"Hnnnng," I groan as consciousness makes an unwelcome return.

"She's up," says a familiar Ariskolese-accented voice from somewhere nearby.

My eyelids feel like lead. When I finally pry them open, it's to the sight of Howla, Rhetrien and Thrall looming over me. I struggle to focus. Everything is dim and blurry, and my thoughts feel like a thick soup. All melted together. Instinctively, I reach out to the Web.

But it's not there.

Shock reverberates through me. It's like stepping down, expecting another stair, only to find you've already reached the end of the flight. My stomach somersaults as my heartrate skips frantically faster.

"Try to take it slow," cautions Rhetrien as I struggle to sit up. "How are you feeling?"

"Like I've been run over by a train," I rasp, rubbing my forehead with my free hand as I lean on my elbow. "What happened? Where are we? How long was I—"

"Please," Rhetrien reaches out to help support my back. "Take it slow."

"None of us had control of ourselves, after they pushed us into the water," says Howla, and I squint, trying to focus my bleary vision. Something's different about her, but it's hard to pinpoint at first. The dim light dances across her skin in a rainbow of hues so subtle I can't be sure I'm not imagining them. Like she's walked through a mist of Mire and come out with it still clinging to her flesh.

"Except for you and Thrall, of course." adds Rhetrien, brows knit with concern.

"But whoever was controlling us, it stopped soon as they forced us in here." Howla frowns.

"We're in the mountain behind the stronghold, in the old tunnels that lead to the Dead City. This whole chamber's got to have stalstone in the walls—it blocks Mirefallen abilities." Rhetrien's tone is uneven, strained.

Pressing both my hands to the mattress beneath me, I push myself further upright, leaning to look past the others to the space we occupy. We're in a broad, low-ceilinged chamber, circular and carved entirely of dark stone. Three large, four-posted beds set with heavy black curtains occupy half of it, one of which I'm lying in. Each is luxuriously appointed with thick mattresses, blankets and a bounty of pillows. Six identical wooden trunks are set between and to the sides of them.

There are two doors—one with a slot and one without—facing one another from opposite sides of the room. Small lanterns line the walls, and the other end of the space is filled with low tables and cushions.

"I don't understa—wait." Something clicks into place as my brain finally processes what's been said. "Weren't the Kolikai ambassadors helping our people restore the tunnels? And doesn't all stalstone come from Kolikai? Doesn't that mean they're involved?" I look between Howla and Thrall, unable to make eye contact with Rhetrien. But they're the one who answers.

"The official restoration efforts never got this far, and the Morovani have been buying our stalstone for years. They could easily have done this on their own."

"Clearly they've had enough with Mirish unity," Saffryn, now seated in an ordinary wheelchair, speaks up at last. "Decided to take back what they've always thought was rightfully theirs." Her words drip with acid now. As I strain to get a look at her, Thrall shifts to accommodate me. Exhausted but otherwise looking well enough, she's wearing the same soft gray robe as the rest of us. If the Mire's left a mark, I can't see it. Again I refocus, seeking out more information on the Web—and again I reel at its absence.

"I take it we're locked in here, then." Though it's not a question, the other's grim expressions are all the answer I need. "How long was I unconscious?"

"Only a few hours," replies Rhetrien.

"What happened while I was out?"

Just behind and to the side of Saffryn, what I'd taken for a deep pool of shadow cringes backward, stretching and reforming.

The black-goo Mirefallen. I'd never been able to work out which Heir they were.

"We were made to come straight here from the labyrinth. Then that High Steward—what was her name? Andris?" Howla pauses, scowling, looking as though she'd like to spit. "She watched and took notes while that abyssal puppeteer forced us to demonstrate our new abilities like a bunch of Floating Circus performers."

A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

"Oh, I don't know." Saffryn's actually smiling now. "It was kind of satisfying seeing them scatter when they saw what you could do."

Howla exhales briefly through her nose, but her opalescent skin flushes as she turns from the Solrathi Rhaj and back to me.

"Anyway, after that she just left and locked us in."

We're all quiet for a moment as I look around, searching for something external to focus on. Anything but sitting in silence with the feelings of betrayal, confusion and fear raging away inside me. The unknown Mirefallen flows towards the wall.

"Who are they?" I ask no one in particular, eyes fixed on the liquid shadow snaking across the floor.

It's Rhetrien who answers. "Ozmanthas AlJhinar, Rhaj of Kolikai. He'd probably tell you to call him Oz, if he could. That's what I call him."

I stare at them, wondering if my brain's still addled by the drug.

"Rhaj of Koli—but I thought that was you?"

Rhetrien raises an eyebrow. "I'm Rhaj of Morovin."

"What? But..." Then it dawns on me. "You're Vireshi's child."

The only Mirish person since the Kolikai themselves ever to leave the continent to live among others. And a Morovani. Rhetrien's jaw sets in a hard line as they regard me, stepping back a bit.

"Not that it matters who's Rhaj of what. We're all just puppets now. Fabienne or whoever that Mirefallen is—they're the ones in charge." At the mention of my Khej mother's name, my heart constricts. How could she? An image of Kaidin's crystallized face swims before my eyes, and tears follow.

Rhetrien grimaces. "Before you start wondering, no, I'm not secretly on their side. My mother may have been one of them, but I'm born and raised Kolikai. And I don't know anything more about all of this than the rest of you. All I have is educated speculation"

Again I catch myself reaching for what isn't there, feeling for lies. But with no sense of their Ember, I'm blind to the truth. How did I become so dependent on my abilities so quickly? I search the other's eyes, looking for distrust. But since my accident, I've become even worse at reading expressions. All I know for sure is that I don't have the energy or strength to question Rhetrien further right now.

Groaning, I brush past Howla to slide off the bed. Thrall hovers a pace or so behind, probably worried I'll topple over at any moment.

"I don't understand." My hand tangles in my hair. "We're prisoners, aren't we? So why these nice beds and cushions? Why—"

There's a scraping sound as the slot at the bottom of the door to my left slides open and a tray of food is pushed through. It's immediately followed by five more.

Howla's the first to go over to them, snatching the platters up two at a time and carrying them to one of the tables in the cushioned section of the room. The rest of us follow, aside from Ozmanthas, who remains puddled against the wall. As the Ariskolese Rhaj drops onto a cushion and reaches for one of the hand pies, Saffryn yelps.

"Don't eat that! What are you thinking?"

She pauses with the pie halfway to her mouth. "We have to eat sometime. It's either this or eachother." She smirks over at Saffryn, who scowls. "I take it you're not offering? In that case," she takes a large bite, chews and swallows. "I'll be our poison-taster. Though I can't imagine why they'd go to all this trouble only to knock us off like that."

"It's not really death we need to worry about, but drugging," says Rhetrien.

Howla's eyebrows fly up as she swallows another bite. "Why bother with that when they can already make most of us do anything they want?"

To my surprise, Thrall sits down beside her.

"If I don't eat soon, I'll be a danger to all of you," he signs—his hands faltering a bit towards the end.

I can feel my eyes go wide. "You don't have any medicine, do you? Will you be alright?"

"I have it now," he says before gesturing to a small bowl on one of the platters. I lean over to look, finding a handful of moss-colored pellets. "But I'm not taking it."

"Why not? If you're willing to eat the food—"

He shakes his head. "Pash and I almost never took our doses. We sent them back to our families in secret. I think that's why we couldn't be controlled."

"You've been getting by on willpower alone this entire time?" Rhetrien asks, aghast. "You know you could've killed Nikessa, don't you? Your own charge?"

Thrall's wolfish eyes skirt away, avoiding contact with all of us. "I took it when I knew I had to, to be safe. But otherwise—" His hands slow, stopping entirely for a moment as unreadable emotions war across his face. "We were sure we'd never hurt her. We'd built up a resistance to the craving. But with so many of you now, I don't know if I can..." as he trails off again, Rhetrien shakes their head.

"Just eat."

About an hour later, neither Thrall nor Howla are showing signs of sickening, dying, or otherwise drugged behavior. I'm so hungry by now that my stomach feels like its given up and decided to eat itself. So when Rhetrien sits down to eat, coaxing Ozmanthas over to join them, I go too. The hand pies—stuffed with a mixture of duck meat, nuts, berries and green onions—are cold now, but even more delicious for how hungry I am.

Before eating anything themselves, Rhetrien plies Oz with a piece of fruit, laying it on the ground before him. The black goo quivers for a moment, then extends outward to engulf the food.

Saffryn holds out the longest, finally approaching the table to join us once we've satiated our hunger enough to start talking.

"So," says Howla in a hush once we're all circled up together. "Who's got a good idea for how we break out of here?"

Rhetrien shakes their head. "Even if we do, they'll ju—"

They stop short and we all turn to look as a muffled, metallic clicking issues from the slotted door. Then it bursts open, and my blood goes cold.