And that wasn’t the worst of it.
I began seeing Balthazar.
His shadow stalked me in every alley, and his silhouette danced in the corners of my vision. At first, I mistook strangers for him—until the hallucinations became their own reality. His face haunted my dreams, jerking me awake in cold sweats, only for him to follow me into the waking world. I could feel him, even when I knew he wasn’t there.
He was in my bones. In my blood. In my nightmares.
Still, I tried to win Dancing Fire’s sympathy. I spun lies as easily as breathing.
“Balthazar slaughtered my adopted family before my eyes,” I whispered one night, feigning grief. “It was terrible.”
But no matter how heartfelt I made it sound or how convincingly I painted myself the victim, he never believed me.
His eyes stayed flat. Cold. Immovable.
And that was the most maddening thing of all.
“Don’t you see my scars?” I hissed, yanking up the edge of my shirt to reveal the jagged lines that marred my skin. “I was tortured. Beaten. I found out I was pregnant, and someone cut open my stomach.”
Dancing Fire didn’t flinch.
“Why are you telling me these ridiculous stories?” he said flatly. “I honestly don’t care about you. Or your wretched little life.”
Those words cracked something inside me.
After three long, fruitless, godforsaken years, I was done pretending.
We sat across from each other in a smoky tavern, the stench of sweat and ale thick in the air. My hands curled around the mug, the wood sticky under my fingers. I stared into the amber depths of my drink, barely holding myself together.
“I think we need to go back,” I said coldly, not looking up. “We need more information from John James.”
“And why do you think that?” His tone was laced with boredom, as if I were little more than a buzzing fly. When it met mine, his gaze was lifeless, like staring across a vast, empty chasm, like everything inside him had already rotted away.
“Because,” I said, leaning forward, digging my fingernails into the scarred tabletop, “we haven’t foundanything.Or haven’t you noticed?”
I locked eyes with him, matching his ice with my fire.
He scoffed and looked away. “And you think it’s my fault, don’t you?”
“Of course it’s your fault!” I snapped. “No one wants to talk to you! You walk around with this aura like you’re two seconds away from slitting someone’s throat!”
He turned his head and fixed me with a gaze so sinister, it chilled the marrow in my bones. “Yours,perhaps.”
A shiver crawled up my spine, but I refused to look away. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing me afraid.
My blood boiled, rage rising like a tide. Images of John James surged through my mind—his calm smile, false promises, the ease with which he sent us here and left us to rot.
“John Jamespromisedwe’d find the daggers here!” I growled. “How could I have been so stupid? Helied!Just like everyone else.Everyonelies!”
I drained my mug in one angry gulp, letting the heat of the ale burn away the edge of my fury.
“Dead ends surround us; meanwhile, Balthazar is still out there. Still waiting.”
Dancing Fire didn’t blink.
“Are you done with this little display?” he said with a sneer, gesturing lazily between us.
I slammed my mug onto the table so hard that the ale sloshed over the rim. “Stop patronizing me! I’m sick of it!”
