My eyes frantically search the crowd for Lucien, but there’s no hint of a dark leather cowl anywhere to be seen. He can’t still be at the hat shop? I head toward it, the smoke growing thick as winter fog as I fight against the current of people.

Unlike the roads leading into South Gate, the very heart of it is empty. The crackle of flames roars loud in my ears, waves of heat battering my exposed skin, and as I turn a watertell corner, I finally see it for the third time in my life.

Witchfire.

13

13

Prayer

Nightsinger kept a hearth of witchfire broiling at all times, the black flames keeping the three hearts of Crav, Peligli, and me warm in their jars. The hearts of Heartless must be kept warm at all times, by spell or by flame, or in Nightsinger’s case, both. Witchfire is a spell-flame. I watch the great gouts of shadowy black fire devour the modest wood of the Vetrisian buildings, cracking beams and scattering embers, knowing that no amount of water can douse them. Witchfire only ever stops burning when the witch who sparked it desires it, or if they die.

If Lucien is burning, he will never stop burning.

if he dies, he will leave you behind just as you so wish.

The hunger’s words only spur me faster down the road. I refuse to even entertain the validity of what it says this time. He won’t die. He won’t.

He might not be mine ever again, but I refuse to live in a world without him in it.

Stray embers catch on my hair and on my dress, burning through cloth and skin—forever burning—but I ignore them and press onward into the sunset-lit alleys.

I don’t want him to die. I don’t want him to forget me. That thought burns hotter in me than the witchfire burns on me. For all my insistence he move on, he hate me, I don’t want him to. I want him to be with me, for us to be together. I don’t want to lose him, even though I know I must, and it’s tearing me apart.

The thick smoke obscures my otherwise keen sense of direction, and the vague outline of the white wall surrounding Vetris looms into view above my head. I hurriedly look for any distinctive markers and find the very edge of the South Gate, the scaffolding sticking out of the smoke. I briefly glimpse the door leading to the valkerax, and pause. Yorl and the other celeon are too far down and surrounded by stone and metal—they’ll be safe.