Madam Rubi was dressed like a ruin trying to remember itself.

  Her face, once proud and powdered, now sagged around the burn scars that crawled from the right side of her jaw to the corner of her temple. Some patches were still raw, like the fire had only just left her. Her hair—once the talk of every market tongue—had thinned and crisped at the ends, tied back in a loose twist with more pins than pride. And yet, the jewelry remained: too much of it, clinking as she gestured, glittering in the lamplight like it might distract from the madness in her eyes.

  Shia watched from the far corner of the room, arms crossed, back straight. He kept his gaze moving, never resting too long on Rubi. Looking at her for too long made his skin itch.

  She hadn’t noticed him yet. Or if she had, she hadn’t cared.

  The meeting chamber was buried beneath one of the city’s older wine houses, down a steep staircase hidden behind a false pantry door. The air grew heavier with each step, thick with the sour tang of old spirits, sweat, and damp stone. By the time Shia reached the bottom, the heat of too many bodies in too tight a space clung to him like wet cloth.

  The room itself was low-ceilinged and round, built of dark stone lacquered in centuries of grime and soot. A single carved pillar stood in the center, etched with faded floral motifs and wrapped in gauzy crimson scarves that had long since lost their sheen. Dozens of brass oil lamps lined the walls in ornate sconces, their flames flickering behind stained glass in deep ambers, rubies, and greens. The light they cast was soft but eerie—shadows stretched long and thin, making every face look a little more hollow than it was.

  Silken floor cushions and low wood tables were arranged haphazardly across the uneven ground, some stacked with ledgers, others with trays of sliced fruit, half-empty wine cups, or tiny jeweled boxes that Shia didn’t dare open. Heavy tapestries covered much of the stone, muffling sound, adorned with angel motifs and white suns in decay. There were no windows. No fresh air. Just the scent of sweat and damp earth pressing in from the foundation.

  At the far end of the chamber sat the raised platform where Madam Rubi held court—a wide wooden divan cushioned in velvet and draped in sheer gold and black. Behind her, black and red silks pooled along the wall, creating a makeshift canopy that glowed like ember when the lamplight kissed it.

  This place had the bones of a royal court and the soul of a trap house.

  It was meant to impress, to seduce. But to Shia, it felt more like a mausoleum.

  The others in the room—dealers, runners, bruisers, half-broken girls in painted faces—hung on her words like she was a queen at court. Rubi spoke with slurred elegance, the kind that tried to pass as theatrical but slid too often into nonsense. Every so often she’d forget what she was saying and laugh—a slow, creaking laugh that didn’t reach her eyes.

  Shia remembered her from months ago. She and her brother had slithered into the refugee camps outside Pria like scavengers after a feast, smiling, offering “help” to the desperate. He’d seen her then, draped in red, handing out perfume samples to mothers who hadn’t eaten in days, trading silk ribbons for young boys with strong legs. He’d kept his head down and his distance. He didn’t like the way she touched people’s faces when she spoke to them, or how she lingered when she looked at the girls.

  But now? Now he was desperate.

  Rowan had been coughing up blood two nights ago, his veins bloated with whatever garbage he’d bartered for in the alleys. The boy still joked between fits and asked about girls, but his skin was either patchy with rashes or pale grey, and he slept too long. And Shia was out of options.

  So here he was, swallowing bile, letting the stink of perfumed rot and candle wax cling to his thin coat, waiting for Rubi to finish talking about something that didn’t matter. Waiting for a moment to step forward and ask her for a favor. Waiting to sell a piece of his pride for Rowan’s survival.

  Rubi took a deep raspy breath in, and grinned. “Now that I have finished introductions, let us begin. The thirty or so of you gathered here today want favors, that much is obvious. Many of you express a wish to buy and sell specific boys and girls. Fine, I may grant them, though I have a favor of my own to ask of you all. One that I am willing to pay a hefty reward.”

  This was going in a direction Shia had not expected. A favor? Reward?

  A reward of money or jewels would get both himself and Rowan out of the slum and into a nicer district, somewhere the doctors didn’t ask questions before taking pulses. Shia had been willing—even prepared—to offer himself to the Madam’s business. It made his stomach twist, but survival had no dignity. This, though—this could be better. Far better than having her or any of her clients put their hands on him.

  Rubi’s grin stretched, the smile of a wolf with broken teeth. “She haunts my dreams,” she said lowly. “Her hair is thick, black smoke, her eyes a dagger. She came into my house—into my stage—and she set fire to everything I built. To my legacy. To my face. She took away my night. And I know, she took away my brother too. I always thought he was a crazy, superstitious fool. But I have seen for myself that he was right. He was right all along, my brother. My other half, whose demise will haunt me for as long as I live. When the authorities found his…his…” Rubi sobbed. “…his foot, his whole foot and ankle…in the nearest alley…mangled into the ground like that….”

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  She sobbed harder. The room became unbearably quiet.

  Rubi sniffed, trying to compose herself. “Ronny had a terrible fate. It must have been because he found out her true identity, and for that, she got rid of him. The authorities were perplexed by what they saw, but I know the truth. I know she had something to do with it, just like she had for my play. It all makes sense. I’ve seen it, in front of my eyes and in my nightmares. My dear friends, this woman I am speaking of is a witch.”

  Gasps scattered across the room like broken glass.

  “And I want her found,” Rubi snarled. “This witch. Her presence is unmistakable. That unruly black mane, eyes like an abyss. Thin frame, thin face, a dark beauty. She hums like disaster, she dances like betrayal. She walks with curses hanging off her ankles like jewelry. You’ll know her when you find her. Or you’ll know what she’s done.” Her despairing voice broke then, cracked and stitched together again with a manic laugh.

  A few people in the crowd exchanged glances. Some smirked behind their hands. One man whispered, too loud, “She’s gone full hag, hasn’t she?” Another nudged his companion. “Easy reward. Say we found her, say she’s dead, pocket the gold.”

  But others looked intrigued, murmuring amongst themselves with sharpened eyes and greedy minds. What if it was true? What if there was a witch worth this much reward?

  Shia said nothing.

  He should have felt scorn. Should have found the whole thing absurd. Instead, something in his chest fluttered. Not fear. Not interest. Something older. A pull. Like trying to recall the shape of a dream that vanished on waking. A face behind smoke. A name on the tip of his tongue.

  He pressed his thumb against the ring on his pinky. The scratched stone felt warmer than usual, tight from how his hands had grown. He kept telling himself he’d get it resized, but never did. It had always felt like a part of him, not just something he wore. It pulsed faintly now, like it too had been stirred.

  The pull sharpened.

  He didn’t know why he believed Madam. He had no reason to. But the ache in his chest told him he did. There was a witch. Maybe not the monster Rubi painted in her madness, but someone. Someone important. Someone he’d almost remembered.

  He closed his eyes for a breath.

  Who are you?

  Why do I feel like I know you?

  He opened them again, and the grief lingered like dust in his lungs. He was going to help Rubi.

  Not for the reward. Not for Rowan. Not even for himself.

  For the witch.

  The murmurs in the room were still circling like flies over spoiled meat when the double doors creaked open. A man entered with a slow, deliberate gait—shoulders square, chin slightly lifted, as though the room already belonged to him.

  Shia’s breath hitched.

  He knew this man. The last he saw of him was the morning after the engagement party he had attended while still living in Pria. He had left that very evening, in his own private coach. A smart move, given the disaster that soon followed the town.

  Nazeer Anvar—Rowan’s older brother—stood tall and confident. His skin was the soft, clean bronze of northern lineage, but a thin scar curved across his left temple, half-hidden beneath slicked-back dark hair that caught the low lamp light with unnatural gleam. One side of his mouth always seemed on the edge of a smile, though his eyes—coal-dark and narrow—never joined it.

  He wore a high-collared coat of deep forest green, embroidered subtly in silver thread, layered over a loose black tunic cinched with a wide sash. The fabric was tailored to perfection, no doubt imported. Wealth, then. But the way he moved—the slight tilt of his head, the measured turn of his shoulders—suggested more than just coin. It suggested control.

  Authority.

  Danger.

  Even his boots, clean despite the mud outside, carried a weight that made the floor creak with purpose when he walked. A dagger hilt peeked from the fold of his sash, as though he was ready for battle. He carried himself so surely, and yet… there was something off. A flicker in his gaze when he scanned the room, like he was trying to recall a word from a dream he couldn’t quite place. Not lost, exactly. Just… disconnected. As though something vital had been carved from him cleanly, without scar or memory.

  Like me.

  He walked to Madam Rubi’s side without introduction and leaned down to whisper something in her ear.

  She turned her head slowly, then gave a giddy, sharp laugh. “Ah, of course. Of course. You see? Even the city’s best wants in on this little quest.”

  Shia watched the man straighten. His expression didn’t shift, but something cold settled over the crowd like a hush. People made space for him instinctively. Even Rubi tilted toward him, like a moth to flame—or perhaps like a candle desperate not to be snuffed out.

  She continued, her tone more controlled now. “This witch—this creature—not only destroyed a big part of my business, but she also took away my only family.” Her voice cracked again as she pounded her fist on the arm of her chair. “She must be punished. Torn apart if we must. I don’t want her reported to the authorities, no. They’ll hang her, lynch her, behead her. I can’t have that. It’s not enough for me. I want her myself. I want her broken. And I want to watch.”

  Naz finally spoke, his voice low and precise:

  “I’ll find her for you.”

  The room reacted in whispers, some impressed, others wary. Shia’s brow furrowed. There was no hesitation in that voice. No doubt. Just cold certainty.

  But why? What was his goal here? Naz was the type of asshole that didn’t mind gettin his hands dirty for more coin in his pocket, even if that meant hurting innocents. He was a shitty brother and a shitty, arrogant type of person. The fact that he’d not even bothered seeking out any members of his family after Pria had been taken hostage by zealots proved it even more. He had no idea of Rowan’s current condition, but he likely wouldn’t even care if he did. He never liked or respected Rowan much anyway.

  But something about Naz now struck him different. He was…hollow. His eyes scanned the crowd like he was looking for something he’d misplaced years ago. He didn’t seem crazed like Rubi, but there was a vacancy in his expression that unsettled Shia more than any ranting.

  Did he really believe in the witch too?

  Did he feel it?

  Shia’s ring tightened again, and he pressed it into his palm. Naz glanced in his direction briefly, and for a moment Shia felt exposed, like a fog had briefly lifted and left them both bare.

  But the moment passed. Naz looked away, and Shia exhaled slowly.

  Whatever Naz’s reasons were, they weren’t about belief. They were about gain. And something deeper, something darker, curled behind his eyes like smoke behind glass.