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The words floated unbidden into my head as I drifted off to sleep. A highblood. I’d told Medra once I wished I were a highblood. Why in the Bloodmaiden’s name was I remembering that now? The memory felt sour. Embarrassing. Like something a foolish child would say without realizing the cost of their wish. I was an adult. I knew how the world worked now. Everything was complicated. Everything was corrupt. Secrets layered on secrets. And right now, mine felt so heavy.

I couldn’t tell anyone about Nyxaris. Not about what he could do or what we’d shared. He’d been distant ever since we’d returned from Veilmar. Polite. Formal. Withdrawn. Every night I fell asleep replaying what had happened between us in my mind. Searching for what I’d done wrong—surely, I had done something wrong. Had I been too eager? Too young? Just … too much?

I couldn’t even ask Medra for advice. I didn’t have Nyxaris’s permission to share this secret with her—not yet. I didn’t know what consequences there might be when I did either, for him or for me. So I lay there in the dark, very small and quiet, and wrapped in a shame I could not even name. Sleep finally slid over me, and then I was dreaming.

I was walking through a village at dusk. Lamps were just beginning to glow in the windows of the small houses that lined the street. I was young—perhaps ten or eleven. My hand was clasped in my father’s, and I swung on his arm, laughing. Wei Shen smiled down at me, his grip instinctively tightening, steadying me so I didn’t slip away. My father was quietly handsome in a bookish way, with sharp, dark eyes and strong cheekbones. His black hair shone like mine, but it was shorter, though strands fell in his eyes as he smiled down at me. He wore simple homespun clothes, worn but clean and neat. Hanging from his free hand was a basket full of books he was bringing home for my mother.

“She says I work too hard, Florence. But I never tell her she reads too hard,” he joked.

I laughed in delight. We were nearly at the end of the street, about to turn the corner. Home was only a few minutes’ walk away. Then the doors of a nearby pub burst open, and a group of highblood youths staggered out. They were clearly from the city. I stared at their fine-cut clothes, their velvet cloaks, their disheveled hair, and their eyes—bright and unfocused. Their voices were raised in drunken laughter, and I caught a strange scent.

“Come on, Florence,” my father said, his voice suddenly sharp. “Let’s get home to your mother.”

But it was too late. They’d seen us.

A tall young woman staggered over, pulling another girl behind her. They were twins, I realized. Unmistakable. Both with pale, beautiful hair. Both dressed far too richly for a village like ours.

The girl in front smiled. “Well, look at this. Out for an evening stroll, are we?”

The other sister lingered half a step behind, something like pity in her eyes, as the others in their group began to spread out around us.

My father’s hand tightened briefly around mine. Then he let go. “Florence,” he murmured, “I want you to run.”

I stared at him, heart pounding. I didn’t want to leave him. The world was tilting, and I did not want to be alone.

“Did you hear me?” His voice was sharp. “You need to run, Florence. Run. Right now.” His hand was suddenly at my back, pushing me forward, propelling me out of the circle that was quickly tightening around us like a noose.

“Papa!” I cried, turning back.

“I’ll take you to your papa, little girl.” I heard a rough masculine laugh and looked up to see a huge highblood boy grinning down at me.

In my sleep, my body stiffened. I recognized him: Marcus Drakhar-row. In the dream, the younger me screamed and began to run.

Marcus chased after me, cursing drunkenly as he stumbled, his fine leather boots slipping in the dirt. I veered sharply down an alley. It was dark, but we’d already walked that way, so I knew what I’d find. I felt with my hands, clambering up onto a wagon piled high with loose hay, pulling the pieces on top of myself. My heart pounded. I felt like I was going to throw up. I held very still.

“Come out, come out, wherever you are,” the boy’s voice called. He gave a deep laugh. “You can’t hide, little girl. I’m going to find you.”

He stepped past the wagon. I could see him through the cracks in the boards. I held my breath, squeezing back the sobs that threatened to spill from my mouth. I heard him reach the end of the alley and pause.

“I’m tired of this game, little girl. Come out now. Or you won’t like what happens when I catch you.” He softened his voice. “Come out now, and I’ll bring you back to Papa. That’s a good girl.”

I closed my eyes. I heard him swear, then heard pounding footsteps. He ran past me.

I waited. Then slowly I pushed my way out. The alley was empty. Quickly I scrambled up onto the top of the pile of hay. My fingers reached for the gutter of the nearby house. I hauled myself up onto the roof, skinning my palms on the rough shingles. I moved slowly, crawling behind a chimney. Then I looked down.

The youths had surrounded my father. They shoved him back and forth, laughing hysterically when he fell to his knees. They mocked him as he got back up to his feet, only to push him down again.

I wanted to scream. I wanted to run. I wanted to go to him.

But instead, I stayed there, curled in on myself. Frozen. Terrified. Helpless. Useless. Until it was too late.

He stumbled one last time, and this time they didn’t let him get back up. They moved forward, shielding him with their bodies as they fell upon him with their fangs bared. I listened as they tore into him without restraint, until finally his cries went quiet. Until there was nothing left to take from him.

When they finally backed away from his body, wiping their mouths and licking their lips, he lay in the dirt like refuse they’d discarded. His skin was pale. His body was still. The basket he’d been carrying lay flattened in the dirt. The books had spilled out and were open, their pages ripped and dirty. The youths didn’t look back once. Instead, they moved onto the next game. They grabbed torches. Moving down the street laughing and shrieking wildly, they pressed flame to thatch and wood. Fire bloomed, quickly leaping from house to house. Someone tossed a torch into the wagon of hay next to the roof on which I hid, and it burst into orange incandescent light.

Blood trickled down my chin from where my teeth had clamped down hard on my lower lip. My cheeks felt gritty, stained with tears and dirt. Everything I loved was turning to ash.

I woke with a gasp, my chest heaving, lungs burning as if I’d really swallowed all that smoke. A sob cracked my chest. It hadn’t been a dream, it had been real. I could feel the certainty in my very bones. The memory hadn’t been a dream. Somehow, it had been taken from me—only to come flooding back now.