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I find him crouched before me, face streaked with soot and grief, eyes darker than I have ever seen them.

“You are not broken,” he says. “You are wounded, and there is a difference.”

I shake my head. “She looked away.”

Neither of them answers.

“She looked away because he threatened us.” My chest convulses. “She let him take her to keep us alive.”

Alcott’s breath catches behind me as Lazarus closes his eyes. For one second, we are three men kneeling in mud, smoke, blood, and failure.

Then Lazarus opens his eyes again andTthe Slaying Sickle is there. Not the performer, the killer.

“Then we honor that,” he says.

My throat tightens. “No.”

“Yes.” His voice is merciless now. “We honor it by staying alive long enough to find her.”

I shake my head again, but weaker. The rage is still there. The panic. The guilt. But beneath it, something colder begins to form. A purpose with teeth.

Alcott slowly releases me, though his hand remains on my shoulder. My broken knuckles throb and blood drips from my fingers onto the road and I stare at it. The pain grounds me.

Lazarus looks toward the three roads. “We find which carriage was his.”

“How?” I whisper.

Alcott’s voice is hoarse. “The Collector does not flee like the others.”

I turn slightly. He is pale, but his eyes are focused now.

“He would not take the crowded road. Too many witnesses, not the coast road either—too exposed after the fire. Forest road.” He points with his knife. “If he planned this, he had a route, a hidden carriage. Men stationed, likely a change of horses before dawn.”

Lazarus nods. “There are old hunting paths beyond the forest.”

My heartbeat pounds against my cracked ribs, as I push myself to stand. Alcott moves to help me and I almost refuse, but then humble myself and let him.

“We go,” I say.

Lazarus rises. “Not blindly.”

I turn to him. His expression does not change.

“We go fast,” he says. “But not stupid. If the Collector took her, he wants you alive enough to chase and desperate enough to make mistakes.”

The words hit with humiliating accuracy.

“He knows me,” I say.

Alcott’s mouth tightens. “Then we stop being predictable.”

A sound escapes me, not entirely a sob. “How?”

Lazarus wipes my blood from his palm onto his coat. “We become worse than he remembers.”

The fog shifts around us. Behind us, the manor continues to burn, and ahead, the forest road waits, black and narrow beneath the trees. Olive is somewhere beyond it, she is alone. Taken because she chose our lives over her own. I look down at my bleeding hand. The pain is sharp. Then I look at my brother, then at Lazarus. For years, The Collector taught me love was leverage. Tonight, he proved he still believes that.

Good.