Luna
The Hearth has never felt this quiet.
The moment Sawyer and I step inside, the hush slams into me harder than the cold ever could. This place should thrum with the sound of children—giggling, shrieking, singing off-key songs until the Nurturers clap for quiet. Now, only faint voices drift through the halls.
My hand slips from Sawyer’s as we walk through the foyer. He doesn’t protest and doesn’t look hurt when I toss him a glance. He knows. Love is vulnerability. Love is weakness.
I slow outside the playroom and peer in.
Two girls sit on the rug, but the dolls in their hands hang limp. One stares through the frosted window, eyes glassy, while the other drags a brush halfheartedly through tangled synthetic hair. There’s no laughter, no imagination. Just silence thick enough to suffocate.
“Where are the sick?” My voice is low when I turn to the Nurturer shadowing us.
She wrings her hands as her eyes dart everywhere except the space I occupy. “The basement.”
Sawyer tenses beside me. “The basement?”
The Nurturer flicks her eyes at Sawyer before facing me with a fearful expression. Cheeks dropped, lips parted, hand picking at the beaded necklace resting on her shirt. “They’re being quarantined, Your Grace. Isn’t that what you wanted?”
What I wanted…
None of this is what I wanted.
“We’d like to see them, please,” I say instead of answering.
The Nurturer dips her head quickly, eyes lowering. “Of course, Your Grace.”
She turns on her heel without another word and leads us across the tiled floor toward the stairwell door. The iron hinges moan as she pulls it open, stale air breathing up from the depths below.
I set my jaw as I step forward. I’m the face of resolve. Not dread.
The stairs groan under our weight as we descend. The air shifts—thicker, damper. Stone walls press in and leach warmth. At the bottom, the smell hits me: sweat, bile, fever. It clings to the lungs, heavy and sour, sickness made tangible.
When I peek at Sawyer, his distress is shown without abandon in his expression. Brows pinched, lips sunken, posture drooped. I almost ask him to straighten, but the empathy in his eyes keeps me silent. I’d be a monster for blaming him, not when the sight of the basement curls my own stomach.
I shouldn’t be surprised. But it’s worse than I hoped.
Cots crowd the floor in crooked rows. No mattresses, no beds. A few pillows spared for the sickest children sprawled across the floor, skin sheened in sweat.
We hardly catch the attention of the girls, but those that do meet my gaze look away quickly. I’m no comfort to them—just the monster keeping them caged.
I wonder what they must think now. None should have been at the ceremonial square this morning, but word has no doubt spread. Even if it hadn’t, the message of this basement is clear.
The goal is stopping the spread. Not treating the sick.
For them, we pray. For them, we spare no resources. No water, no medicine, and minimal comfort save for the few Nurturers willing to isolate themselves.
It seems right. Intellectually speaking. Why give them pillows that we’ll have to burn when they die? Why keep them hydrated when it’ll only prolong the suffering?
After all, the strong will survive without the water. In theory.
It makes sense, but with Sawyer looming behind me, it feels wrong. Too cold. Too cruel.
I walk past the bodies with my hands cupped behind my back. My expression is blank while my heart slowly dies.
Finally, I find someone who doesn’t look away.
A girl with curly dark hair, too thin for her age, props herself weakly on her elbows. Persephone’s sister. Her eyes, fever-bright, don’t waver from me.
I kneel beside her cot and brush strands from her clammy forehead.
“Don’t be afraid,” I whisper, though I know the words are useless.
“Just rest… All is as it’s supposed to be.
” With the slightest pressure of my palm on her shoulder, she lays flat.
Gorgeous brown eyes—identical to her sister’s—blink at me.
The girl’s lips twitch in something close to a smile. “Only the weak feel fear, Your Grace.”
My throat tightens. If only that were true.
I inhale a breath and open my mouth, but the girl cuts me off. Unapologetically, which I commend her for.
“Father says I’m stronger than Persephone.” Her smile turns sad. “I’ll survive, Your Grace. I promise.”
I swallow. Seconds pass before I find my voice.
“Your sister wasn’t weak.” With a butterfly touch, I pet her hair back. “And neither are you… You’re right, you’ll survive. You’ll all survive… I promise, I’ll make sure of it.”
Her eyes narrow, either confused or suspicious.
Behind me, the stairs creak. A Nurturer descends with Angel at her side. His face blanches at the sight of the children—their small bodies, their rattling breaths. His mouth parts, then closes again.
He drags his gaze to Sawyer. It’s obvious he has something to say.
Patting the girl’s shoulder, I rise and motion for the Nurturers to clear out. They hesitate but obey. Soon all sound comes from the hoarse breaths of the ill.
“Was this your doing?” I ask Angel as I stalk up. I sweep a hand around the room. My voice is cold, and for once, I find it appropriate.
Angel just looks at Sawyer. There’s a question in his eyes. He thinks Sawyer told me.
“Luna,” Sawyer starts.
“I don’t know what you’ve done, but I could hang you for it.” I get close enough that I have to look up.
A story enters my mind, told by Sawyer. His business partner was ruthless. Who reminded him of me.
That’s this man. And I can’t find the resemblance.
“I should hang you for it.”
“Luna,” Sawyer warns. His hand reaches between us and flattens against my chest. He tries to back me up, but I don’t budge. Angel stares into my eyes like he’s ready to accept whatever challenge I bring.
“Hey.” Sawyer snaps in front of my face until finally, I turn my head to him. He frowns. “This was an accident. No one intended for this to happen.”
I huff. “Intentions are a poor man’s currency. If—”
“But this…” Sawyer gestures to a girl caught in a coughing fit. “This only goes on for as long as you let it. Their blood is on your hands. No one else’s.”
The words slice. I’ve lived my whole life holding myself accountable. For my actions, for my people, and for the safety of the Shadow Sanctum. Never until this moment has it made me sick.
My throat tightens, but I refuse to flinch.
“You’re the only one who can change this,” Sawyer finishes. Like he hasn’t already said enough.
Change this.
Like it’s simple.
“They need medicine,” Angel says at last. When I glare at him, he doesn’t glare back. “Fast.”
“Then get it for them, Mr. Billionaire. Because as of this morning, thanks to you, the Shadow Sanctum is broke. And broken.”
He turns to Sawyer. “Did you tell her everything?”
Sawyer opens and closes his mouth. He faces me.
“If Angel and I are the ones to get the antibiotics, will you let us administer them?”
Will I let them…
Why is it only now that he won’t do things behind my back? When I need him to most?
My head spins, reeling over the right thing to do.
If someone were to bring medicine to these kids… I’d close my eyes. The downfall of Western medicine is outweighed by the face of extinction.
What do toxins matter when the alternative is death?
But, of course, it isn’t that easy. Angel speaks before I get the chance to answer.
“I can’t get all of it,” he says, voice dipped low. Somber. “My guy can get ten doses. No more.”
Ten.
The number slams through me. Ten when I count more than a dozen girls in this room. Ten when even one lost is too many.
Sawyer watches me, silent but weighted. His look isn’t a demand, but it’s close. Like he’s waiting to see which version of me wins—the one raised by Aurelius Cox or the one who just promised a dying girl that she’d live.
I turn away from him, from both of them, and look out over the sick again. Small hands clutching thin blankets, chests rising shallow, lips parted around rattling breaths.
My stomach twists.
“Luna,” Sawyer implores. My name drips with love, but in this moment, all I feel is hatred.
As resourceful as Sawyer is… As smart as he is, as cunning as he is…
It’s me he needs. Me, who has to betray my people, my beliefs, myself. Until I don’t even know who I am anymore.
I’m a stripped-down version of the woman who lured this chameleon here. A weaker version. A softer version.
A Sawyer version. I don’t know what I’ll do if he ever throws me away. I don’t know what I’ll do if I become a necklace he wears around his neck.
“Fine,” I say with too much bite. In reality, I’m certain of the choice. I don’t know who I am, but I see what I have to do. Who I’ll have to become.
Anyone but my father’s daughter.
“I’ll find a source. With Thorne’s help, and no one else's. No one is to know about this, not even the children… So start thinking of a way to give it to them without their knowledge because I have work to do.”
I push past Angel toward the stairs and clench my jaw, as if angry about the arrangement. But I’m not. Just betrayed. Again. This time, by myself.
“Hey,” Sawyer calls after me, but I’m already halfway up the stairs, and I don’t stop.
At the top, I shove open the heavy door and step into the Hearth’s main hall.
The air feels clearer, lighter, though it burns my lungs all the same.
My pulse pounds with every stride, my boots echoing sharp across the wood.
I keep my back straight, chin high, the picture of control. But inside, I’m splintering.
Sawyer catches up quickly. His hand curls around my arm to stop me, and I whirl, ready to lash, but his expression steals the bite from my tongue. He isn’t smug. He isn’t demanding. He just looks at me like I’ve done something remarkable.
Before I can speak, he leans in and presses his mouth to mine. The kiss is deep, anchoring, a collision of relief and gratitude that melts the fury in my veins. My knees nearly buckle, but his hand at my waist holds me steady.
In a moment, my mind is at rest.
When he pulls back, his forehead presses to mine. His voice is low, husky, every word a weight in my chest.
“Thank you.”
I don’t answer. I can’t. My throat is too tight.
“I love you,” he adds, firmer now, as if daring me to argue. His eyes search mine, steady, unwavering. “I love every version of you… but I appreciate this one the best.”
My eyes close at that, and I try not to fall apart at his words. But they flood through me, dangerous and sweet, a poison I want to drink forever. I close my eyes and grip his shirt to keep myself from collapsing. I let the silence between us carry what I can’t bring myself to say.
I love you too.