He shook his head, which was now downcast, his face drenched in shadows. He looked pitiful, pathetic, exactly the way she’d always hoped he would look in this moment. But then he did something so surprising it made her draw in a quick breath.

He twisted his head back toward Ludo, his lips moving as he said something she couldn’t hear.

Even more surprising than her father speaking to the man when his daughter stood right before him with accusations pinned on her lips, was Ludo’s reaction.

His face paled, his eyebrows knit together, his lone eye blinking in what could only be described as confusion, a lostness entering his expression that Bryony had never seen on the man’s face.

“What did you say?” she demanded.

Cainan only shook his head again, his eyes returning to hers again. “I have no excuses,” he said. “I chose another’s life over my own kin, and regardless of my reasons, it’s a truth I will take with me to the grave, my grief and your hatred a greater punishment than any other.”

Bryony was done. She knew she was running out of time, the world blurring around her, the lines of her father’s face no longer crisp but melting into the night. The smoke from the demon’s fires that surrounded them was growing thicker, too, burning her throat.

She drew another hidden dagger, as she’d done dozens of times as part of the guild of assassins. This, after all, was all she had left, wasn’t it? The ability to choose who lived and who died?

Her real foot held her weight as she moved forward, close enough to strike now. She tried to ignore Ludo, who was still looking bewildered by whatever lie her father had spun into his ears. At least he was still holding him steady, even if he was unfocused on the task at hand. A task she wouldn’t delay any longer, lifting the dagger, dark, unnatural firelight glinting along its edge.

One strike and it would be over, his heart pierced.

One strike and she’d earn the peace she’d long coveted.

One strike and her mother’s death would be avenged.

The loss of her leg.

All the stolen years she’d endured, learning to thrive in a world she couldn’t trust. Doing as she pleased. Using it for her purposes as it had used her.

She struck.

She stared at the dagger, which was supposed to be in her father’s chest but wasn’t, the blade stopping a full inch from its target. Stared at the hand that had flashed out and which was now gripping her wrist, refusing to let her complete her mission.

It was her first failure as an assassin—the most painful failure of her life.

Her eyes flashed to Ludo, who met hers with that single-eyed stare. “I’m sorry,” he said.