Quentin woke up screaming four hours later, his mind filled with a single command: Kill Beast.

Now, something had let him out.

He held up a data-slate. On it: resurrection logs. John Proudheart had been reborn ninety-seven times in the last six hours. Each copy had a different mission. Kill a diplomat. Sabotage a gate. Whisper a phrase into the ear of a sleeping child.

“Tell the Cuckoos… I’m sorry I couldn’t be their friend. Only their wound.”

Sage ran the numbers. “We can’t shut down the factory without killing the Cuckoo-ghosts. And we can’t kill the Cuckoo-ghosts without erasing every John Proudheart simultaneously. His psychic fingerprint is nested inside their grief.”