Page 63 of Fallacies

The final burst of pain lances straight through my chest, seconds before I pull us out, and when I snap back into my skin, tears are streaming down her perfect face, black smudged under her eyes.

It takes me a second to clear the emotion from my throat, but my voice comes out hoarse anyway. “I’m so proud of you,” I whisper, fighting the urge to reach across and wipe her tears away. “You’re almost done.”

“What?” Lucina sniffles, her watery gaze sweeping over the line of men beside us. “You were the last one. I thought⁠—”

She wants so badly to be done, and I want that too. I hate seeing her this way. I hate having to put her through this. “Chaos, you have to show us yours.”

All color drains from her face. “What?” Her voice is quiet, hardly a whisper.

“You don’t have to relive it with us,” I explain, hoping that gives her some kind of relief. “The hard part is over. Show us yours, and you’re done.”

The apprehension in her stare makes me think that the hard part isn’t over at all.

I’d been so focused on getting her through our memories that I hadn’t had time to worry about what hers might be. I assumed it would be the fire she nearly died in or the Ashvine Fenton gave her at Selumira, but the look in her eyes is one of hesitance. Like she’s guarding whatever her memory is. Like it’s not something she’s told me about.

But what could be worse than her near-death experiences this summer?

Gods, what could be worse?

Lucina stares back at me, wiping the tears off her cheeks as she attempts to collect herself. The audience remains silent as her eyes fall shut, brows pinched in concentration.

When nearly a full minute passes, I lightly touch her hand. “Lucina?”

“Okay,” she exhales, eyes cracking open. Nodding to herself, she holds a hand out for the knife, and relief mingles with the dread swirling inside me.

Handing her the blade, I watch as she pricks the top of her finger and moves to the start of the line, smearing blood from her wound on Easton’s palm first. He freezes, tumbling into whatever memory she chose.

Lucina keeps moving, slowly making her way down the line of us, eyes downcast on what she’s doing.

When she finally makes it to me, she hesitates.

“Don’t feel sorry for me,” Lucina says, lifting her gaze to mine. The dread in my stomach multiplies. “And please don’t look at me any differently.” She glances to Pax, who is already frozen in her memory, and then she repeats the same words he’d told her: “I’m stronger now.”

Lucina doesn’t give me time to reply before smearing her blood over my open palm.

The ground crumbles away, the world shifting around me, and then I’m falling headfirst through a dark sky.

When my body lands, the room I’m in is quiet, the stench of cigarettes pungent in the air. My eyes focus on old hardwood floors—worn and cold. Rising slowly, I take in the walls around me. They’re just as worn as the floors, with various chips and cracks in the paint. Aside from a few childlike drawings taped low on the wall and a small window beside me, nothing is hanging around. No decorations. No art.

Turning, I notice the door. It’s wooden, the hinges rusted, and when my gaze trails down to the doorknob, every muscle in my body tenses.

There’s a chair tucked under the door, with a glass jar balancing on top.

No.

Heavy footsteps thump from somewhere in the house, and when a whimper sounds from behind me, I’m convinced there’s nothing in this world that will prepare me for what I’m about to see.

Forcing my feet to shift, I turn, taking in the small bed against the wall and the little girl pressed tightly into the corner of it.

Running to her won’t help; it’s only a memory, but I rush to the foot of the bed anyway.

Lucina can’t be more than eleven or twelve, dark curls wildly framing her face, falling over the shoulders of her white nightgown. Her knees are pulled into her chest, hazel eyes wide on the door behind me. She’s trembling, gripping what looks like a dull kitchen knife, her knuckles white around the hilt.

Fear erupts beneath my skin—the same fear she felt in this moment as the stomping gets louder. Closer. Rattling the whole house with each heavy footfall.

Lucina presses herself further into the corner, big eyes welling with tears.

The shadow of whoever is making all that noise stops in front of her closed door, the toes of their shoes barely visible through the gap at the bottom.