Something was wrong. Silas stared at the ceiling, trying to determine what felt so strange. Wrong wasn't the right word. Something was different. Silas rarely got up this early. Lately, fatigue had kept him locked in slumber's dark dungeon until he was freed by some external stimuli. Most of the time, it was Vera's laughter. More frequently, it was someone shaking him. So why was he awake now in the dead of night? The corridors were empty, the Underhalo silent. The only thing Silas could hear was the gentle murmur of his deep, even breaths.

  Silas smiled. He felt better—more energetic than he had since his aether had been broken. His limbs were weightless, his vision clear and focused. When he laughed, it sounded peculiar, his voice's echo repeating almost endlessly.

  He moved to sit up and swing his legs over the side of the bed—and froze. Like a specter, his limbs were intangible, transparent. They phased through the bed and his body. Silas flailed, floating up, away from himself. Helpless, he stared down in horror, watching as he left his body behind.

  This has happened before! Silas stilled, allowing himself to rotate on an imaginary axis, tumbling through the air above his bed, above himself. In the Western Quadrant, during Echo's game of hide and seek. The Unspoken did this to me! But they weren't here now. To be certain, Silas listened hard, fearing an Unspoken was lurking somewhere underground.

  Before, the Unspoken had removed his consciousness from his body. They'd also put it back when they were done with him. There were no Unspoken here now. Silas was on his own. And he had no idea what to do.

  He tried to swim through the air. That got him nowhere fast. All he accomplished was a pathetic thrashing motion. The frantic gyrations also repelled him farther from his body. If he strayed too far from his physical form, he knew he'd never be able to return. Near panic, Silas willed himself to remain calm and think of a solution.

  That's it!

  In this ghostly form, Silas was nothing more than a wisp of thought. Perhaps the way to control this incorporeal body was through thinking? He gave it a try—imagining himself dropping to the ground. Slowly, unsteadily, he descended. Yet when the soles of his feet touched down, they didn't stop at the floor—they kept sinking. Again, Silas flailed, falling into the solid rock below. Then he remembered what he had to do. He commanded himself to stop. It worked. Next, he pictured a string attached to his head, tugging upward.

  Finally, Silas steadied, "standing" beside his bed. Watching himself sleep was uncanny. His real body looked fragile lying there beneath the covers, small and breakable. His skin was pale and clammy. Silas leaned in for a closer look. Humors were trickling from his nostrils, seeping into the satin of his pillowcase.

  Is this because of my damaged aether? Silas pressed a ghostly hand to his chest. It slipped right through. He tried to merge back into his skin, but nothing happened.

  Silas really was panicking now. He paced his room, his disembodied feet making not a sound. The problem was clear as ice: Silas's mind was slipping its tether, losing its connection to his physical form. Soon, his body would be an empty husk—an avatar without a soul. How long did he have before his body and mind were severed completely?

  Hours passed indiscriminately. Several times, Silas attempted to combine his body and mind, each attempt ending in failure. Morning came. Silas glided through the walls, hovering in the corridor to watch the Underhalo awaken with the new day. Oscar left his dormitory first. Silas barred his way—blocking the corridor with arms outstretched. Oscar neither saw nor felt him as he passed through his wispy form and strolled to the washroom, rubbing his sleepy eyes. Vera was quiet this morning. No laughter. No jests. She simply exited her dormitory and padded to the kitchen. Silas moved with her as far as he could, stopping when something within him tightened and recoiled. He froze and backpedaled, rushing back to his body's side. He'd stretched the bounds of this precarious state too far. His body was sweating and shaking, breath coming fast and shallow. Silas had come close to self-destruction.

  Afraid of leaving, Silas remained by his bed, listening to the sounds reverberating through the walls. Pa was in the kitchen, talking to Vera. Silas couldn't hear what they were saying. Then came the obnoxious creaking from Pa's wheelchair as he rolled down the corridor. Pa stopped outside Silas's door and rapped his knuckles against the metal.

  "Silas, it's morning," Pa said, knocking a few more times to punctuate his words. "It's time for you to get up."

  Silas was yanked toward his body. The tether between awareness and physicality thickened and contracted, wrenching him back. But it wasn't enough. Silas entered this bizarre half-merged state in which he could simultaneously feel with his skin and see with his mind, even though his eyes were closed.

  "My lad, are you all right in there?"

  Silas slammed into himself. The force of the collision jolted him awake. He sprang into a seated position, gasping, clutching his chest. His heart thudded madly, so fast it made his head rush. Pa must have heard the commotion because he barged into the room—ramming his wheelchair into the doorframe.

  Silas didn't miss how heavy his limbs felt. Still out of breath, he eased back against the pillows, thinking calming thoughts.

  "Did you have a bad dream, my lad?" Pa positioned his chair beside Silas's bed and considered the full glass of water on the nightstand.

  Silas didn't answer. He was through with lying, but how did he begin to explain to Pa what had just happened? Instead of coming up with a poorly worded excuse, he prepared his morning dose of Powder of Neuroleptic, measuring it into the water glass and downing it as quickly as he could.

  Pa waited until Silas had finished to point out the puddle of red on his pillowcase. Silas sniffed and wiped under his nose, smearing blood along his upper lip. Pa knew without Silas admitting to it that something had transpired in the night, but he didn't dwell on the specifics.

  "I've been thinking," Pa said, gripping the blanket draped over his legs, "about what you said yesterday. About your res—“ He cleared his throat. “… Aether situation. I think it's time we talked. About my research. About how you came to be. Maybe what I say will help Echo heal you."

  Silas leaned forward, eager to hear more. Pa's Coldspire notes were only a small sample of Project Concordia's research material. Dr. Veyl suggested the documents were dense and technical; after all, he'd been hired by the Empire to parse through them and convert the information into plain language. Silas hardly understood what little bit he'd read at Coldspire. He trusted Pa would explain in a way he could comprehend.

  "I never wanted you to learn of this," Pa sighed, gaze downcast. "I just wanted you to live a normal life. To go to school like a normal boy, make friends, and be free. But in the back of my mind I always knew our quiet life in Droswick wouldn't last forever. That's why I wrote what I did and distributed those bundles around the Empire. If something happened to me, I wanted you to know the truth, even if I had been too much of a coward to tell you myself."

  Silas raised his hands to sign. He wanted to tell Pa that he wasn't a coward and that he understood why he did what he did. But Pa gently guided his hands down to rest atop the covers, shaking his head.

  "Project Concordia began with animal trials. Mammals, mostly, but we used birds and the occasional nonavian reptile, too. These early trials gave us hope. It was easy, you see, to create an embryo with Unspoken and non-human genetic material. Easier still was transplanting Unspoken neural tissue into animal brains. We never did learn why. Perhaps the immune response against Unspoken antigens was less robust in animals compared to humans. Maybe it was because animals have less complex brains than we do—more mundane neural circuitry. Some philosophers even suggested lack of sentience was the culprit. We still don't have an answer. All we know is it was relatively easy. But training animals to forge an alliance with the Unspoken was out of the question. So we moved on to human trials."

  Silas thought back to the animals at Coldspire, dormant in cryogenic suspension chambers until Pa accidentally roused them. He wondered how many more animals from these initial trials were still out there. The answer to this query would have to wait; Pa's story was far from over.

  "The first thirty-six human subjects were failures." Pa winced at Silas's repulsed expression but kept going. "But synthesizing them was not the issue. We followed the same procedure as we did with the animals. The trouble was we created mindless, vegetative vessels without consciousness over and over again. They never opened their eyes. Their neural activity was quiescent. EEG suggested a deep comatose state, near brain death. Their bodies were alive, but their minds were nonexistent." Pa chuckled absently, finally meeting Silas's gaze. "We were about to give up, but I begged for one last chance. Then, my lad, you were brought into this world."

  Silas held up a hand, forcing Pa to a halt. "#H-037," he signed, so fast his fingers locked up. "In your notes at Coldspire, you said that I was subject #H-037. I understand now. I was the thirty-seventh human trial."

  Pa didn't deny it. His mournful smile quivered slightly, teetering on the edge of sorrow. "Immediately, you were an anomaly, even before you opened your eyes for the first time, wailed your first cry. Your resonance, aether—whatever you want to call it—was remarkable." Pa gestured emphatically, his eyes sparkling. "Far above baseline, your brainwaves were, the antithesis of the first thirty-six. And then you awakened and looked at me. I knew then and there that we had done it.

  "But you were impossible to replicate. We did try. After you came several more; I don't remember the exact number. I was focused solely on observing your development at that time; others continued with the research without me. Those additional subjects were the same as the others—forever sleeping. Then, somehow, the research was leaked to the Empire." Pa frowned at the memory. "That was a terrible time, a terrible time indeed. Already, I had grown attached to you. I made up my mind that I wasn't going to let you be destroyed like the others."

  Silas swallowed hard, looking at his empty drinking glass forlornly. Pa's words had made his mouth go dry. Silas assumed the other human subjects had survived like the animals at Coldspire. Knowing that he was truly the last human subject from Project Concordia left him feeling terribly lonely.

  Silas compared what Pa had just told him to how the Unspoken described his Voice, and the "valve" he sensed within his mind. Realization dawned, and he jumped, fumbling his signs, stumbling over the words.

  "I get it! It's all coming together. What the Unspoken said about me, what you said about the first thirty-six, about my current predicament. I think the other human subjects all had the same problem as me: the valves in their minds were stuck open too. But I'm different from the others. Even the Unspoken don't know what to make of the amount of aether my mind produces. I'm a fluke—a random stroke of luck. I was a success because of this excessive aether anomaly overpowering the open valve."

  Pa grinned and ruffled Silas's hair, laughing when his grandson wriggled away from the affront on his tresses. "You've always been bright, my lad. I agree with your hypothesis." His smile wilted into a frown. "And that brings us back to your… affliction."

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  Silas nodded. Neither he nor Pa filled the gap with words. Nothing needed to be said. They both knew that if Silas wasn't healed, he'd end up like the other Concordia subjects—hollow and mindless.

  But not dead, Silas thought with a shiver, remembering his recent out-of-body experience. What befell the other subjects was a fate worse than death. Silas feared their minds were still lingering in this world, abandoned without their bodies to anchor them. Ghosts in the truest sense of the word. Silas's determination fueled his limbs with ephemeral energy, enough for him to get out of bed and prepare for the day ahead. He vowed to find Echo, but not just to fix himself. He would mend their relationship, too, and assure the wellbeing of the world.

  Before Pa left his room, Silas stopped him to ask one last question. There was an awkward pause as Silas considered how to frame it.

  "The logisters and physicks at the Garrison Mordant," he began hesitantly, "thought my brain had the same structure as the Unspoken: a fifth lobe where humans only have four. They were going to cut me open to find out. Were they right in their assumptions? Is my brain… not human-shaped?"

  Silas expected Pa to be troubled by this news, or even dodge the question entirely. Laughter was not anticipated. Silas huffed, ears burning hotter the louder Pa chortled.

  "I apologize, my lad," Pa wheezed. "What a load of nonsense. Those Imperial quacks lack scholarly insight, but they certainly have a sense of humor. No, Silas. Your brain is human. At least it is from a gross anatomy standpoint."

  Silas scratched his head.

  "The change is microscopic," Pa said in response to Silas's confusion. "Your brain differs from controls on a cellular and alchemical level. It looks the same to the naked eye. Cutting you open would have surely disappointed those Imperial quacks."

  After this, Pa wheeled himself out, leaving Silas to change out of his pajamas and comb his hair neat. In the doorway Silas paused and turned, scanning his new books courtesy of Dr. Veyl. He was too upset yesterday to appreciate the gift, but the physick's kindness elevated Silas's mood. He selected a book, tucked it under his arm. He never got the chance to finish his favorite adventure trilogy at the Garrison Mordant. While he walked to the kitchen, he opened to where he left off and began to read. Kessara yelped when he bumped into her, teasing him for not paying attention to his surroundings. She disappeared into Ravelin's dormitory and closed the door. Silas didn't notice, absorbed in his book.

  Vera was still in the kitchen. Her demeanor was chilly. She stared vacantly into empty space, gnawing on her ragged fingernails instead of eating from the untouched plate of food in front of her. When Silas walked in she barely acknowledged him, offering only a curt nod and returning to her glassy-eyed brooding. Silas hastily loaded a plate and retreated to the dining hall.

  Vera's still mad at me.

  Silas's feet dragged with the sadness he refused to admit he felt at her rejection. Struggling with his full plate, mug of coffee, and book, Silas opened the door to the dining hall with his bottom and hurried inside before the door swung closed.

  He was not alone. One other person occupied the dining hall, sitting at a bench nearest the door. Silas took one look at Perrin Locke and decided to eat his breakfast in his dormitory. He had one foot through the door when Locke's voice ground him to a halt.

  "Would you care to break your fast with me, Silas Harrow?"

  Jerkily, Silas turned, regarding the High Justicar with open disdain. Silas wanted nothing to do with this man. Yesterday, Locke had called Silas an "abomination" and "thing," claiming he didn't care if he died. Why the change of heart? There had to be a motive behind his offer. Silas wasn't willing to entertain any more of Locke's tests and games.

  He shook his head and took another step forward. His book slipped from his overburdened grasp and plopped to the ground. Locke casually stood and plucked it from the tile, turning it over to examine the title. Silas glowered at him. Locke's twitchy little smile frayed his nerves to threadbare strands.

  "What someone does in their free time says a great deal about who they are as a person," Locke said, setting the book on the benchtop before reclaiming his seat. "If you sit, I'll tell you more."

  Silas balanced Locke's motives and calculated the solution to his oddly kind behavior. Silas had no means to communicate with him. Locke definitely didn't know sign language, and Silas hadn't brought his notepad with him. The High Justicar intended for this to be a lecture, not a conversation. Was Silas willing to be his captive audience?

  With a sigh, he sat opposite Locke, upturning his palm expectantly. Locke rested his hand on Silas's book, drumming his fingers against the cover. In exchange for his book's return, Silas would have to listen to whatever Locke wanted him to hear.

  You're lucky I can't attack with my mind. Silas fantasized about what he would do to the man after Echo had healed him. Surprised at his own violence, Silas snatched his coffee mug and drank deeply, savoring the calming warmth that filled his chest and belly.

  "Alongside my duties for the Covenant of Fallen Stars, I am the Crown's master assassin." Locke pretended he didn't see Silas's eyes roll from across the benchtop.

  Silas didn't care to hear Locke's backstory, but he really wanted his book back. More than anything, he listened as an act of defiance. What Silas chose to do—leave or stay—would define the justicar's opinion of him moving forward. Silas wanted him to know that he wasn't staying because he was too afraid to leave. He was staying to give Locke a chance to prove himself to him.

  He probably thinks it's the other way around. Silas rested his chin in his hands and listened apathetically. Let him. I won't be swayed by his pompous displays of power and superiority.

  "I kill people for a living,” Locke began. “People who know too much, who delve too deep into secrets the Empire would rather remain hidden. People who sympathize with the Unspoken, fighting for them to stand on equal footing with humanity. People with the courage to look beyond the lies the Crown feeds to the public. People like this and more are ordered to be silenced. I am the one who tears out their throats before they have the chance to speak."

  Silas scratched a fingernail into the benchtop, sifting through his memories as Locke spoke. Vera had said something once that reflected Locke's words. While preparing for Coldspire, Silas snooped around in her archive room, reading files that suggested the Empire frequently twisted the narrative before relaying news to the public. When Silas asked her how none of this information had leaked, she explained that the Empire has the means to silence those who try to speak the truth. Now he was seated before the very man who censored history by spilling blood. Silas picked at his food, regretting the omelet with tomatoes.

  "People like to talk before they die," Locke continued, watching Silas avoid the red juice on his plate with amusement. "Naturally, I heard things. Their beliefs. Ideologies. Hopes and aspirations. A pattern emerged. It piqued my curiosity.

  "Again and again, my targets claimed the Unspoken were intelligent beings. They said the Empire was lying about their sentience for its own gain. I soon learned the name of the organization most of these individuals belonged to." Locke gestured with both hands, fingers splayed. Silas contemplated swiping his book while he had the chance.

  "The professional scope of these individuals was vast. Everything from scholars and philosophers to ex-military and common citizens. Yet many resided under the same roof." Locke paused for dramatic effect. "The Covenant of Fallen Stars.

  "I decided to run a little experiment—you know I love tests." Silas gripped his fork until the metal puckered and bent. Locke's smile flashed pearly whites. "I ventured into the Unspoken's territory, deep into the Western Quadrant. Then, I watched. I remained there for weeks, observing. What I saw was fascinating, and changed my view of the world. The Unspoken are highly social creatures, yet they don't talk to each other, so that was interesting to note. Research conducted by the Empire suggested they make no sound, detectable to human ears or otherwise. They have no written language or pictographs. Nothing. Yet they coordinate like a hive mind.

  "At one point, I purposefully engaged them. I wanted to see how they would react to me, if they would attack like feral beasts. I spoke to them. I made it known that I carry weapons, but I only sought to use them for self-defense. It was a large group that approached me, and they were surrounded by an army of carrion wolves. Those big black eyes of theirs conveyed nothing, yet I knew they understood every word I said. They didn't harm me. They simply left, turning as one as if prompted by a sound I couldn't hear."

  Locke's studious gaze pored over Silas, noticing the boy's every twitch and fidget. Silas did his best to remain still, but under such scrutiny he found such a task impossible. He knew what Locke was thinking. Only Silas could hear what the Unspoken had to say.

  Silas straightened and grinned, meeting Locke's listless eyes. That's right. You need me. Admit it. Without me, you'll never know what the Unspoken are talking about.

  Locke chuckled. The sound—grating and harsh—dropped Silas's confident fa?ade. Silas grunted and scraped up the last of his omelet, shoving it into his mouth.

  "When I returned from my little vacation, I was immediately assigned a new target: another Covenant member. Instead of killing them, I ordered them to take me to their headquarters. My target was surprisingly resistant. They would rather die than reveal the location to the Empire. I told them I was interested in joining the Covenant. They didn't believe me. So I informed them about my experiment. We spoke for hours—discussing all manner of treason over a cup of chai. After this, they were no longer so wary.

  "I joined the Covenant, but I kept my job as the Emperor's personal assassin. This gave me the unique opportunity to spy on the Crown while working as the Covenant's lead combatant."

  Silas made a questioning noise in the back of his throat. If Locke still worked for the Empire, did that mean he was forced to kill friends and allies?

  Locke's eyes narrowed. "You're a smart little fiend. Surprising, given all that was done to your brain as an infant." He waved the thought away before it could distract him. "Yes. I have taken the life of many comrades. Each of them understood their fate. If you erred so severely to be caught, you were a threat to the Covenant and its purpose. The moment you endanger the truth, you are already dead."

  Silas shivered, gooseflesh prickling down his spine. He knew how serious the Covenant was and the consequences of defying the Empire. But hearing those consequences spelled out so cleanly was deeply unsettling. Silas pushed his plate away, unable to finish. His stomach protested its recent meal, churning until Silas felt queasy. He eyed his book greedily. Why did Locke continue to curl his fingers around its binding?

  Surely, he must be done with his monologue by now. But of course he was not.

  "I tell you all this so you understand why we don't need you. Each member of the Covenant is like me. All of us have a particular skill that we bring to the table. Our shared goal is to save the world from certain ruin. The Empire doesn't care what happens, so long as it remains in power until the last person it rules over has come to their demise. It would willingly allow humanity to fall so long as its secrets remain buried deep. Allying with the Unspoken is one means to save us. I like the creatures; I find them interesting. But making friends with them is not the only way."

  Locke leaned forward, his voice increasing an octave, words flowing faster. "Halven and his team of machinists slowly awaken the relics of the ancients. Each awakened piece is a part of a larger puzzle. Solving this puzzle will reveal the map to our ultimate weapon. We do not know what it is or where it has been buried. But the more technology we awaken, the clearer the picture becomes: we are sitting on something powerful enough to rewrite history and forge the future. We don't need you, little pest. Halven is a strange one. He has the knowledge to follow the breadcrumb trail of the ancients, yet he still vouches for you."

  Silas ground his teeth in consternation. It was all he could do to prevent himself from storming out of the dining hall. Locke infuriated him, but what he said about the technology of the ancients gave him pause. A weapon powerful enough to overthrow the Empire sounded implausible—like something he'd hear of in his adventure trilogy. But Locke spoke of it with such zeal it had to be true. Silas began doubting himself then.

  Maybe I'm really not needed. Maybe my existence truly serves no purpose.

  The door was kicked open. Silas startled, his heart leaping into his mouth. Vera stormed in, her mouth open in preparation to speak. When she spotted Locke she snapped it shut and shot the justicar a fierce glare that he answered with a slow blink.

  "Silas, come with me," she said. "We're planning our journey to the Western Quadrant and need you there to clarify some things."

  "Good morning, Vera Stroud," Locke said softly, finally relinquishing Silas's book. The boy seized it and cradled it to his chest. "Any time you want to spar, I'll meet you in the gymnasium."

  Vera fluttered her lashes and took a few deep breaths. Each exhale drained the red from her cheeks. Before she could hurl a string of insults at Locke, Silas hurried after Vera. Silas glanced back as he followed her out of the dining hall. Locke's back was turned, but Silas knew the man could feel the weight of his eyes on him. Silas peered up at Vera, trying to catch her attention. She ignored him, plowing down the corridor, soon overtaking Silas.

  He tried to keep up, but was quickly breathless, leaning against the wall to rest a moment. Vera didn't notice until she stopped to kick open another door, not finding Silas at her side. She hurried back, her nervous eyebrow twitching its usual syncopated beat.

  Silas refused her offered hand and pushed away from the wall. No matter how meticulously their next adventure was planned, Silas knew it would not unfold smoothly. His only hope was that nobody got hurt because of him. Again.