The question hung in the smoky air.
I touched the place over my heart where the mark now lived. Fate. That's what Darius had called me. Not a mistake. Not a disaster. Fate.
Maybe it was time I started believing it.
“No,” I whispered. “I’m Fate.”
Caterpillar’s mouth curved—not quite a smile, but close. “Mmm. So you are.”
Darius clasped my hand. “We need to present you to Grump as part of the rebellion.”
Dread settled in my gut. He could undo everything with a single word. “Why?”
He pushed a lock of my hair behind my ear and I shivered. “Because he needs to give you final approval.”
"That's not what I wanted to hear." The tattoo over my heart suddenly felt fragile. Temporary. Like Grump would burn it off himself. He didn't welcome just anyone—I knew that. Which meant I could still be turned away.
Chester and Caterpillar helped maneuver Darius toward Grump, who stood studying a map with the Uncrowned Seven. He glanced up and scowled when he saw us approaching.
It wasn’t far—twenty feet, maybe less. But it felt like I was walking toward the guillotine. And Grump looked ready to call for my head.
Something caught my eye. A pocket watch, lying open. But instead of a clock face, there was a small picture of a woman tucked inside.
I froze.
Everything narrowed to that single image.
I knew her. Blonde hair. Soft eyes. A smile I’d only ever seen in fragments—in dreams that turned to smoke and screaming.
The woman who burned to death.
My mother.
My stomach dropped. My lungs forgot how to work.
Why did Grump have a picture of my mother?
“Alice?” Darius’ voice broke the paralysis gripping me.
I blinked. “What?”
Darius gave me a curious look. “Grump?—”
But I couldn’t remain silent. I ran over to the pocket watch and seized it. Brought it close, hoping I'd been wrong. Hoping the light had played tricks.
But no. My mother's face stared back at me. Real. Impossible. Real.
Grump immediately grabbed my arm. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” He yanked the pocket watch out of my hands. “Give that to me.”
“Why do you have a picture of my mother?”
Something cracked behind his eyes—there and gone so fast I thought I almost missed it. “What did you say?”
My lower lip trembled. The words wanted to stay locked inside, where they were safe, where they couldn’t hurt me. But they clawed their way out anyway.
“That’s my mother.” I shook with anger. “She died in a fire when I was three. She died protecting me.”
The memory surged up—smoke and screaming and arms holding me tight. The heat. The roar of flames. And a voice. A man’s voice, cold and commanding, as everything I loved turned to ash.
