THE KNIFE WAITED IN HIS HAND. Patient and ready. Unlike Yanick.

His fingers twitching around the handle like it might burn him if he grips it too tight. Maybe it would. His legs didn’t move, his chest tightened, but none of that mattered because the blade was still there, staring him down, waiting for him to act.

Behind him, Rayla circled like a predator deciding where to sink its teeth first. Her breathing jagged, all broken edges, like she’s been ripped apart and stitched back together wrong. Every step she took scraped against his nerves. Her shadow flickered with the flames, appearing on his left, then his right, then gone again, like she’s part of the fire itself.

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

Yanick didn’t flinch. He jerked, a whole-body shiver he can’t suppress, like her voice just unstrung his spine. She stepped into the firelight, and somehow she became taller now, larger. As the flames devoured the farmhouse, she grew—this towering, twisted thing made of smoke and rage.

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

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

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

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

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

Yanick tried to catch his breath. The air became too thick, full of ash and heat and something that tasted like charred wood and regret. His lungs wanted to collapse, but Rayla’s voice kept them going, bouncing around in his skull like shrapnel.

Pick.

He looked at Amaia first. He always looked at her first. Her eyes hit him like a fist to the chest, and suddenly he’s been 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.

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

He turned 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 was not that person anymore. His shoulders sag. His head hung low. He looked 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 was anger. Maybe it was despair. It didn’t matter anymore.

“Two.”

The ash fell thicker now, swirling in the air like snow. It clinged to his skin, his clothes, his hair. He remembered snow, real snow. Home.

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

She didn’t answer. Just inhaled, slow and deliberate.

“Thr—”

“Stop.”

Yanick moves. He doesn’t think, doesn’t breathe. He suddenly knows what to do. He feels it with whole of his body.

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.

***