Finally free of my demons, I soar through the desert.

Rain pelts me but I barely notice. My breaths are even as I tear across the open expanse, travelling so swiftly that I leave scarcely a mark in the pitted sand. The tracks left by the Wasters are long-gone but I don't need them. I know that Jaron will be lingering near the City and keep my instincts tuned to the other clues leading to their whereabouts.

Running spurs my thoughts, unearthing voices far kinder than the cruel whispers I've become used to.

I hear my loved ones, both living and lost. Frye pleading with me to open up. Meg's warning about the price of power. Luca's goodbye.

I listen to Cade and wish that I understood what he was trying to teach me while he was still alive. I wasted far too much time being angry about the past, when I should have been confronting it.

I listen to Will, letting his last words echo over and over until they begin to sting just a little less. I tried. Gods can't say I didn't try. I fought for him with everything I had but lost sight of myself in the process. I let my obsession with the Madam colour what Will and I had together and I can't...I won't subject his memory to any more ugliness.

Lightning flashes and I finally spot the Waster encampment. Racing toward the canopies, I wave a greeting to the scouts guarding it's entrance. The sodden pair look surprised at my arrival but don't try and stop me when I streak by. Jaron's tent is easily distinguishable; patched and ragged from a thousand journeys. I call out for the chief as soon as I am in range and Jaron appears, shoving his way through the flaps of canvas and storming into the pouring rain.

I draw up before him, chest heaving as I realize that running all those miles didn't magically conjure the right thing to say.

Jaron's dark eyes flick over my shoulder. "Where is your army?"

"I don't have one."

He snorts. "I figured that the day the Runner finally emerged from Babel would be the day we faced another war."

"Babel is gone." I tell him.

"Gone?" He raises his brows. "Did you misplace it?"

"No, I buried it."

Jaron's expression remains stony but for a slight twitch near his lip. "For thunder's sake, Runner. Is there nothing you have touched that you have not also destroyed?"

"I'm working on that."

He folds his arms across his thick chest, any trace of amusement wiped from his face as he considers me.

"What is it you want?" He demands.

"To make amends." I state simply. "And to ask for your help."

"I see that your madness persists."

I shove my hair back from my face, wanting him to see me clearly. "I'm sorry, Jaron," I tell him. "For all of it."

As the warlord's huge hands ball into fists I begin to doubt the wisdom of my plan.

"I'm sorry for lying to you." I rush on before I lose my nerve. "For promising that we would have an equal share over Babel when I knew that I couldn't hold to it. I'm sorry that I took your title. I never deserved to be a Chieftain, Jaron but you...you are one of the finest leaders I have ever seen. You care so much about your tribe, you treat them as family. At a time when I needed it, you were my family." I scratch absently at the tattoo circling my arm, "I understand completely why your warriors are so loyal. You earned your place as Chieftain. I stole mine." I trail off, selecting my next words carefully. "But I stand by my stance on those good-for-nothing mercenaries you found. Tell me, how did that alliance work out?"

"You may have been right about them." Jaron concedes, albeit begrudgingly. "Not long after leaving Babel we came upon a tribe of Northerners robbing a caravan."

"Ah. I don't imagine that ended well."

"It ended quickly, and with great malice."

My stomach churns at the thought of dark blood staining sand. Pushing the image aside, I swallow the lump crowding my throat, "I'm sorry for placing Luca in danger."

"Luca is free to make his own choices." Jaron says gruffly.

I nod. "He did. He left."

"Then my brother is finally demonstrating some sense."

A sad, rueful grin escapes me. "At last, something we can agree on."

"Go on, Runner. I believe there is more."

I draw a breath, readying myself for the heart of it. "I'm sorry about Meg."

The chieftain's eyes turn an inky black, his lethal silence terrifying. Stifling a shudder I push forward, "I manipulated you into breaking with her. I let my own, selfish need for vengeance outweigh your happiness. I was wrong."

Jaron remains as still as a mountain, staring down at me while the rain hammers at us. Forced to remain in one place while my adrenaline slowly drains away, the bruises sustained during and after my escape from Babel begin to throb. I clench my teeth against the swell, treading carefully as precious time ticks onwards.

"She's the reason I came here." I tell him. "Meg's in danger. The Madam has taken the City."

Jaron't entire demeanour shifts instantly, his eyes stretching wide and his arms falling to his sides. "What has happened?"

I explain quickly, detailing how I've sent airships ahead to prepare for an evacuation and that the destruction of Babel has throttled the coming storm but hasn't stopped it.

"It won't be enough." I tell him. "If we don't reach the Vane and shut it down then the entire City could get wiped away...and Meg with it."

The sound Jaron makes is somewhere between man and beast. He shouts an order, whipping around with such fury that the water flies off of him. The camp at once comes to life, the Wasters emerging and obediently dismantling their tents.

Swivelling back to face me, Jaron appears every inch a battle-hungry mongrel. A rumble sounds in the distance and he is briefly illuminated, his leather-clad shoulders heaving and his face like thunder.

"What now, Runner?" He raises a brow. "Are we to follow you or are you a Waster once more?"

My arm itches, the tattooed skin tingling. "Lead the way, Chief."

The Vane's storm rages more and more fiercely the further we run. Blinded by the weather, I don't spot our reinforcements until Jaron shouts at me and points out the ships parked crookedly against the relative shelter of a nearby dune. Miners, Wasters and Babelonians convene briefly, just long enough to hear Jaron's plan of attack. My heart pounds as I struggle to see past the warriors and pick out the lights from the City burning in the distance.

"Our goal is to extract as many as we can!" Jaron shouts, "This is a rescue, not a war!"

He catches my eye across the horde, smirking a little at my shocked expression. I allow a small grin to escape, raising my chin in acknowledgement.

"How will the Miners know that we are here to take them to safety?" Someone calls out a question and I suddenly remember the radio tucked into my belt. I scramble to tune it, cursing at my lack of foresight.

Pressing down on the trigger, I tap the speaker three times and release it. Static burns into my ear while I wait and work feverishly to come up with an alternative plan.

By some mercy, the god of luck places Marc near the City's makeshift transmitter. "That you, Kay?"

"It's me." I fumble with the radio, nearly dropping it in the process. "We're here. Can you spread word?"

"We'll get right on it." The relief in Marc's voice equals my own. "There's already a radio operator outside the Palace on standby."

I wave my arm to catch Jaron's attention and give him a signal to let him know the Miners are ready for us. He nods, turning back to the crowd.

"Kay?" Marc disappears into a crackle and my heart seizes. I fiddle with the controls, muttering to myself as I search. "...you there?"

"I'm here." I say, stealing a glance at Jaron. The war chant has begun in earnest, the relentless beat of the drums thrumming through us.

"Meg wanted me to tell you....don't come to the Palace...dangerous..." I strain to hear him over the clamor. "...trap..."

A flash of lightning calls my attention to the City. In the same instant Marc disappears, lost to the static and the downpour. Shaking from my ready store of adrenaline I trade the radio for my dagger and beat it's hilt against my breast to the rhythm of battle.

Our hymn rises to it's familiar crescendo, the chant washing over me. As I add my voice I wait for the bloodlust that once drove my ambitions to appear. When it doesn't, I realize that my cause is the same as my comrades.

The City is home to our people and no one—not a Madam nor a demon nor the gods' themselves—can claim it. Not without a fight.

Jaron releases a blood-curdling roar and we charge, spilling over the dune and into the Burn.

The sky rages black and blue, the driving rain gathering in pools on the hard-packed desert sand. We tear across the plains toward the barely-visible lantern light, our cry of war rivaling the Vane's creation. The Chief leads the frontal assault while I take the archers up the Wall, directing them to spread out as we make for the keep and begin to pick our way up it's face. My hands slip on the slick stone but my focus doesn't waver, my eyes trained on the next hold, the next leap. Clinging to the City with everything I have, I let my instincts and the thought of my friends lead me up and over.

The first Brute makes it's appearance the instant I summit. Unslinging my bow I dispatch it quickly, turning and firing more arrows as the rest of the archers take up their positions. Brute after Brute is cut down, falling from the guard towers and disappearing into the mist below. As I leap across to the nearest roof I shoulder my bow, withdrawing my dagger and dropping down onto the street.

Thunderous skies meet thunderous footsteps while the Madam's agents race toward the gate. I dart through familiar alleys, a pit widening in my stomach as I steal in behind my victims, hesitating only if their build too closely resembles Will's before finishing them with quick, biting stabs.

A booming crash tells me that Jaron's army has broken through. Racing ahead of the circling Brutes I join my army at the City's entrance and dive headlong into the fight to carve a way out. Jaron remains at the battle's head, waving his arm to indicate another team should move into the City to search for the Miners. Marc's radio network proves successful when we find the evacuees waiting for us at their doors, terrified but ready to flee. Through the chaos I catch glimpses of my old friends, spying Harry the baker, Gordy the one-handed waif, Frye and Lara as they join the race toward the waiting airships. We work with dizzying efficiency and the City is gradually emptied.

Kicking out when a pair of mechanized warriors descend I flinch at a woman's startled scream. The Wasters and I finish off the attackers and I wipe increasingly-shaky hands on my drenched tunic, urging the others into a run.

Back at the gate I find Jaron in the thick of battle. Shouting to the Miners to clear out I add my blade to the fire. The world becomes a hurricane of steel and blood, my instincts sent off-kilter by the storm. I spin and duck, knocking the Brutes to the ground and gritting my teeth when my weapon finds resistance.

A distant whoosh seizes my attention. Blinking through the chaos I search for it's source, sure that what I heard wasn't atmospheric. Another whistle and I find it: an arrow loosed from the sky.

My feet are moving before I finish putting the pieces together. Twisting around the enemy I run toward the nearest building, heaving myself up a few feet at a time. I know that the Brutes will be waiting for me when I arrive so I come up fighting, slashing my blade across the nearest ankle and kicking the monstrosity off the roof. More arrows fly and I take cover behind a chimney, unslinging my own bow and notching it.

Releasing a slow, even breath—just the way Luca taught me—I spin around and don't stop firing until my quiver is empty. The Brutes fall one by one, the last and most fierce-looking of the bunch dodging my final arrow and lurching toward me with a frightening amount of speed. Rolling out of the way I grapple for my dagger, swiping madly and grimacing when a metal-gloved hand bats it away. The Brute's vacant expression sears into me as I grope for another weapon, my fingers closing around a rock's reassuring weight before flinging it up to rest against the side of the Brute's head.

Bleeding a river of black tar, the Brute blinks and stumbles. I take advantage of the distraction and rip an arrow free of a nearby corpse, twirling it around and driving it neatly through the unfortunate pawn.

"Runner!" Jaron's bellow cuts through the ringing in my ears. Shaking my head clear I pick my way down the side of the building and leap into the stream of evacuees. I locate Jaron directing traffic around a crumbled flat, losing him for a brief instant when another gust of wind blows a monsoon across my vision.

"What is it?" I rasp when I finally reach him, fighting to refill my lungs with air.

Jaron withdraws his sword from the back of a Brute, unleashing a curtain of sticky black blood.

"You need to go." He tells me.

I wipe my face clear of the goo, blinking as I register his words. "Go? Go where?"

"To the Palace." He turns to face me fully, "Our only hope of getting the Queen and the others out lies with you."

"I can take a team," I glance up the hill, already mapping out the fastest route by ground. Lightning strikes again, it's arrival followed by a deafening crack. We crouch, covering our heads against another barrage of bedlam.

"There is no time for that." Jaron's voice is strained and when I look up I find something akin to desperation. "And still too many Brutes upon the ground. You have to go above."

Trap.

Marc's fractured warning springs to mind. My fear is matched by a sudden steely determination and I surprise us both by throwing myself at the grizzly warlord, holding him tightly despite my arms barely reaching around him. Jaron stiffens momentarily before wrapping me in a burly hug, squeezing the air from my lungs and whispering in my ear.

"Go and fetch our queen."