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I didn’t think my pain could get any worse. I am bursting at the seams, my insides screaming with the desire to tell him that what I said was a lie. That I want nothing more than to go back to our summer nights walking along the shore, sipping wine past midnight. That I’ve also learned things about home—how it isn’t San Francisco, or the imposing structure beside me, but him.

That I’m pretty damn sure I’m falling in love, even if I never said the words aloud.

If I walk away now, without telling Luka how I really feel, would I ever forgive myself? Would I forever be haunted by this day, his lips?

Magdalena was right; love makes us fools. Maybe I’ve always been doomed to make the same mistake as my parents. Maybe we were always meant to be star-crossed lovers in the mora’s game.

A plea for forgiveness teeters on my tongue; I can feel my willpower unraveling, unspooling with each second.

“Luka,” I whisper.

The screech of a microphone cuts me off. We both glance toward the heart of the festivities, where Karmela stands on the stage. The speech. It’s time.

I turn back to Luka, torn between what to do. But I don’t get a chance to decide. Because there, standing just behind him, looms Magdalena. The black holes of her gaze pin me in place as she raises her sickle, its sharp edge gleaming.

“Run!” I snatch Luka’s arm, pulling him away at the last moment. Together, we dash away in the only direction we can—toward the house and the other guests.

Magdalena is hot on our heels, her feet thundering behind us. I sprint so hard that my momentum sends me crashing against a table, knocking over glasses and trays of food. The guests around us gasp and scream, tripping over themselves to get out of the way. As I weave toward the lavender field, I steal a glance behind me just in time to see Luka hurl a tray at Magdalena, but she dodges it, brandishing her sickle once more. As I turn back ahead, I register Davor’s voice rising from the chaos.

“The mora! Get her!”

Luka and I sprint through the lavender field, but my heels slow me down. Suddenly, I trip over something on the ground and fall hard, pain shooting up my ankle. Panic seizes me. There’s no way I can outrun her now.

“Go!” I shout at Luka as he doubles back to help me. “She wants you, not me!”

“I’m not leaving you,” he says, crouching beside me. My heart races, every beat filled with dread.

Magdalena approaches, her pace slowing, a wicked smile splayed on her lips. She knows we’re trapped, that there’s no escaping. She takes another languid step forward—then suddenly falters. Stumbling backward, she hisses at something near her feet.

I squint through the darkness and spot an iron chain lying across the ground—the very thing I tripped over. But how did it get there?

A flurry of pounding footsteps echoes through the field as Davor and several other men run toward us, another iron chain stretched between them. Magdalena tries to dart away, but they quickly encircle her, knives gleaming in the lantern light, some brandishing horseshoes. Magdalena recoils, her confidence crumbling as all the iron weapons draw closer.

“Not so clever now, are you, mora?” Davor taunts, closing the gap and tackling her to the ground. Two other men swoop forward, wrapping her in the long iron chain. She struggles against them, but they’re clearly stronger.

“Let me go,” she growls between winces of pain.

“Not this time,” Davor sneers. “You must pay for all you’ve done.” I watch in disbelief as they tie her arms down, then tug her toward the workshop. Toward a dead tree beside it.

“Petra!” a voice calls. Karmela bounds up beside Luka and me, panting. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah,” I say faintly. More people are flocking toward the scene, cheering Davor and his men as they bind Magdalena to the tree. She writhes against her chains, but her efforts seem weak, as if the iron has sapped her strength.

“Go, now,” Karmela says beside me. I turn to see her prodding the priest forward. He stares at Magdalena with a stricken look on his face, caught somewhere between disbelief and fear.

“What are you doing?” I ask, confused. I realize then she doesn’t seem surprised or outraged at Davor and his men. She almost seems . . . pleased.

Karmela fixes me with a deadpan look. “Cleansing this house once and for all.” She takes my hand, grips it tight. “Don’t you understand? I’m doing this for you.”

Before I can comprehend her words, the priest starts to speak. A hush sweeps over the crowd. “I stand before thee . . . mora,” he says hesitantly, “to offer you absolution for your sins. Confess to all your wrongdoing, and God the Father will save you from the snares of Satan. He will cast out the demon inside you and grant you rest. Do you confess?”

Disbelief courses through me—has Karmela believed in the mora all along? Does she really think that this is the way to get rid of her?

When Magdalena only glares back, the priest repeats his question, louder. Tension vibrates through the air as the people jostle for a better look. Karmela grips my arm tightly while her other hand holds a rosary. Murmured prayers stream from her lips. Anger and shock mixes in my gut as I watch Magdalena with worried anticipation.

Finally, she responds, but not in words. With a disgusted scowl, she rears her head and spits at the priest’s feet.

It is like oil flung on a sizzling pan. “Then you’ll get what you deserve,” Davor snarls as he dashes toward the surrounding foliage. More men follow, shouting for justice as they gather grass and branches. Karmela does nothing, only watches as they arrange the brush around Magdalena’s feet. The realization of what is happening crashes over me like a cold wave. Iron not only harms a mora but makes her mortal.