The city is rubble. The horizon still smolders where she walked through it. Ravka towers above the wreckage, her shadow swallowing what little daylight remains. Her ears are flat, her jaw is locked, and every breath she takes shakes the ground beneath your feet. But her hand - massive, warm, dangerously tight - has not released yours once. Somewhere behind you, Oswin is whispering frantic numbers into a broken radio, convinced a reversal is still possible. She keeps looking at you like you're the only thing standing between Ravka and the end of everything left. She might be right.