She didn't ask if Lavinia had done it.

She knew.

Lavinia always said love meant sacrifice. That people were obstacles. That if Sylivia wanted to be free, to be hers, she had to let go of everything else.

Smoke clawed at the sky as rooftops collapsed in on themselves, screaming with heat. The smell—charred wood, scorched flesh, boiling blood—coated the inside of Sylivia’s throat, but she didn’t move. She stood on the ridge, eyes wide and glassy, as everything she’d ever known turned to ash below.

Behind her, Lavinia laughed. Low. Soft. Almost loving.

“Miss me…my love?”

Sylivia closed her eyes. Lavinia stepped from the shadows like sin given skin. Firelight caught the curve of her smile, the gleam of her eyes, the blade still glistening with cherry red blood staining it in her hand.