The black waters spread around them forever, with ancient structures built for untold reasons rusting away into that abyssal lake.

Eolh and Poire followed the concrete path for hours. It glowed in the human’s presence as if the ruins themselves needed to herald his return: Here he comes, the last of his kind.

And when the concrete path left the black lake, and all those cavernous walls collapsed down into a cramped, circular tunnel, the human god put his hand on the wall, where a huge crack split the concrete like a lightning bolt, and the blue light flickered and went dim.

Then, the god fell to pieces.

It started with his breath. Too fast, in and out, as if the air had suddenly become too thin to breathe. He was shaking his head and saying, “It’s wrong. Where? Where?” before he slid down to the ground and put his head in his hands, all that blue light shining purple on his dark skin.

To Eolh, he didn’t look like a god. He looked like a fledgling avian who had wandered into the wrong part of the city with his life savings in his pockets only to find that stray hands had taken everything from him.

“What is it?” Eolh said.

The god looked up with bloodshot eyes. “It’s all wrong. There should be repairbots everywhere. Constructs fixing the walls. And where are the trains? Where is the guide? Where—” He choked and put his face in his hands again.

Some god. The first sign of trouble and already he was folding. And there were actually people who worshipped the gods. Millions of them, and not just on Gaiam, but across the whole Empire . . .

Well, the android could talk about destiny and prophecy all she wanted, but Eolh knew weakness when he saw it. Terminal weakness. The kind that would get anyone shanked and left to die in some dark alley.

Not for the first time, Eolh cursed himself for falling into this trap. Again. Hope—that’s what did it to him, all those years ago. He had fallen in with Jouri’s crew because of hope. Because of those gods-damned cyrans.

And now, he had done it again. Why?

Because he’s human, that’s why. Because he’s supposed to be a god.

Well, now the god was sobbing and choking down air and curled into a ball in a cramped tunnel miles below the surface of the Cauldron, and Eolh was stuck with him because of his own damn choices.

Only this time . . .

This time, Eolh had learned his lesson.

He could leave. Eolh had the whole thing planned out in his head.

Leaving the human would be easy. Just walk away. Then he could fly back the way they had come, taking only the passages and tunnels that went up.

From there, he only needed to follow the flow of water, and he’d be back in the Cauldron—right?

Back to safety.

And he needn’t feel an ounce of guilt this time either. If Poire really was a god, then he should be able to take care of himself, right? Even if he was only a fledgling.

And if he can’t? Some small part of Eolh’s mind clawed back at the thought. What if he dies because of you?

Let him. Eolh didn’t owe him anything. Thanks to his own rules, he didn’t owe anyone anything. Never take on debt. Never do more or less than your part. Never join another crew, not ever again . . .

“Xiaoyun,” Poire was whispering to himself, over and over. His voice was shaky and rough.

Is he crying?

“Xiaoyun—I don’t understand.”

“Is that a word or a name?”

“It attacked her. Why would it do that? The medical construct tried to kill her. None of this makes any sense.”

You’re telling me, Fledge, Eolh thought.

Poire wiped his nose. “I have to go home. I have to find her.”

Eolh almost laughed. He turned it into a choking caw, saying, “What are you talking about? There’s nothing left for you, human.”

The human stared up at him. His eyes were dark, daggering things, and for a split moment, Eolh felt a prickle under his feathers. As if an electric current were running through the walls, and he just happened to be in the way.

“How do you know?” he said.

Eolh opened his mouth to answer, but too many thoughts crashed against each other.

Because no one has seen a human in thousands of years? Because even the best-working old tech is failing and breaking down? Because who in the eight hells would build a city this far underground?

But then again, he had known—just like everyone else had known—that the gods were gone.

So what was Poire?

The priests spoke of “the Great Return.” Of the savior of aviankind. And again, Eolh had to stifle a laugh at the thought of Gaiam resting on the shoulders of this thin, bony, undergrown fledgling sitting in front of him.

Better to leave him now before you waste any more time, Eolh thought.

And another thought: If you leave him, he will die. Eolh was certain of that, as certain as he was that this whole damned enterprise was pointless.

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A third thought echoed through his mind, this one unwelcome. Unbidden. She saved your life, you ungrateful worm. The android saved your life. Don’t you owe her this?

Eolh shook his head. He already had his payment. And really, what was the point of doing a job that couldn’t be done?

“I can’t do this.” Poire was collapsed into a ball. His voice was muffled, and he was trying to hide it, but Eolh could hear the sobs racking his body anyway. “I’m the wrong one. Xiaoyun, why me?”

He’s not even looking, Eolh thought. This is it, Eolh. You can just walk away.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Poire said. He was looking up at Eolh, his dark brown eyes dull and hard.

“You think so?”

“I know. I can tell you don’t want me. I’ve seen that look too many times. They didn’t want me either. Nobody does.”

“Why not?”

“I’m a failure. I’m useless. Harrison hated me. None of the cultivars liked me. Not even Matsuda. Xiaoyun couldn’t help me either because I’m useless.”

Eolh blew a breath through the nares in his beak. The human’s words tugged on his heart in a way he didn’t know it could be tugged anymore.

Useless. Failure.

That’s what you are, Eolh. You liar.

“And now everything is wrong, and I don’t know what any of this is. What happened. Why me?”

Eolh had been asking himself the same question for a while now. Ever since the android had shoved the human into his arms and said those words: It has to be you.

The android had said something about a Savior, but Eolh’s choice had nothing to do with that. Who actually believed the priests and prophecies, anyway? And so what if the walls themselves glowed in his presence? Maybe they would do that for anyone.

“Leave me here,” Poire said. “I’m nothing. I’m a waste of life. Just go and leave me.”

In every life, in every world, there are truths that make sense. They are true because they make sense. But here was one that didn’t: Eolh couldn’t leave.

He could fly. He could simply walk away.

He could go back to Lowtown and scrape through the rest of his life, just like he had for the last nineteen years. And die in a gutter, useless and forgotten, like a good corvani should.

Eolh loosed a sigh that lasted a whole lifetime, thinking, Why not do something good for once in your gods-damned life?

The fledgling was curled in a ball and taking deep, shuddering breaths. Eolh put a feathered hand on his back and patted him awkwardly.

“Easy, human. It’s been a long day. Take it easy. I’m not going anywhere.”

***

The One Who Ate the Others could smell it.

That undeniable scent. Tangy and metallic. Fresh and warm.

Blood.

He had to suck back the saliva pooling in his mouth.

Below him, three spiderachs waded through the black lake, their jerky movements making dark splashes in the water. They almost looked like the water striders that his people feasted on; in their larval years, only these constructs sank into the lake. Their long, spidery legs trailed rust in the water, as their headlights swiveled and scanned the cavern.

Twin self-loading rifles sat atop their bulbous heads, ready to fire rubberized pellets. The Magistrate said he would pay double if the target lived.

But there was more than one body down here. And the scent of blood—was that avian blood he smelled? They had said nothing of avians.

The One Who Ate the Others inhaled deeply through the wet slits in his face. Yes. He was certain now. Delicious.

While the three constructs waded through the black lake, the One Who Ate the Others crawled along the tunnel walls, the pads of his fingers keeping him attached to the rock and broken stonework. His metal legs had their own pads, and these made a soft puck-puck sound as he crawled.

Many are the nameless things that lurk below. And though they would die if they so much as tasted his flesh, the One Who Ate the Others did not take chances. Best to stay out of the water.

The constructs were talking to each other, beeping and chirping and grunting with their mechanical voices. Out loud.

Stupid things. Do they not know how to hunt?

Of course not. Machines could not taste their prey. Could not shiver with delight at the bloodscent. No construct could ever experience the sheer ecstasy of stalking prey as it walked and breathed, completely unaware it was being watched.

But he could.

And right now, the One Who Ate the Others could taste his quarry. It had been in this cavern not very long ago.

One of the spiderachs beeped, and the other two swiveled their heads, illuminating the water where a platform rose out of that long, black lake.

The platform was covered in a slick, black growth that glistened in the false torchlight.

And there was something else, lying in the water. A huge, metal thing. One of the constructs chirped twice: Old tech.

This was a good sign.

But when their lights fell on the metal hulk half sunken in the black lake, he felt the cold rush of disappointment. It was junk metal, stripped bare by scavengers and eaten by water and time.

True, old tech was powerful. It did not rust, unlike these spiderachs. The imperials who made them were clever and dangerous, but they could never compare to old tech . . .

One of the constructs spider-walked through the black waters toward the hulk, dipping its legs around the bodies floating in the water, their pale bellies crisscrossed with black scars.

Blood takers. All of them, dead. It looked like they had been electrocuted.

Electrocuted. This was a strange word to the One Who Ate the Others. In his spawning home, there had been no concept of electricity. But then that’s why he had come all this way, wasn’t it?

More power meant better hunting.

The old gods could capture the power of lightning storms. The avians and the imperials rediscovered a fraction of that power, though he didn’t understand how.

But what he did know was that lightning could kill. Fur, feather, machine. It didn’t matter. A single touch could liquefy a body’s insides.

He inhaled deeply, shivering at the thought.

The One Who Ate the Others dropped soundlessly to the platform below and hopped down to the water’s edge. He could smell it, coming from one of the blood takers.

Careful not to touch the water—there might yet be more blood takers here—he flexed his legs. Long ago, one of them had been severed in one of his earliest official jobs. Cut too short to grow back.

So he cut the other one off and paid a tinker to build him new legs (who he ate, after the job was done). They were heavy, yes. But they were more powerful than his flesh-and-blood limbs, and their motors whispered as soft as the wind.

He vaulted across the lake and landed as lightly as he could on the husk of metal. Still, it creaked dangerously under his weight.

Which one was it? The transport was surrounded by hundreds of them, their pale, segmented bodies floating still in the water, each one covered in grime and spotted with disease. He could see their black veins just under their skin.

He tasted the air through his skin.

There. One of the blood takers was engorged, and the skin was a shade darker than its siblings.

The One Who Ate the Others opened his mouth, letting his tongue shoot out and stick to the engorged, dead thing. He sank his serrated lips into its flesh. Blood filled his mouth.

Human blood.

His eyes rolled to the back of his skull. His whole body tingled and pricked at the taste, and wave after wave of pleasure rolled through him. He almost didn’t want to swallow.

The blood was still warm, which meant his prey was close.

The anticipation was excruciating.

The constructs were still splashing around in the water. Obviously, he would have to destroy them later, but he still hoped they would make a good distraction first.

And then, despite their splashing, the One Who Ate the Others heard a sound.

A drop of water. The scraping of a claw. No. A talon.

We are followed.

He swallowed the rest of the blood taker whole, letting the warmth fill his limbs. Then the One Who Ate the Others jumped, his mechanical legs thrusting him all the way up to the dark ceiling, where he clung to the cold, rough surface hidden among the shadows.

And he waited.

Even as the constructs moved on, following the platform deeper into the cavern, he waited.

Whoever was out there, whoever was following, knew what they were doing. They made no movement, no sound.

But he could taste her scent.

The One Who Ate the Others couldn’t stop from smiling. An oqyllan.

A royal.

It had been a long time since he’d eaten an avian queen.