A dangerous, brilliant idea.
Once behind the safety of my door, I rushed to my desk and tore open a drawer. My fingers found pen and parchment as though fate had already arranged them.
I sat. Took a deep breath.
1666.
I scrawled it onto the paper with shaking fingers, the ink blottingand bleeding like a secret whispered too fast. It was a gamble—one that could doom me or save me. But I had no other choice.
If Balthazar came searching, this would be the only thread he might follow.
The paper fluttered as I set it down on the desk, leaving it conspicuous enough and vulnerable to discovery.
I stared at it, heart thundering.
Let him find it.
Let him follow me through time.
Let him chase me into the fire.
The night of the full moon was darker than any I’d known. The stars were veiled, the wind still, as if the world held its breath for what was to come.
I followed Signor Zampa through the quiet town, each step heavy with dread. Though he searched for a secret place to perform the rite, my heart tugged in the opposite direction—backto Balthazar. To his arms. To the madness I both feared and ached for.
So, it felt like fate—or a cruel twist of—when our path ended atthatpark.
The one where Balthazar and I had stolen kisses in the shadows, whispered terrible dreams, and written promises in sweat and blood.
My hand tightened around the slip of paper in my pocket, the one marked in my delicate, flowery handwriting—1666.
Zampa led me to a secluded corner, hidden by thick brush and moonlight. There, he revealed the dagger.
I froze.
The blade shimmered like it breathed. Its gold-etched hilt caught the moonlight in quiet defiance, while its edge seemed to pulse—as if it were alive and waiting.
“Are you ready, child?” Zampa asked, gripping my chin in his calloused hand, forcing me to meet his eyes.
His voice was low, unnervingly calm. Like death, whispering.
“Yes,” I breathed.
He raised the dagger between us. “I must cut your palm. You’llspeak the words of the rite. And you must not make a mistake. Do you understand?”
I nodded.
But inside, I trembled.
My voice began the sacred incantation, just as he drew the blade across my palm with a swift, brutal stroke.
I cried out, pain flaring through me like fire as blood welled and spilled—but I didn’t falter. I kept chanting.
He pressed the hilt into my bleeding hand, curling my fingers around it, sealing my grip with his own.
The dagger flared with an eerie, pale light.
A jolt surged through me, like lightning through my bones. My vision blurred. The world shivered around me, bending and groaning like time itself was drawing a breath.
