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Aimee Bryer woke with tears in her eyes, her fingers curling against the sheets as if still gripping a board.

Sometimes, like on mornings when the ache in her chest was the first thing to greet her, she thought it would’ve been easier to have never been happy. Then the bitterness wouldn’t feel like an absence—just the way life was meant to be.

Dawn broke outside her window. Like she had every morning since the shades first attacked Ryme, she dragged herself out of bed and into the clothes she’d set out the night before. She tiptoed through the darkened house, quiet in that way that only existed when everyone was still sleeping.

By the kitchen door, a pair of waterproof striders—lightweight boots designed for outdoor sports—were still where she’d left them to dry the day before. They weren’t hers. She could take no credit for the worn treads or scuffed toes. They’d been in a box of Talya’s things, along with everything else she’d put on that morning: loose trousers, a plain tunic, and a thin coat with a hood that cinched around the face to block the rain.

It wasn’t exactly her best fashion moment, but Aimee could admit there was, perhaps, some utility to the little troll’s wardrobe that made up for the lack of taste. Silk slippers didn’t do well in mud, and while skirts were fine for standing still, they tangled and tripped up your feet the second you needed any amount of speed.

Aimee’s breath fogged in the pre-dawn chill as she jogged down the long hill, leaving the townhouse behind her. The stiffness of sleep melted away as her heart and breath came awake.

She didn’t particularly like running. She liked it even less in the cold and wet, which Tempris always was. But she’d had an epiphany the day of the attacks.

Shades were fast—she’d figured that out crashing through the alleys, slipping in blood and filth.

She remembered the woman who shoved her forward.

The boy she tripped over.

The hands that had reached for her—begging, grabbing, gone.

She hadn’t looked back. She hadn’t had time. The only reason she was still breathing was because the shades had stopped to feed on the ones who’d been just a little bit slower.

If she couldn’t fight, she had to be faster. That’s what she’d learned that day.

The ragged rhythm of her breath filled her ears, each inhale a rasp, each exhale a desperate push against the chill morning air. Her heartbeat pounded alongside it. The wet slap of her shoes against the slick ground matched the beat—a syncopated symphony of breath, step, and splatter.

The street stretched wide and polished ahead of her. This part of town was reserved for the nobility—and those with deep enough pockets to rub elbows with them. It showed in every detail, from the grandeur of the homes rising behind lavishly designed wrought iron fences to the polished brass of the streetlamps to the upscale shops and cafes. But the displays had changed. Once filled with rare teas, silverware, and perfumes, shop windows now showcased stockpiled firewood, sacks of flour, with ration charts pinned to the glass.

Luxury replaced by survival.

Sweat dripped down Aimee’s back. She hated the feeling of it. Hated the paradox of feeling warm now despite the chill. She wanted to tear off her coat, but the morning mist would soak her.

Thus, she endured.

She didn’t have a clear plan when she first started. Still didn’t. But she figured if every day she could run a little farther, even if it was just a step, then eventually she might be able to outrun a shade. Or at least stand a better chance of it.

Her stepfather wouldn’t like it if she got too muscular, but she figured—better to be alive for him to criticize than the alternative.

That was, of course, assuming she ever made it back to Picolo.

She turned a corner. The street narrowed, and rows of charming, albeit more modest homes replaced the towering facades of the noble enclave.

It still didn’t feel real. Home was gone. Rescue wasn’t coming. Not anytime soon, at least.

Each day made it feel more certain—she’d never see her stepfather’s disapproving frown or her mother’s carefully composed face again.

That familiar ache rose, tangled and sharp. She was free. She had everything she’d always wanted. And yet, with her mother still at the mercy of that monster, it felt more like she’d abandoned her than escaped.

What was happening now that no one was there to steady him? Aimee had learned how to temper him, how to pull him back when he edged too close to the line. Without her, without Aiden—

She pushed harder, faster, until her thoughts were lost to the rain and the ragged pull of her breath.

On either side of the street, the buildings seemed to lean inwards, their facades towering over her like silent sentinels. A hill rose ahead, long and uneven beneath the fog.

She slowed. She was nearing the end, and she knew better than to waste what little energy she had left trying to rush the final climb.

She gasped for air, each step hitting the ground harder than the one before. Cold rain needled her cheeks. The ache in her calves sharpened.