Cillian didn’t know how no one had fallen yet. The trees disappearing behind on their left and right, the soft glow, the snapping of branches, and the thuds of their passing – in his mind, everything faded, reduced to the form of the girl up ahead and the path she was taking them through. Nuala, as sure in her footing as ever, was the one thing that mattered right now. Do not let her go.

  Five steps, then a leap – just a small one – over some hollow. More steps. Dart to the side, barrel through bushes. And all the while hold on to Eamon doing the same on the right. Their arms were linked as if soldered together with a low-melting alloy. The beacon kept kicking the pair, spurring its prize horses onward.

  They’d long reached the edge and were now rushing along it, the less dense vegetation helping their pace.

  Alas, for all Cillian’s want to stay in the flow, sharp pain lanced through his chest and he swore. And just like that, the spell cracked and he got acutely aware of how rapid and depthless his breathing had grown. Then all awareness rebounded.

  Yelping, Cillian tripped.

  He didn’t even see what it was, merely felt a tug on his toes, and was stumbling.

  “Fuck!” Eamon cursed.

  But Cillian wasn’t a climber for nothing – one learned how to hang on.

  Dropping down, his left arm outstretched, he grappled a tree blurring past, both knees bent, and hugged it like one would a brother.

  The tree, the momentum, the blond boy holding tight, and between them – Cillian, a human anchor.

  An instant to brace himself.

  Pain.

  An awful pull on his right arm, an awful pull on the left. The grip yanked Eamon back with a vengeance.

  Briefly, both boys left the ground. Briefly, they both howled. The sudden stop overwhelmed them, the strain on their clasp something fierce. But they didn’t let go.

  The ground raced to meet him, and Cillian let it – crumbled down with a whimper. Being abused like that sucked.

  For a moment, everything stilled. Until the moaning intruded.

  The aftermath was not very pretty.

  Cillian, his face kissing the bark, could only gasp for air through his chest’s terrible throbbing. Nearby, Eamon writhed miserably.

  Nuala appeared, saying something to them, but her words held no meaning. Just sounds.

  His vision a blur, Cillian willed himself to turn and concentrate on the beacon. Ten seconds it took for the world to stop swimming, but what he saw swelled him with a scintilla of triumph. The boy would’ve sighed in relief if he could.

  It’s fine; the string didn’t snap.

  That done, Cillian sagged and rested his forehead on the trunk, the pervading cold numbing the pain. He spied a big purple patch adorning his legs. What the hell?

  It took him entirely too long to comprehend what it was – the one remaining paintball must’ve bounced out on the run from the still-open pouch. Not important right now.

  Cillian heard shuffling around. Nuala, sweet Nuala, pried him off the tree and sat him down on his arse, checked the beacon, then rewound both the boys’ collars. He only felt it, still dazed, breathing raggedly. Unable to force enough air into his ravenous lungs.

  “I hate to say this, guys, but you have to suck it up. We can’t stick around. Drink, and let’s go.”

  He knew she was right but didn’t want to get up. Eamon made a rude noise.

  “Come one, we should be– Fuck! Guys, I can hear them! How have they found us so fast?!” Nuala hissed in frustration. “They should’ve followed the duds then be at a loss where we went! Up! Now!”

  This time, they both did as were told, knowing, if caught, there would be a rout. The trio started shuffling away.

  “Shit, guys, I’m sorry. I hoped we’d outrun them here while they’re still looking for us in the dense part.”

  “Deeper,” croaked Eamon. “Go deeper and hide.”

  They picked up the speed, but nowhere close to the old one. His chest burning, Cillian ran, imagining that the racket they made could be heard all the way back in Lua. Look at me, dad. See how happy I am?

  Heaven-Lemwise now, they went further and further, all remaining caution abandoned. Any moment, he expected to hear their howling pursuers, closing in on the kill. But minutes elapsed, and still they were kicking. Neither shouts nor paintballs came soaring at them from behind. Had they gotten away? Cillian didn’t dare hope.

  The peace was a lie.

  And soon, he was proven correct; fate wasn’t so kind as to let them escape. Their foes found them from another direction.

  Cillian, so focused he was on his footsteps, barely slowed down in time to avoid crashing into the frozen Nuala.

  “Hide!” she urged and ducked low, using a pine as her cover. Wobbling like a pair of drunkards, the boys did the same.

  “I can’t believe this! How in the aether?” She whirled her head front and back, then peered through her binoculars. “I see movement; they’re cutting us off!”

  Another team? Cillian squinted in an attempt to make out what she’d seen. But it was way too dark for him to succeed.

  Wait! Rory couldn’t just follow us endlessly; he had to rewind at some point. Likely why he’s dropped off. They’re switching?

  “We hide?” Eamon panted, looking resigned.

  “No point. They somehow know where we are. We run to the fence, then speed alongside it.”

  “No,” Cillian wheezed, thinking fast, an idea tugging at the back of his mind. “Back to the edge, then–” a breath, “then to where we were ambushed.”

  “You have a plan?” Nuala implored.

  “An inkling. Let’s go!” He scrambled to stand, swaying. “We’re not going down like some hares. To glory!” His attempt at encouraging was scarcely inspiring.

  Eamon barked an unhinged laugh, “There’s no way.”

  “Say it!” Cillian shoved the boy to make him get going.

  “Fine… Or to an ignoble end! Happy?”

  He was. Cillian felt strangely elated. Or was he simply lightheaded?

  Whatever it was, a jubilant shout at their backs left no time for debate.

  The would-be prey sprang up and scurried away.

  But isn’t turnabout a fair play?

  The idea was fickle, born out of assumptions.

  One: they were being tracked. Nuala was sure of it.

  Two: their opponents took turns. Team A – both hunters in pursuit, the rest lagging behind. And Team B – all members together, keeping apace with A’s carriers and taking a parallel course. The teams would switch if the job was not finished before a rewind was needed. The goal? To run the victims down, to never relent.

  Cillian thought it was plausible, given the way the chase was unfolding and if communicators indeed were in play.

  One final assumption: Rory’s team was on support at the moment, galloping somewhere close to the edge.

  Cillian wanted to force a shift in the narrative, and to do that they needed a weapon. But before anything else, the trio had to gain time. Nuala, as always, came through.

  She first led them Lem, down a deep trough, then, out of sight, cut sharply left, hoping to make the predators hesitate. Cillian recalled the dud that was still in his bag. Nothing to lose. He fetched it, enabled, and let it fall to the ground in their wake. Double bluff. They wouldn’t think he was guiding them true, would they? Whatever. Even a moment of wavering was better than nothing.

  They sprinted Nullside. There was a chance of running straight into the other pursuers, but some risk had to be taken.

  Just don’t fall, just don’t fall, Cillian kept on repeat in his head. At this point, he was running on desperation and fear. His grip on Eamon was as much for moral support as for safety. One way or another, soon our ride will end.

  They reached the edge and took another sharp turn. The hangar came into sight. Final stretch!

  Somehow, they got there, to the scene of the ambush. Cillian, gasping, expressed – more with gestures than sounds – his doubtlessly brilliant plan, while Nuala compelled him and Eamon not to sit down.

  Embarrassingly, he could only stand there and pant; Nuala handled all preparations. The girl took out what scant paper she and Eamon possessed – previously holding their food – used one to wipe the semi-dry paint from the waterskin, as best she could, and the rest – tightly wrapped the sheets around the narrow part of the vessel, just enough for a handle, paint free. Then unclasped the strap and threw it away; it would only get in the way.

  The next part – Nuala approached him. “You sure?”

  “Aye,” Cillian rasped. “I’m of no use anyway; can’t go much further.”

  There was no time for discussion. He offered the girl his end of the string and she took it, latching it to the belt. Then rewind, and back toward Rim, headlong to danger!

  Cillian carried the waterskin awkwardly, upside down, the cork firmly in place, one hand on the “handle”, another holding the “top”, his own paper protecting him from the menacing red. He jogged at the rear, keeping some distance.

  Almost there, almost there! Come on, where are you?!

  Just trees, shrubbery, and more stupid trees. They should know we’re coming, no? However they do it.

  The pair in the lead had to wait for him twice. First – to climb up an incline, not major, but he still took it ponderously. Next – to descend.

  He kept forcing his legs to obey, both hands busy, afraid of falling again. Until, finally, movement ahead! Sounds first, then the rest.

  “Bleedin’ rot, Kil, they’re here! You said they went Heavenward! Fuck fuck fuck!” Eamon played his part perfectly.

  His shout collided with a furious bellow charging the opposite way. Cillian couldn’t discern the words, but the voice… Rory! Yes! It’d been a coin toss who they’d meet first.

  Crying out in alarm, Cillian’s teammates hit the brakes, pivoted, and back at him they hightailed, at full tilt. He met the duo’s gazes as their paths intersected, and just like that – he was diving into a tangled boscage of green, armed but unaided.

  Waiting.

  Pounding footfalls. Or was it his heartbeat? So close.

  Be patient. It’s too early. Where where where?

  He all but vibrated in anticipation and worry.

  Why is it when you want them, they seem to take ages?

  At last, a hulking body appeared, just a few meters left, and, not spotting him, kept sprinting away, in pursuit. Cillian jerked, No! Stay still, blindin’ tool!

  Then Oscar dashed on the right, much closer, but the boy’s gaze, too, did not go astray. His entire attention was aimed at the scarpering prey.

  Nothing to see here!

  And now, the main course. Cillian had to wait even longer.

  They weren’t in any great hurry; both girls likely believed this time the doom would surely befall the powerless quarry. And they were dead right, specifics aside. He was the hunter now.

  Once they stepped past him, Cillian eyed their backs, took a deep breath, and burst out. The waterskin in his outstretched hands, he used the very last vestiges of strength left and, with a roar, was upon them.

  The girls heard him, spun, and freaked out. Nonetheless – credit to them – they still managed to slip to the side even if their panicked expressions were shouting, “Oh crud!” He pulled out the cork and showered the closest cailin with the waterskin’s blood.

  Yes!

  “YOU BEAST!”

  Right on her ponytail.

  “You rottin’ ogre!!!”

  She shrieked and shook her head wildly.

  Null! There was an imminent danger of her unwittingly flinging a droplet at him.

  His job wasn’t done yet.

  “Freeze! You’re dead! It’s red paint!”

  She didn’t. The furious girl kept swearing and frantically sweeping her hair.

  Right, he should’ve expected this.

  Cillian let go of the “handle”, took two hurried steps back, tightened his grip on the waterskin’s bottom, and swung it forcefully up. From the nozzle more lethal rounds were sent flying. The other girl dived! It didn’t help.

  Their beacon got splattered with red! Victory! Yes!

  “NO!”

  All at once, Cillian deflated – just dropped right where he stood.

  The cold grass welcomed him. He raised his hands and eyed them – no paint anywhere. Good.

  Aether. Is this the moment when I black out, like in a story? The boy spluttered a laugh, which swiftly transitioned into a bout of hoarse coughing.

  Spent, he wriggled there, hacking and snuggling the dirt.

  In the background, one girl was raging. At him, at herself, at the world. Then he felt another approach.

  She quietly inquired, “You alright?” Her voice, surprisingly, conveyed no resentment.

  He couldn’t make any intelligible sounds. So she waited. The worst passed, and he lifted his head.

  “Aye, I’ll just… stay here, you know,” another cough, “the day’s lovely.”

  She chuckled, then grimaced, noticing splashes of paint on her braid. “Wouldn’t say so myself. Aether, to end it like this… You’re Cillian, right? I’m Sloane.”

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  “Hi, Sloane,” was his woozy response. “Red’s a good color on you.”

  “Oh get nulled. It’s not a given you got to us first.”

  Whatever. He had enough for one day.

  My heroic paintball fight. Heh. What a rake-load of crap.

  The injured boy wished no more than to be on his way.

  Cillian was taking a long, hot shower, washing away all the grime and sweat of the relentless hours. If only fatigue and pain could be erased just as easily.

  The almost scorching spray felt so, so nice; he wished to stay here forever. It was fortunate that the academy didn’t insist on “toughening them up” with ice baths or something.

  The boy shook his head. Null. What was I thinking about again?

  His heedfulness was slipping.

  Right! The forest, the paintballs – all that jazz.

  Try as he might to reflect on the events of the contest, his mind kept getting distracted, this time finding the tiles and the shower head fascinating. He’d been using his unit’s bathroom for two weeks now – objectively, there was nothing interesting about it.

  After a couple more minutes of fruitlessly attempting to regulate the flow of his thoughts, not just that of the water, Cillian gave up. Whatever. It was better to postpone any analysis anyway. Something was just nagging at him. But he stayed where he was; not yet ready to face the cold and dim world.

  It had taken Cillian far longer than he’d hoped to extricate himself from the accursed woods. First, he and the girls, Sloane and Eithne, had to wait for the word to arrive – which group had come out on top – with instructor Hass keeping them company. And such great news they’d shortly received: the purple team had decisively won, hurray to them! Not the entire competition, of course, but one particular tussle.

  Then, as much as he might have wished to finally bow out and go rest, he’d still had five minutes or so left on the collar. Technically, he was yet in contention. Unwilling to give the instructors an impression that he was a quitter, Cillian made a token effort to catch up to his fellows, never straying far from the edge. Predictably, Nuala and Eamon were gone long ago. So he affected a crestfallen air, as if his heart desired to keep going, hid a tired smile, and slouched away, hoping Liam’s team, too, his teammates had left chewing dust.

  A lonely trek back to the academy grounds and getting ticked off the list at the gate later, Cillian had found himself back in his room. He’d packed the uniform and the gear to submit them for cleaning and hopped in the shower, where he remained ever since.

  But all good things had to come to an end. Wearing only a bathrobe, he reluctantly exited the warm sanctuary and proceeded to spend entirely too long gazing longingly at the bed. Unfortunately, he couldn’t yet enjoy its tender embrace as there were things in need of attention.

  Cillian’s itinerary included the laundry house at the top, so that’s where he went. Then, a visit to the “Supplies” was in order, and, upon entering the space, the good quartermaster silently gestured for him to deposit the muddy equipment on the counter before the boy could even open his mouth. Thank aether he wouldn’t have to scrub the abused waterskin personally. Since it was their first outdoor class of the year, all cleaning and maintenance would be done by the staff. And for free.

  Small blessings.

  After that – the infirmary. Nurse Whelan didn’t admonish him for setting back his recovery, but Cillian wasn’t blind – she clearly wished to give him a piece of her mind. Instead, the woman simply examined him, asked what he’d done, and graciously allowed to leave with an ice pack. He promised to promptly return it.

  As Cillian had expected, he found the other unfortunates in the recreation room, Cathal included. When he entered, all eyes turned to him. Two dozen people or so, likely not everyone, a case in point being the cailini he’d eliminated with his valiant charge. Painting their heads red hadn’t been too nice, he just realized, as he could’ve easily “killed” them by targeting anywhere else. Eithne – the swearing girl – in particular, had suffered a waterfall. No wonder she’d been so enraged.

  Well, she has a lot of hair and, surely, doesn’t need all of it. Can just cut it if the paint doesn’t come off.

  Satisfied with his impeccable logic, Cillian joined Cathal, who was waving at him. Somewhat surprisingly, opposite his teammate Teagan was sitting.

  “Are you alone?” Cathal asked once Cillian dropped next to him on the sofa and applied the ice pack, sighing contentedly.

  “M? Oh, aye, I’m alone.”

  They stared at him, expectant. He blinked back, sleepily. Riiight, they’re waiting for an update. What’s wrong with me?

  “Sorry, still feel kind of dazed. Light in the head, you know?”

  Cathal carefully appraised the body part in question.

  “It’s fine. Just this thing,” Cillian tapped the pack. ”My chest was alright, and I made it not alright. Bleedin’ moron… And just tired in general, I suppose.” He leaned back on a cushion. “Give me a second, and I’ll fill you in.”

  Following a few moments to recall the competition’s progression, he began delivering an abbreviated account, “Let’s see. Uhh, we went Heavenward a wee to take a meal break, both teams together. Then bought water from you,” he directed his gaze at Teagan, “for a single stone and a dud. After that–”

  “What?" Cathal interjected. “Why would you need to buy water? And for a stone? We had–”

  “It’s fine,” Cillian repeated, waving him off. “We got it back and then some. Umm… bought water – cause ours was ruined; some paint got inside – then what? Yea, after the trade, talked some more and then split. Aoife’s team went further Heavenward. Although it might’ve been just to get out of our sight, I suppose. And our team went Rim. You know, because by that point we’d been all over the Lem side and…”

  He trailed off as his wandering eyes landed on a collection of identical pamphlets scattered on the low table separating the sofas. “Huh. What is this?” He picked one of them up.

  “No no no, finish the report first,” Cathal urged.

  “Right,” Cillian said distractedly. “Oh, it’s the priz– Hey!” The impatient boy plucked the brochure from his hand.

  “The report?”

  Cillian eyed the other copies. “Fine. Where was I? Uhh… we went Rimwise, looted another two stones – they were just sitting there – then got jumped by Rory. Almost jumped by Rory, I should say,“ he quickly amended at Cathal’s alarmed expression. ”Noticed him at the last second.”

  Or more like instructor Sommer alerted us. Right, that’s what’s been bugging me. Why did he help us again? He didn’t believe it was a coincidence.

  “How did you deal with him?” Teagan prompted, now, too, leaning forward with interest.

  Cillian scratched his forehead. “It went something like this: Nuala left to investigate a signal, but it was a trap. Actually, I don’t know what was there exactly as she had no time to explain. But, basically, she got lured away while Rory crept up on us. We noticed him, threw paintballs at his face, Eamon also blinded him briefly, and we scampered away.”

  Cathal asked, “And Nuala?”

  “She caught up. I guess she’d already realized something was fishy and was hurrying back…”

  His mind meandered again. Suppose the twatwaffles used the communicators to keep in touch with each other. But how were they tracking us?

  It was anything but trivial to follow someone through a dark forest.

  “And?” Cathal nudged him. “If you’re alone, does it mean Nuala and Eamon got away?”

  “Aye. We ran for some time, grabbed the waterskin – we left it lying there – then turned around and attacked them. With the paint from the waterskin, I mean. I… I gave the beacon to Nuala since I couldn’t run any further; the chest was frackin’ killing me. We met them headlong, Nuala and Eamon turned around again, while I hid in the bushes and waited for Rory and Oscar to run past me. And when I saw their carriers, I jumped them. That’s it. We beat them, cheers and celebrations.”

  Cathal looked surprised and a little confused. Cillian supposed it was fair; his tale was hardly bursting with details.

  Teagan was frowning. “So you beat Oscar? And why did you need to use the paint from the waterskin? You didn’t have any paintballs left?”

  Cillian thought about it. “We did. Quite a few, actually. I’m not sure… I suppose because it’s difficult to strike a beacon with a paintball, but the red paint counts anywhere? You did the same to us, no?”

  “Aye, but we had time to prepare, while you, if your account is true, were on the run. You could’ve done what you did using your paintballs.”

  “I suppose… yea, I reckon that, at first, I just wanted to eliminate Rory. And Oscar, of course. But later changed my mind. Maybe. Honestly, I don’t recall my precise thought process at the time.”

  “But you kicked Oscar out of the competition? You are sure?”

  “Umm, yea? Had the instructors declare it and everything.”

  Teagan sat back with an expression that Cillian had never seen on him before. The boy was smiling happily.

  “Good. Steamin’ cheaters. And Liam?”

  “I don’t know,” Cillian shrugged and snatched the brochure back. “Now, what do we have here?”

  “I think the others should be just about finished, right?” Cathal asked, relaxing into his own cushion, but Cillian barely heard him, too preoccupied with the contents.

  Prizes and prices. Oooh, the good stuff.

  “There was an instructor here earlier – forgot her name – she told us this list doesn’t include everything. We can ask for other rewards, and these are just popular examples,” his teammate commented. “She made this big speech how we – and by that she clearly meant the losers – should aspire to do better next time and so on and so forth, and that while it’s in Foerstner’s best interests to help everyone here become a chevalier, it’s also in Foerstner’s best interests to give more help to those who succeed more – you get the idea. In short, do better and earn more stones because the tokens are for common items while the stones are for limited. Just like the headmaster said. And oh, she also told us that anything not on the list will be considered on a case-by-case basis.”

  “I get it. Thank you.” Cillian’s eyes hurried down the lines.

  Lot one: Personal training. Makes sense, I suppose. The instructors have limited time.

  Lot two: Extracurricular classes, e.g. inner workings of steam technology, ethics, social psychology, creative arts, marine science, etc.

  That’s a quare list. How’s art helpful? And marine science? Couldn’t it be summarized with “Don’t ever come near the ocean unless you want to get eaten?”

  Lot three: Right to expedite. Huh? What does it even mean? Expedite what?

  The enumeration went on, interesting items galore. Additional power exposure hours, accompanying the staff on special hunts, rare materials for armor (including those harvested from beasts), personal phonograph, access to imported literature (Imported from where?), exchanging the stones for real money to spend in the settlement, luxury food (That’s just stupid), increased quota of the academy’s craftsmen’s dedicated hours – to name just a few. Cillian’s two personal favorites were: meet and greet the instructors’ companions and a flight on a hot air balloon. The latter was no doubt a foolish waste of resources, but he liked heights, sue him.

  It’s been entirely too long without any meaningful climbs.

  One item baffled him though – More letters home? How is that limited? He voiced his confusion aloud.

  Teagan grudgingly explained, “How do you think our letters get sent? There’s no telegraph line between us and Lua. It’s too far, would require too many relays, too many powerful elanroots, meaning, too many vulnerable connections. The idea was considered at one point but then scrapped. We can send letters every two weeks because that’s how often we get trains from Lua carrying provisions.”

  Cillian furrowed his eyebrows. “Okay. But how could we send more frequently then?”

  Teagan shrugged, “Using the line running from here to the nearby O’Driscoll’s farm, where we have an outpost, would be my guess, and it isn’t cheap. Foerstner and O’Driscoll have a compact of mutual defense in case of monster-related emergencies, and, as part of that compact, the connecting arm was built so that the academy could urgently contact the outpost instead of waiting for a train to arrive. Then O’Driscoll would take over the delivery from there. They are much more built up in this region, and they run trains back to Lua regularly.”

  “Huh. That’s a dangerous dependency if I ever saw one.”

  “They depend on us in other areas much more than we depend on them,” Teagan stated vehemently.

  “If you say so.” Cillian reread the offered rewards. “To be honest, I don’t understand half of these things. What’s ‘power exposure hours’? And ‘special hunts’?”

  Teagan supplied an answer again, “You should wait until you figure out your weaknesses before you spend any stones. And the list will start making more sense as the year progresses.”

  Has he been enchanted by a willowdream? Cillian looked up at the fella in puzzlement. Why is he suddenly so helpful?

  Admittedly, he hadn’t meaningfully interacted with the bushy-browed boy ever since the train.

  Cathal, who’d been anxiously keeping an eye on the door, turned back and said, “We should see how many stones we get first.” Then quieter, “If any at all.”

  Actually, there aren’t any willowdreams in the region. It’s all conifers, remember?

  Cillian’s teammate was right. It was premature to pick any prizes right now. Besides, the current state of his mind was somewhat in question.

  Cathal and Teagan kept up a sporadic conversation, and drowsiness began sneakily ensnaring him again. The low hum of the surrounding discussions together with the wispy melody spilling out of the gramophone in the center of the chamber conspired to put him out of commission. When someone reduced the overhead illumination and ignited the fake fireplaces, all shaped like enormous diving helmets, it was the final blow to his consciousness. The last thing Cillian perceived was a girl approaching their cozy nook and asking if they had any news to share. He graciously left the retelling of their team’s glorious adventures to the others.

  Finally, some frackin’ rest.

  Cillian only awoke, unwillingly, when a hand prodded him on the shoulder, none too gently.

  “Mhm…”

  The prodding persisted.

  “G‘way.” He swatted blindly.

  “Alright, we’ll split the stones between those awake. All in favor?” the botherer asked with a laugh, jabbing him again. What an annoyance. “Unanimously!”

  “I know where you sleep, man,” Cillian mumbled, then yawned, eyes still closed. “I’ll murder you.”

  “Empty threat. I doubt ye can pick a lock, unlike meself. It’s you who should be wary.”

  “You can pick a lock?” a girl asked.

  “I can do anything.”

  “Aether, you’re obnoxious. Bring good news, at least?” Cillian finally mastered enough energy to peel his eyes open. Eamon was lounging on the couch to his right, displacing Cathal further away.

  “We survived. Good enough for you, ye nobleship?”

  “And?”

  “And what?”

  “How many?”

  “How many what?”

  Cillian shook his head in irritation, blinked a few times, and at last copped on to the fact that the irksome buffoon wasn’t the only addition. Nuala grinned and waved at him, her hair damp, from a sumptuous armchair to the sofa’s right, while Moira was sitting next to Teagan.

  “Nuala, help me out here. How many? And how are you,” he looked at Eamon, “so cheerful all of a sudden? Last I saw, you were like a corpse yourself.”

  “Please, I was just pretending to be tired so you wouldn’t feel bad about being the team’s weakling.”

  “Nuala?”

  “33. Technically, 21, but taking our average ring into account – 33. We were simply told our total, without elaborating how it was calculated.”

  “33,” he nodded. “Good.” Then, less decisively, “Good, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, and 33 divided by 3 is 11 apiece,” Nuala smiled.

  “Not you too.”

  Cillian then looked at Moira. “How did you do? And where are the rest?”

  She sighed, “I’ve just finished recounting. Our total, post adjustment, is 35. And Sorcha and Aoife are likely still showering.”

  Nuala added, “Liam’s team did best – 44.”

  “Some of this stuff is stupid,” Eamon waved a brochure. “Have you seen it?” He addressed Cillian. “Luxury food? Hot air balloon flight? What is this bollocks?”

  “I’m thinking of taking it. The flight, I mean.”

  Eamon eyed him weirdly. “You’re joking?”

  “No, I’ve never been on one, and I like heights. Gone a couple of times to an airship restaurant, but it’s in the city, not wilderness, and fully enclosed to boot.”

  “Umm, okay, it’s your stones, Kil.”

  “Stop calling me that already.”

  “Kili?”

  “Nuala, take him away.”

  “Complaining to the nanny, are you?”

  Cillian rolled his eyes. “You’re either purposefully being very annoying or I’m simply too tired to deal with you.”

  “He’s always annoying,” Nuala supplied.

  “The correct word is delightful.”

  Their bickering was interrupted by Sorcha’s arrival, who dropped into another unoccupied armchair.

  “Shit, where’s my ice pack?” Cillian remembered it and fumbled around.

  “I’ve taken it to the infirmary,” Cathal said.

  “Oh, thank you.” He then turned his attention to Nuala. “By the way, forgot to ask, what did you do after? How did you get away from Liam?”

  She shrugged, “We just ran to the fence and then Heavenward. He never showed up. Made circles close enough to the fence to use it as an escape route, if needed, but deep enough so no one could see us. And that’s it; the horn came.”

  “He was only willing to go after us with an advantage,” Eamon smiled. “And you shouldn’t talk it down, Fionnuala; our journey was properly inspiring.”

  “Nuala. Fionnuala is entirely too long.” She pointed an accusing finger at the boy. “See what I had to deal with? He’s been like an overexcited puppy ever since the finale.”

  “Liam hunted you?” Sorcha asked. “How did you do overall?”

  Cillian laughed lightly. “We’ve just finished recounting,” he imitated Moira’s voice. Her and Teagan’s expressions conveyed that they didn’t find it too witty. It probably wasn’t. “Sorry,” he winced, “not my best self at the moment.”

  “How’s your chest?” Nuala asked.

  “Fin– I don’t know, will have a better idea tomorrow. And I’m just woozy for some reason. I think I told Sloane that red looked good on her right after dumping red paint on her head.”

  “What?” Eamon chortled. “Sloane is one of Rory’s teammates?”

  “Aye, the blonde one.”

  “Truly, a virtuoso of compliments, you.”

  “They’re both blonde, Cillian,” Nuala noted, quietly sniggering as well.

  “Oh. The nice one then. The other wasn’t so nice, called me mean names.”

  “Going to complain to the nanny again?”

  “Oh niss take you, Eams. You know what, I’ll go to my room before I make hames of things again.” Cillian grabbed a pamphlet, stood, and squeezed between all the encroaching, colorful furniture. Once behind the sofa, he thumped Eamon on the shoulder, gently, and added, “And well done, guys. We did great.”

  “Yep. That was the craic, wasn’t it? But why are ye leaving? Come on, Kil, we should celebrate!”

  “Tomorrow’s better, isn’t it?” he countered. “Sunday, and we can finally go to the settlement. How are you planning to celebrate here?”

  “Aoife has already offered to celebrate properly tomorrow,” Sorcha said. “She’s big on stuff like that.” Her tone suggested that she herself wasn’t.

  “Grand! See you all tomorrow. I really need to lie down now.”

  “It’s not even evening,” Nuala remarked.

  Cillian’s eyes instinctively searched for a window, but there weren’t any. Right, underground.

  He couldn’t remember ever feeling so dopey. When not langers, that was.

  “See you at dinner then. Bye!” The boy waved and teetered away. His brief rest seemed to have made him more exhausted, not less.

  “So we should divide by three for real then?” Eamon tried one last time.

  Cillian just lifted a hand again and wiggled a “V”, not looking back.

  Was it a little rude to leave like that? Perhaps. But he longed for the bed. And, more importantly, needed some time removed from the noise.

  Tomorrow. Tomorrow we celebrate.

  A pang in the chest made him grimace.

  Aye. He really needed a damn break.

  Irish slang:

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