Page 114 of Break Her Heart
I didn’t know which fate was worse.
But nothing compared to the agony of seeing August’s face twisted in cruelty. Of hearing his voice speak words that didn’t belong to him. Of watching his hands—the hands that once held me so gently—become instruments of pain.
It had started to warp the memories I had of him, no matter how hard I fought to keep his presence alive.
“Eat, darling,” Carrow said smoothly beside me, the words slicing through the fog I hadn’t realized I’d sunk into. “You’ll need your strength.”
I blinked, fingers tightening on the edge of the tablecloth. The low hum of conversation around the table continued, but his words pressed into my skull like a hand against the back of my neck.
He didn’t look at me when he said it, just raised his glass lazily and took a sip, the corner of his mouth twitching into something that might’ve been a smile—if it hadn’t been so razor-edged.
My stomach turned. The food on my plate looked foreign. Cold. I hadn’t touched it.
Carrow finally turned his head toward me, those too-familiar eyes glinting with something sharp. “You wouldn’t want to pass out halfway through. That wouldn’t be very entertaining.”
Across the table, Lavina laughed like he’d told a joke, and someone clinked their glass.
But I couldn’t hear them anymore.
All I could hear was my heart pounding and the child shifting restlessly beneath my skin—as if it knew, too. I forced myself to lift each bite to my lips, not because I had any appetite, but because the tiny life inside me demanded it. Every swallow wasa silent promise—it was all for the baby now, every ounce of strength I had left.
* * *
When I woke again, I was back in the cell.
At least, I thought I was awake. The stone beneath me was real enough, cold against my skin, but everything else felt… different. Too quiet. Too still. My body felt like it was floating just above the floor, tethered only by breath.
Then I saw them.
A forge blazed ahead, heat rippling through the haze like a desert mirage. Shadows danced across the far wall, tall and strange. Figures moved within the firelight.
A swordsmith poured molten metal into a mold, his movements efficient, practiced. He couldn’t have looked older than twenty-five—if he were aging at all. His skin bore a faint golden glow, and his features were sharp in the way only the immortals could be—cheekbones that could cut glass, a narrow jaw dusted with ash, and slightly pointed ears that poked through soot-darkened curls.
He was fae.
He wore a leather apron stained with centuries of work, and his arms, though lean, moved with a strength that seemed effortless. Even his stillness carried weight—like he belonged to the forge more than he ever had to the forests or palaces of his kind. This was a craftsman, not a warrior, but his creations would outlive kings.
The blade hissed in its mold. Behind him, another artisan carved the hilt with precision, and the chanting of the two witches began to weave into the very air, their eyes fixed on ablack stone resting at the center of the table as if drawing its power.
My gaze followed the black stone as the air seemed to thicken; the sword rose from the mold as if unseen hands bore its weight. I could only watch as each component drifted together—the hilt meeting the blade, the fit seamless, as though the weapon had always existed in this form.
The women’s chanting grew louder, more urgent. The stone bled shadow now, spreading into the blade as if feeding it. As if binding itself to the steel.
Realization struck me.
The Blade of Aros.
A weapon forged to command armies of the dead, stealing one soul at a time until none remained. I felt the weight of witnessing its creation, my chest tight with dread.What was I doing here?
“Come, Carrow,” the swordsmith said as the witches’ chanting tapered off, the last syllables echoing in the charged air. The newly-forged blade drifted until it settled itself on the table.
I turned my head slowly, the heat of the forge prickling my skin, realizing I was witnessing a memory like the countless ones I had of August.
“Carrow!” the swordsmith barked, impatience sharpening his tone.
My gaze swept the room again, heart lurching hard as the truth hit me like a fist—I hadn’t merely been pulled into a memory. I was inside it. Insidehim.
I was Carrow.
