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But she shakes her head over and over again, thrusting the bracelet into my face. I take it from her.

“It weren’t ye. It weren’t ye ...” She backs away, muttering, her eyes boring into my soul until the bustle of the street obscures her.

It’s as if heavy chains have wrapped around my chest, dragging me into the earth, squeezing the air out of my lungs. Bryn fights to keep me upright.

“Steady, Wehna. She doesn’t know what she’s talking about.”

But she does,my mind responds. She knows exactly what she’s talking about.

Because in my heart, I know it too.

My parents are dead.

“Arvo,” I croak, my throat as dry as mortar. I swallow and try again, eyes still fixed on the place where the woman disappeared. “Arvo, let’s go.”

I feel myself push against Bryn’s firm chest, feel his hands release their grip on my arms. His voice sounds distant, counseling me to pay no attention to her. I think. He relents when I lurch away from him.

“Arvo.”

Forcing my eyes to register my surroundings, I spin toward the tavern, with its warm light leaking through greasy windowpanes. And its empty stool out front.

I gasp, something that barely clung to life expiring within my heart.

The street pitches toward me.

I’ve lost him again.

26. Teron

TÉRON

BROWN ALE SLOSHES over the side of the mug and dribbles down my fingers. I take a swallow. The bitter liquid churns my stomach. Food would be a better choice right now, but I have not been one for good decisions lately.

Useless. Everything about me screams the word. I raise the flagon to my lips, but the sour smell makes me feel like vomiting. With a loud crack, I bring it to the counter. A dry laugh wheezes from my lungs. I cannot even drown my sorrows properly. What a pathetic fool I am.

“If you break that, it’ll go on yer tab,” the taverner warns before moving to another customer. I stare at my thumbs as they try to dig themselves into the earthenware.

All those years of mourning for Ellehra were miserable. I thought a man could not get lower, but I was wrong. Because in all my pain, I still had a purpose. I had a little girl who needed me. My hands found relief in their work, and something inside still drove me to existence—not the life I had wanted, but one I could at least find a reason to keep living. And whether hatred or the brightness of my daughter motivated me, I do not know. But I did keep going.

I fail to see the reason for it all now. My job has been given to someone who will show up each day, I don’t doubt. The plan I made for vengeance shriveled up the moment I found out it had always been focused on the wrong target.

And now, my daughter has seen all my inadequacies—every last hateful quality of who I am—on full display. She has grown past her need for me.

Worst of all, I am a danger to her.

She is better off without me.

I squeeze my eyes shut and tighten my hands around the mug so much it could snap. I want it to crumble.

“Can I sit with you?”

The little voice is so out of place in this den of inebriates that I think I must have imagined it. I let go of the mug and look around.

A boy heaves himself up onto the stool next to me. He does not look to be more than four or five. I am so thrown off at the sight of him that I just stare.

“Is there anything to eat?” he asks. I forget for a moment who or where I am.

“Hello there,” I say, mildly bemused. I beckon the taverner over. He looks as confused by my tiny companion. “Could we have some bread?”