“No catch,” I say. “This ain’t a fairy tale bargain. You entertain me? You get to keep your bones.”
My heart thuds. I don’t know why I’m doing this. I don’t understand the impulse.
But her fire… it calls to something old in me.
And I want to see if it burns.
3
RIVER
I’m not hallucinating. I’m not. I keep telling myself that, like it’ll make it true.
But the air stinks of smoke and moonshine, and there’s a spider with a bitchy voice spelling out profanities in a goddamn web balloon. A satyr is licking his fingers like he’s already tasted my marrow. And the troll? The troll has fucking lava for eyes. His gaze is fierce and quiet and terrifying. Like he’s not lookingatme, but through me—measuring something I don’t even know I still have.
I can’t feel my legs. Can barely hold the stick up. My arm’s jelly and every breath scrapes like sandpaper. The inside of my ribs ache like something’s splintered, and my mouth’s full of copper and grit.
But the stick stays up.
Because if I drop it, I’m meat.
“Sing. Dance. Tell me a tale.” His voice rolls like distant thunder, low and sure, and not even slightly joking. The other freaks go quiet. The toad knight with his pompous jaw. The satyr with roast girl on the menu. Even the spider hushes for a beat.
A dry laugh bubbles out of me, cracked and wrong.
“You want a fucking story?” I croak. My throat burns. My lips split.
He nods once, solemn as a damn priest.
I take a breath, and then—something inside me gives. It doesn’t break. Not yet. Itbends. I drop the stick. Not from surrender. From rage.
“Alright,” I say. My voice is hoarse, hollow. “Here’s your story.”
I straighten—or try to. My spine feels like it’s made of broken glass. I don’t care. I force myself upright, legs trembling, every nerve screaming. I guess my back's not broken. Everything works even if it hurts like hell.
“I was seven the first time a dark elf touched me. Seven. He had gloves, because I was property. Untouched. You know what that means?” My gaze darts to the satyr. He flinches. Good.
“Means I wasn’t allowed to cry. Not in front of them. Wasn’t allowed to speak unless spoken to. Wasn’t allowed to bleed. Wasn’t allowed tobreathewithout permission. But they could touch. They could teach.”
The troll watches me.
“They trained me like livestock. You ever train livestock? You break them. Break their will. Over and over until it’s not even a question anymore. I learned to smile through pain. Learned to kneel. Learned to sing lullabies while wishing for a blade in my belly. Learned to dream of dying.”
Charen mutters, “Shit.” She sounds half impressed, half embarrassed.
I swallow, hard. It scrapes raw. But I keep going.
“Then came auction day. Big black box. Gilded. Velvet-lined. I was in it. They paraded me out like I was a prize bull. Not even clothed. Just paint. Spirals down my spine and across my breasts, symbols that meantuntouched,valuable,rare.Theytold me to smile. I did. I smiled while planning to take someone with me.”
My voice starts to hitch. I push through.
“But fate’s a drunk old bastard. The auction never happened. Gunfire. Chaos. Blood. Rizzo’s Rangers tore through the elite like gods come to pass judgment. Except gods don’t miss. They killed slaves too. Girls like me. Screaming. Dying.”
I breathe. Close my eyes. Open them again. “My buyer tried to grab me. Drag me out. Thought I was still his.” My lips peel back in something that’s not a smile. “I broke his neck with my chains.”
The satyr's mouth is slack. Toad Knight looks away.
I’m shaking now, but it’s not from fear.
