Seconds or full minutes passed before Zofia realized that her thought was not accurate.

She had found her way out of the unknown before. She had found ideas and solutions when there were none. She had saved her friends in the past, and hardly a week ago, she had freed herself from a prison of ice.

All those things had been dark at one point, but she had found her way … on her own.

Zofia opened her mouth. “Hello?”

Again, her voice was snatched, churned to black.

Language dissolved into ink, and Zofia’s tongue tasted as if she’d licked the end of a burnt match.

Match.

Shaking, Zofia felt around for her box of matches, working only by touch. The pad of her finger grazed the sulfur-roughened strip of the box. The wood felt damp from her sweaty fingers. She could not see, and when she went to strike the match, it snapped apart in her hand.

Panic flared in her chest, but she shoved it down and reached for another match.

This time, she clutched the box in one hand, and struck it, but again, the stick broke.

The third match was her last, and Zofia’s hand trembled as she raised it. Her mother’s voice curled around her thoughts.

Be a light in this world, Zosia, for it can be very dark.

Something inside Zofia steadied. If she let the unknown darkness win, then she would lose all sight of what could change …

Zofia held her breath. She pictured her parents’ warmth, Hela and Laila’s loving smiles. Ruslan was wrong. She was not a mute, little fool who could change nothing. Her friends called her Phoenix for a reason. Her mother had told her to be a light.

Zofia would not fail them.

She struck the match. The light was small, but it was enough. She was enough. Zofia brought the fire to the Forged silk sleeve of her dress, and it roared up in flames. Heat warmed her skin as she turned, casting the light around her.

With every swipe, she cleared a path in the shadows. Zofia swung her arm left and right, her lungs straining from the effort to shove all the dark away—

A hand shot out of the dark, grabbing hers. “Phoenix!”

Enrique.

He looked disheveled and wild-eyed at first, but then a wide smile split his face. He raised his arm, ripping off the Forged silver cloth that had once been part of the costume she had made him. The moment it touched her torch, it ignited and together, they cut through the dark.

Enrique and Zofia’s flames left bright trails, burning the blackness into translucence. Slowly, the screams faded into silence. As her eyes adjusted to the light, Zofia now saw that she had only fallen two steps down from where she once stood.

Hypnos was on the step behind her, curled into a ball. Six meters away on the same step, Séverin and Laila huddled against the stone.

“Zofia!” called Laila, springing apart from Séverin.