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Part One

Before The Rot Knew My Shape

I

Indigo-Eyed Birthday

“Happy birthday, Selah Crow—hair black as night, heart stubborn as sin, eyes of indigo.”

Scarlett’s fingertip skims the freckles on my nose, her voice pulling me from sleep in that same soft, sing-song way she’s had my whole life. That silly rhyme wraps around me like a blanket I’ll never admit I still need. Mama used to hum it while rocking me in the nursery, but I don’t remember any of that—just the echo of her voice living in Scarlett’s.

Cass was wrong yesterday. Scarlett doesn’t baby me—I’m the part of her she refuses to let the world harden.

And Cass?

With her, I’m the opposite. I’m the thing that keeps her sharp.

I’m the constant—unchanged when everything else burns—and they each carried that in their own way. For every ounce of concrete in Cass’s exterior, she loves me a million times harder, and Scarlett’s gentleness softens the edge of that love just enough for me to see it.

I don’t know yet that constancy is just another thing the world learns how to break.

Scarlett holds the softness in me; Cass sharpens the edges. I never have to choose between them—never have to decide which part of me will survive. Not yet.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m up,” I grumble, shoving off the covers. The air has that damp snap of early cold, the kind that creeps into your bones.

I barely get both feet on the floor before the door bangs open hard enough to rattle the walls.

Shadow bursts in like a cannonball—muddy paws, ears flapping, tail slapping the air like it’s got something to prove. He launches straight onto the bed, planting himself square on my chest with a grunt and a slobbery kiss to the jaw.

“Shadow!” I wheeze, shoving him. “Get your filthy ass off me.”

He just wriggles harder, licking my jaw, tail slapping the quilt.

“Don’t yell at him.”

Cass’s voice slices through the chaos from the doorway. She leans against the frame, arms crossed, boots muddy, hair still damp from the morning fog. Both holsters are strapped on. She’s dressed for war, not breakfast.

“He’s the only one in this house with any sense,” she adds.

“Then we’re absolutely screwed,” I mutter.

Scarlett laughs softly behind me, the sound like something rare and golden. “Cass, it’s barely dawn. Let her wake up before you start lecturing.”

“Yeah, well, the Hollowborn don’t check their watches.” Cass gestures toward the window with her chin. “Found fresh tracks by the fence line. Shadow picked up the scent before I did.”

That sobers me quicker than a blast of cold water. Cass’s gaze flicks out the window to the far post—where the wire’s been re-twisted tight. Fresh. Not her work. Not mine.

“Just Hollowborn?” I ask.

“Not just Hollowborn,” she says, voice flat. “Tracks that don’t wander. Patrol tracks.”

Patrols don’t hunt.

Patrols watch.

The room tilts. Patrol means something worse than Hollowborn. Patrol means men.

The Black Harvest runs patrols. So do other groups. Mercs. Raiders. Zealots in Gospel gray.