Darkness had closed in on Thaos, and he stared about. He was back in a tunnel that he recognized only too well, though he knew somehow—in some place deep in his mind, which just couldn’t be fooled—that he was still in the Apella.

The seven-pointed star was there at his feet, and he stared at it, watching it grow and shrink in time with the alien, inhuman music that swirled around him like the cool touch of something divine.

Pick it up, Honor, a voice said.

Spinning around, Thaos saw the figure was behind him. The serpentine features struck at some deep, primal fear, and he took a step back . . . before he took a step forward. “That’s not my name,” he said. He had been to hell, and these dreams would not frighten him.

Ah, the figure said, though its lips never moved, but it’s what it means.

Thaos’ eyes flicked down to the dagger the figure held. It was dark with shed blood, and he realized slowly that it was his; from the last dream. “What does your name mean?” he asked, boldly, though his hands were shaking, and the power from the star behind him seemed to shake the whole world.

That depends on who you ask.

The star seemed to scream in agony, and Thaos turned back to look at it. The throbbing, growing and contracting was such that it seemed to shimmer with untold potential.

Someone must hold it.

Thaos backed away from the star, though that only took him closer to the figure, and it smiled toothily at him. “I won’t,” he said, then smiled in return. “I will not do your will.”

The figure studied him with its unblinking eyes, then shrugged. Someone will.

“Thaos?”

* * *

“Thaos?”

It was Lya, holding his hand, and he looked up at her, realizing that he was lying on a couch. She looked down at him, concern and surprise warring with fear and anger.

A Guardsman knelt beside him, and Thaos tried sitting up, though a spike of pain that stabbed at the back of his eyes made him woozy. The Guard pushed him back down; gently, but with a firm expression fixed on his face.

“The Apella?” Thaos asked.

Lya’s expression faltered as she struggled to find the right words. “They all stopped their shouting . . . and just stared.

“Oh, God.” He felt sick, and bit down against the bile rising up to his throat.

She looked at him with a strange, bitter love that looked too much like anger. “Don’t lie to me like that again. Don’t do this again,” she demanded softly. “Please. Please don’t.”