It wasn't just silence. It was amputation.
My marks—a second heartbeat I had lived with my entire life—were gone. The Quell-Rune bore down on me, suffocating the connection. But it was doing more than blocking. It was feeding.A sickness radiated from the brand, seeping into my marrow, turning my blood to slush. I felt hollowed out. Scraped clean.
A shiver racked through me, violent enough to snap my teeth together. My fingers tapped the stone beneath me. Three beats. The old rhythm, hollow against the wet floor. A prayer to no one.
Remember.
For a second, I wasn't on the dungeon floor. I was back at the bonfire.
Heat on my face. The crackle of dry wood. Brannick’s shoulder pressing warm and solid against mine. The taste of roasted meat, rich and savory, still lingering on my tongue. "Took you long enough, little flame," he’d said.
Back in the cell. The taste of meat was gone, replaced by the tart tang of blood where I’d bitten my tongue. The warmth was a lie. The stone sucked the heat from my body, greedy and endless.
How could we have been so stupid?
Remember.
Maxx winking at me over Serenya’s head. "To the Scion of the First Scar." The music. The laughter. We were gods. We had rewritten reality.
Foolish girl, remember.
We were children playing with fire in a room full of gasoline.
"Scion," I whispered. The word made heat flush up my neck, mockery.
The King was right.The Rupture.That’s what I was. I hadn't saved anyone. I had led the wolf straight to the flock, opened the door, and poured him a drink.
Drip.
Drip.
I curled tighter into myself, knees tucked under my chin, trying to hold the broken pieces together. Somewhere above me, they were hunting the others. Were they dead? Was Brannick’s laugh silenced? Was Maxx broken?
The thoughts came faster. Meaner. Each one harsher than the last, and I couldn't outrun them lying on a floor. I wasn't the weapon Kaelen promised. I was the curse the King had named me. Everyone I touched burned. Everyone I loved bled.
Then a sound cut through it.
Not the drip. Footsteps—multiple sets, measured and rhythmic, metal striking stone. And beneath them, a lighter drag. Something—someone—being hauled.
My heart slammed against the brand like it was trying to escape without me.
The footsteps stopped outside the door.
I dragged myself up. My arms shook, my branded chest screamed, but I forced myself to my knees. If they had come to end me, I wasn’t dying lying in my own waste.
The door opened and light spilled into the cell—harsh, blinding lantern light.
I squinted against the glare.
The captain of the Black Talons emerged first. The one who'd measured Serenya's worth by what I had left to lose.
Behind him, two guards dragged something between them. A figure. Small. Stumbling. Dark hair matted with blood, a dress torn at the shoulder.
Serenya.
The air left the room.
She wasn't fighting. She hung limp in their grip, her head lolling forward. Her wrists were bound in heavy iron cuffs that looked too big for her delicate bones. There was a bruise blooming dark and ugly across her cheekbone—the shape of a backhand.
