The first light of dawn bled across the Glade, soft and golden, catching the edge of the walls as they began to hum. Everyone was awake already — prepping, packing, shouting orders. Everyone except Newt, who was too busy watching her.

Lula sat on a flat stone near the Map Room, sharpening her knife like she was mad at it. Her jaw was tight, her hair a mess from another sleepless night, and her eyes — those fiery eyes — fixed somewhere far beyond the maze.

Newt hesitated, then walked over, boots crunching on the dirt.

“Careful, love,” he said with a half-smile. “Keep at it like that and you’ll slice the bloody air in half.”

Lula didn’t even glance up. “Keep talking, and I might slice something else.”