not want to matter to him. He had chosen them because mattering to the flier was clearly not enough for him.

He is trying to prove himself to them because you told him that he does not matter.

The flier jerked up.

Is that not what you said? The voice of the girl mocked. And so, it doesn't mean that he doesn't want to matter to you. Does he not always try his hardest to earn your approval? To whom did he make his promise?

The boy had promised . . . His confidently raised chin and the crooked grin flashed before the flier's inner eye. I fulfilled my promise, he heard the boy say. I stand before you as an outcast who is not only alive but has learned to handle himself. And suddenly there was something else resonating alongside those words—something the boy had not said aloud, but . . . Aren't you proud of me?

Why are you surprised that he stormed off? The girl cried. When you told him that it was all meaningless instead of the truth? The truth . . . that you are proud of him. You are!

He was, the flier thought. He was proud. And he was terrified out of his mind. To be left alone again. He did not want to be alone anymore.

Then why are you letting it happen?

Because . . . Nobody needs you.

And I am telling you, he didn't mean that! The girl screamed. Is he not even worth finding again? Not even worth confronting with his words? He is not just anyone.

An odd emotion overcame the flier, followed by a certainty: some things were worth fighting for. And if he allowed the boy to walk away now, he wouldn't have anything left, of the sort. They could only ever run into certain death together . . . no? So, he'd be responsible . . . he already was.

If anything . . . doesn't he deserve a chance to take it back? He does. And so do you—Thanatos!

The words shot life back into his body, and in one motion, he spread his wings. What . . . had he done? "He's going to get himself killed," the flier mumbled to himself. "He's going to . . ."

He is, the girl's voice accused. Unless you go and find him again, you will lose him.

He could not . . . Thanatos struggled to control his weakened body, yet at the thought of the boy in the grasp of a serpent, he felt a fresh surge of energy.

Won't you finally call him by his name? The girl called after him. You, who can't even bring yourself to think yours, right now?

Henry had a name, the flier suddenly thought, and finally flung himself in the air. And he had a life—and he would let himself be tied up and flung off a cliff before he'd allow him to lose it.

***

Until now, Thanatos had never felt such disdain for his own wingspan. Every time his wing scraped a wall, every detour he had to take, every tight corner he could barely fit, felt like another useless nuisance in his way . . . for Henry.

The boy was the only thing on his mind, urging him forward. Every second he lost with travel was a second in which the boy could be injured or killed. In his absence, anything could happen, and the flier's mind spared him not a single gruesome detail of all the things a fully-grown serpent could do to Henry.

How could he have let himself develop so much care? Thanatos felt the urge to let loose a string of curses. It was bad enough that he cared, but the full extent of just how much suddenly slapped him in the face and filled his mind with panic. How was any of this real—anything that had happened over the last half a year? How was the boy real?

He shot through yet another tight shaft like a projectile. The Labyrinth was always hard to traverse, but that was not his concern. Because now, for the first time in forever, he had a goal, an aim, a . . . purpose. What he had to do lay ahead of him, clear as light. He would do whatever it took . . . to save the foolish boy from the serpents. From himself.

What even was this odd relationship of theirs? Sometimes he felt as though they were friends, but there were also times when he wondered whether his dedication to the boy was one-sided. What was he to him? A useful ally? A friend? Or only a means to an end?

In hindsight, Thanatos understood he must have flown for several hours. It didn't feel like such then; it felt like minutes. Like he'd breathed in and out, and then he'd heard the screams.

He had only ever engaged a serpent once—back with the girl—yet their roars had etched themselves into his mind, and panic numbed him. With every fiber, he prayed that the boy might be okay. Against all odds, he found himself hoping. And so, he nearly collided with the wall bordering a coiling path.

He would not lose the boy before he told him that he mattered. With every muscle in his body tense and his teeth clenched, he was filled with an unyielding determination. It was not over. Not if he had anything to say about it.

Emerging into the open above the Tankard, Thanatos narrowly evaded the gaping jaws of one of the creatures and twisted upward. For a moment, he hovered above the nightmarish scene, taking in the destroyed boat and the fliers with the quest party on their backs who did their best to dodge the serpents. But the only one he searched for was Henry.

Then he was startled by a bestial roar, louder than the rest, and from the corner of his eye, Thanatos finally saw Henry.

A flaming blade flew at the serpent—it struck, it landed, and he fell.

Henry fell . . .

He clung to one of the creature's fangs, head caught between its jaws.

. . . They shut.

There was an audible crack. A single high-pitched scream speared the flier's ears and mind in a way that differed from the countless screams that still reverberated in the heavy air.

There was a mask—no . . . it was two—two pieces of mask—dropping into the foaming waves.

There was the body of the boy in the serpent's mouth before it let go, and he fell . . . fell into the roaring sea after his mask.

And so the flier ceased thinking. He saw the monster, and he saw the sword, where it had landed, high in a tunnel entry. Then, the handle was between his jaws and sliced through flesh . . . a neck. The serpent's scream was meaningless.

It was not the boy's.

The sword slipped from his mouth into a different tunnel, but he didn't have eyes for it. Death lingered for only a heartbeat . . . then dove after his Rider.