His words hit me with unexpected tenderness.
And for a moment, I smiled. Just a little. A reluctant curve at the corners of my mouth.
I remembered those nights. The two of us curled under blankets, whispering in the dark about the ancient Sun and Moon Daggers, legends of unimaginable power. We clung to fantasies like children—destiny, legacy, purpose. It had once felt real.Wehad once felt real.
Jack’s hardened expression softened as I spoke of my supposed mission. The lie dripped off my tongue like honey, and he drank it in—eager, desperate for something to hold onto. For a heartbeat, we were the old us again.
But I couldn’t ignore the bruised bags beneath his eyes, theexhaustion dulling his features. His nights had been as sleepless as mine. And it made the guilt in my chest spread like rot.
Because I wasn’t leaving to find the Moon Dagger.
And he’d never know.
“I’m going to do this, Jack,” I lied, taking his hands in mine. “I’ll bring the daggers home. And when I do, I’ll return to you. I promise.”
I leaned forward and pressed my lips gently against his cheek—soft, warm, familiar. Then I turned away, heart hammering, mind already racing with how to build this new version of myself. One Jack would never recognize. One thing Balthazar would never expect.
Under the heavy glow of a full moon that night, a chill ran down the back of my neck.
It was time.
I pulled my cloak tighter and slipped out into the night, the world silent. With a blade flick, I time-traveled—ripping through the veil of centuries—and emerged in John James’ era.
The sun was blistering.
Sultry heat clung to the land like a sweaty hand, the air so thick it felt like breathing through steam. Each step toward his cabin was a battle. The ground radiated heat in quivering waves, and the leather strap of my satchel dug into my shoulder like iron.
I climbed the hill, drenched in sweat, and every movement met with resistance. At the top, I saw his familiar little cabin, nestled near the trees.
And there he was.
John James stood near the creek, filling an urn with water, unaware of the storm walking toward him.
I approached, careful not to startle him. My footsteps barely whispered over the dry earth.
This was it.
The next breadcrumb. The next lie.
He rose from the creek and squinted into the shimmering haze, his hand shielding his eyes.
“Hello! Who goes there?”
“It’s me, John James,” I called, stepping into view. “It’s Alina.”
His brows lifted, eyes narrowing in recognition. “Alina Tocino?”
“The same.” I smiled. “It’s so good to see you.”
Without hesitation, he crossed the clearing and swept me into a bear hug. It was warm, sincere—even grounding. More real than the tepid, distracted embraces I’d grown used to with Jack. For a fleeting moment, I let myself sink into it.
“What brings you to these parts?” he asked, his face alight with curiosity.
“I wanted to tell you… I found one of the daggers.”
His eyes widened with boyish wonder as he clapped his hands together. “Did you? That’s wonderful news—simplywonderful. Come, sit with me. Share everything.” He gestured to a shaded patch beneath the trees. “It’s far too hot to be indoors.”
I followed him and settled on a weathered tree stump, brushing the dust from my cloak. The humid air clung to my skin like a second layer, thick and suffocating. I hadn’t remembered the Midwest being this oppressive.
