1.

  YAN

  THE KNIFE WAITS IN HIS HAND. It’s patient. It’s ready. Yanick isn’t.

  His fingers twitch around the handle like it might burn him if he grips it too tight. Maybe it will. His legs don’t move, his chest tightens, but none of that matters because the blade is still there, staring him down, waiting for him to act. Behind him, Rayla circles like a predator deciding where to sink its teeth first. Her breathing is jagged, all broken edges, like she’s been ripped apart and stitched back together wrong. Every step she takes scrapes against his nerves. Her shadow flickers with the flames, appearing on his left, then his right, then gone again, like she’s part of the fire itself.

  “Pick one,” she hisses, the words sharp enough to cut.

  Yanick doesn’t flinch. He jerks, a whole-body shiver he can’t suppress, like her voice just unstrung his spine. She steps into the firelight, and somehow she’s taller now, larger. As the flames devour the farmhouse, she grows—this towering, twisted thing made of smoke and rage.

  Her hand shoots out, snatching his hair, yanking his head back hard enough to make his neck scream. The stench of vodka pours out of her mouth, hot and acidic, and for a second, Yanick wonders if her breath alone could set him on fire.

  “Pick one, or I’ll do it for you.” Her hand tightens in his hair, then shoves him forward, down, knees cracking against dirt and ash.

  He looks up. There they are. Ademund. Amaia.

  They’re kneeling, just like him. They’re waiting, just like him. But they’re not holding a knife.

  Behind them, the farmhouse groans as the roof finally starts to go. It caves in on itself, timber snapping, pieces of it crumbling into the fire. Sparks and smoke burst into the night, blotting out the stars.

  Yanick breathes, or tries to. The air is too thick, full of ash and heat and something that tastes like charred wood and regret. His lungs want to collapse, but Rayla’s voice keeps them going, bouncing around in his skull like shrapnel.

  Pick.

  He looks at Amaia first. He always looks at her first. Her eyes hit him like a fist to the chest, and suddenly he’s drowning in memories. That night. This night. Every night when things made sense, back when he thought there was still something left worth living for.

  She was his salvation. His second chance. The only thing that pulled him out of that endless loop of hate. She made him believe, for one stupid, shining moment, that things could be different. That he could be different.

  Her smile was soft, like morning sunlight. Her touch warm and real, grounding him in the grass while the stars blinked above. She smelled like lavender and sweat, like something honest. Something human. Something he didn’t deserve.

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  “One.” Rayla’s voice is cold now, dispassionate, but it still carves into him like the knife in his hand.

  He turns to Ademund.

  Once, he’d been Yanick’s shield, his guardian angel with fists like iron. That night at the city gates—Yanick can still see it. The mob of locals ready to tear him apart, their shouts ripping through the air. Ademund appearing out of nowhere, scattering them like leaves in a storm. He didn’t just save Yanick’s life; he made him believe that someone might actually care if he lost it.

  But the man kneeling in front of him now? He’s not that person anymore. His shoulders sag. His head hangs low. He looks hollow, like someone scooped out everything strong and good inside him and left nothing but scraps. His face is all sharp angles, pain buried deep in the creases. Maybe it’s anger. Maybe it’s despair. It doesn’t matter anymore.

  “Two.”

  The ash is falling thicker now, swirling in the air like snow. It clings to his skin, his clothes, his hair. He remembers snow, real snow. Home.

  “Rayla…” His voice cracks, breaking like the beams of the farmhouse behind them. “Please…”

  She doesn’t answer. Just inhales, slow and deliberate.

  “Thr—”

  “Stop.”

  Yanick moves. He doesn’t think, doesn’t breathe. His right arm wraps around Ademund, pulling him close, and his left—his left knows what to do.

  The knife moves. The knife knows.

  A thrust. A gasp. Blood, dark and hot, pours over his hands.

  Ademund’s eyes meet his. There’s no anger. No surprise. Just understanding, quiet and heavy.

  When he falls, it’s slow. His body crumples, blood on his chest.

  The same blood on the knife and on Yanick’s hand.

  Amaia screams. It’s the kind of sound that rips through you, shredding everything soft and vulnerable inside.

  Her scream. His scream.

  ***

  YANICK WOKE UP CHOKING ON AIR.

  Fire. The farmhouse. The blood. All of it cracked and blurred, fading into sterile white.

  His fingers found the scar on his palm, thick and ridged like old rope. Proof it wasn’t just a dream.

  He didn’t sleep again. He stared at the ceiling until the door creaked open, and the routine began. Breakfast. Shower. Clean clothes. Everything mechanical, everything normal, like he wasn’t falling apart inside.

  Each day, he felt stronger. His arm, still trapped in its cast, didn’t hurt as much. The fingers poking out from the bandages flexed without pain now. He was healing, apparently.

  But today was different. The guards turned left instead of right.

  “What’s going on?” he asked. No answer.

  The hallway stretched ahead, colder and darker than it should’ve been. The lights near the floor glowed faintly, dim and useless. The guards’ boots echoed like gunshots. His shoes? Silent.

  At the end of the hall were white doors.