Owen woke before dawn with a tightness in his chest he hadn't felt in weeks.
It wasn't fear, exactly. It was the body recognizing something the mind had been trying not to dwell on. Today the Cantor landed. Today the leaderboard began to bleed.
He sat up slowly on the stone slab he'd been using as a bed in the upper level of the station. The two moons of Prison World hung low in the western sky, pale and double-shadowed. Yalira was already up — he could hear her moving on the lower level, the soft clink of her daggers being checked. Tessa and Jorik were still asleep across the room, curled in their respective corners.
He dressed quietly. Strapped on his refined Desolate gauntlet. Tucked Gorvax's sheaf of notes inside his jacket — by now he'd memorized them, but he wanted them close anyway, like a talisman.
He went down to find Yalira.
She looked up from her daggers as he came in, gave him a once-over, nodded.
"Slept?"
"A little."
"Eat something."
"In a minute."
