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Rosselyn trudged into the Romani camp, shouldering her sack with trembling hands.

Her cheeks were damp, and her throat burned from holding back sobs.

Myrna walked a few paces behind her, silent and fuming.

As Rosselyn glanced over her shoulder, she saw her mother’s lips pressed into a thin, unforgiving line.

The bag slung over her shoulder hung heavy, but she carried it as though it were a shield, a barrier between herself and the world.

The camp was alive with its usual hum of activity—children darting between vardos, women hanging colorful fabrics on lines to dry, and men tending to the horses or sharpening tools. But the vibrant energy that had always felt so welcoming to Rosselyn now only made her feel small and out of place.

She truly cast us out.

The thought cycled through her mind over and over again. She had never thought Davina would throw them aside so easily, not after everything they’d been through together. But looking back, it made sense—Davina worshipped her father. In her eyes, Lord Parlan could do no wrong.

Rosselyn sniffled and scrubbed at her face with the back of her hand, trying to compose herself as they stepped deeper into the camp. She could feel the curious gazes of the camp folk on her and her mother, but she kept her head down, her cheeks burning with shame.

A familiar voice called out, and she looked up just in time to see Nicabar striding toward her, his bright smile faltering as his gaze shifted from her tear-streaked face to the stormy expression on Myrna’s.

“Rosselyn,” he said softly, his voice laced with concern. “What happened, mi amor ?”

Her lip trembled, and she shook her head, unable to speak. He closed the distance between them, pulling her into his arms. The warmth and strength of his embrace broke the dam inside her, and she let out a soft sob, clutching at his shirt.

His arms tightened around her protectively, his hand cradling the back of her head as though shielding her from the weight of the world. “Hush now,” he murmured in his lilting accent. “Whatever it is, you’re safe here.”

Myrna, stiff and glaring, shifted her sack higher on her shoulder. “Safe,” she scoffed bitterly, her voice edged with scorn. “We’ll see about that.”

Nicabar’s gaze flicked to her, his expression sobering. He held Rosselyn a moment longer before gently pulling back to search her face. “Come, mi corazón . Let us get you both settled.”

Rosselyn nodded, her throat too tight for words, and let him guide her deeper into the camp, away from the prying eyes.

“Davina knows,” Rosselyn choked out. “It was all wrong. It didn’t happen at all like I thought it would. ”

Nicabar’s arms tightened around her, his voice a soothing balm as he murmured low in her ear. “It does not matter, carino . You and your mother have a place here, with me. Always.”

Rosselyn pulled back slightly, blinking up at him through her tears. “But—”

“No, no, no.” He cupped her face with both hands, his thumbs sweeping away the tears that clung to her cheeks. “You will stay in my vardo. Both of you. We will make it your home.”

Turning to Myrna, Nicabar offered her a roguish, comforting smile.

“Do not fret, mi senora . You will never want for anything here. You will live a carefree life in my enchanting vardo, where the sky is our eternal roof, and the road our endless home. Together, we will see many sights, make many memories, and grow our family with love and laughter.”

Myrna’s brittle composure fractured. Tears welled in her eyes and spilled down her cheeks as she broke into quiet sobs, clinging to both Nicabar and Rosselyn.

Nicabar gently patted her back, his voice warm and steady.

“Come now, dry your tears. Let me take your belongings and settle them in the caravan. You should rest, and I will have Amice brew you something to soothe your fears.”

Rosselyn watched him, her heart swelling with gratitude as Nicabar lifted her mother’s bag and led her toward the vardo. He helped Myrna inside with a tender care, easing her onto the plush cushions.

Before he could step away, Rosselyn caught his hand and drew him into a kiss, soft but brimming with the depth of her love and thanks. When she finally pulled back, her voice trembled with emotion. “Thank you. For taking us both in.”

Nicabar smiled, his eyes warm as he brushed a stray lock of hair from her damp cheek. “We are family now, mi reina . Of course, I will take you in.” He pressed a kiss to her forehead and added with a reassuring glint in his gaze, “I shall return with something to calm your mother.”

Rosselyn stood at the doorway of the wagon, watching him in awe as he strode toward the old fortune teller’s vardo.

Amice sat by the fire, her gnarled hands busy weaving a braid of herbs.

Nicabar spoke to her in hushed tones, and the old woman nodded knowingly before reaching for a kettle and settling it over the crackling flames.

Rosselyn’s tears had stopped, but her heart felt heavy as she lingered outside the vardo.

The air, thick with the scent of damp earth and wood smoke, clung to her skin.

Her gaze drifted to Nicabar, who smiled warmly as he spoke with Amice.

He had welcomed her and her mother without hesitation, given them a place to belong.

He was everything she had ever dreamed of in a man.

Still, Amice’s words from her prediction echoed in her mind. The old woman had told her that revealing her secret—that she and Davina were sisters—would save lives. But how? How could being cast out of the castle possibly lead to something so profound?

Veronique emerged from her vardo, snaring Rosselyn’s attention like a hawk spotting prey. The Romani girl’s dark eyes, glinting with contempt, locked onto Nicabar, and her lips twisted into a scowl of thinly veiled contempt. Rosselyn tensed as Veronique stalked away from him.

But as Veronique marched across the path, her gaze flicked to Rosselyn, and her lips curled into a sneer that could draw blood.

Rosselyn’s fists clenched at her sides as anger flared hot in her chest. She took a step toward the insufferable girl, every muscle coiled tight, ready to confront her, but Veronique let out a low, mocking laugh and sauntered away as if Rosselyn were beneath her notice.

“Bitch,” Rosselyn muttered under her breath, her hands trembling with the effort of holding herself back.

She exhaled through her nose and turned her gaze back to Nicabar, who was still speaking with Amice.

The sight of him steadied her, and she let out a slow breath.

Whatever the future held—whatever Amice’s cryptic prediction had meant—she knew one thing for sure: she had Nicabar, and with him, she could face anything.

∞∞∞

Broderick wandered through the depths of a shadowed forest, the air thick with sorrow and unease. Davina’s voice echoed faintly, fragile and distant, as if carried on a mournful wind. It was not the sweet, melodic sound he knew, but something broken, fractured.

He turned, searching for her among the trees. Black blurs darted on the edge of his vision—shadows moving with unnatural speed, slipping between branches like wraiths. He caught glimpses of her now and again, chasing the darkness as if it were prey, her figure ghostly and pale against the gloom.

Then, suddenly, there she was.

At the center of the forest, Davina knelt upon the damp earth, cradling her sweet daughter in her arms. Her head was bowed, her shoulders shaking as she rocked the child back and forth.

Mother and daughter wept together, their cries a haunting melody that pierced the stillness.

The shadows swirled around them, closing in, tightening their grip.

Broderick reached for her, but his limbs felt heavy, as though bound by invisible chains. He tried to call her name, but his voice was swallowed by the oppressive silence.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

His eyes snapped open, his heart a thunderous drumbeat in his chest. The images from the dream clung to his mind, haunting and vivid. Davina’s sorrow, her broken heart—it twisted like a dagger in his gut. Over what, saints knew, but the pain in her eyes lingered even in the waking world.

Broderick rubbed a hand over his face, wiping away the lethargy of the day’s rest. The cave was dark, save for the faint glow of moonlight filtering through a seam in the curtain he’d secured across the stone entrance.

He sat up, the furs beneath him slipping as he moved.

The Hunger gnawed at his insides, piercing and insistent, a familiar ache that could not be ignored.

Early this morning, Broderick had just enough time to duck into the safety of the cave before the undead sleep took him. He had barely undressed down to his breeches before unconsciousness.

After pulling on his tunic and fastening the belt and sword at his waist, Broderick stepped out of the cave and into the cool embrace of night.

The forest greeted him like an old adversary—branches twisted into skeletal shapes, mist curling low along the ground, the scent of damp moss and decay thick in the air.

He drew a steadying breath, his senses honed razor-fine as the night welcomed him home. Hunger clawed at him, deeper now, more demanding. He needed to feed. Then he would return to the castle.

The thief had been careless, skulking in the shadows of a deserted lane near the village. Broderick made quick work of him, feeding just enough to sate the worst of the hunger before leaving the man slumped against a wall, alive but dazed.

The Romani camp was on his way, so he would check in with Amice.

The flicker of the campfire danced like a beacon in the distance, guiding him through the streets.

When he arrived, he found Amice sitting by the flames, her hands busy sorting through her herbal basket of remedies, frowning in concentration.

She looked up as he approached, her hard eyes softening with recognition.