Page 103 of The First Scar
Torin gripped her shoulders. Stepped back just enough to see her face.
His eyes dropped to her scarf. Then back to her eyes, fierce and unwavering.
She nodded once.
His hands rose to her neck. He unwrapped the scarf one loop at a time—faded wool, edges fraying where her fingers had worried them. He peeled it free with a breath-held reverence, his touch barely a ghost against her.
The scarf fell away, revealing what she'd hidden for so long: a lattice of pale scars circling her neck like a collar of their own. Marks that told a story no one had the right to demand.
Ryla's fingers closed over his. Together, they pulled the suffocating scarf free.
She stood there, throat bare, chin high. Daring anyone to look away.
Torin took her hand, bowed slightly and kissed her knuckles. Then rose and kissed her scars—gentle, reverent, a vow spoken without words.
You are not craven. You are not unworthy. You are mine, and you are enough.
Ryla's breath shuddered out of her. Then she turned, scarf clutched in her fist, and hurled it into the brazier.
The wool caught slow—curling at the edges first, browning, then splitting open into greasy orange flame. The crowd watchedit blacken and curl in on itself until there was nothing left but a dark smear on the coals.
For a moment, Ryla just stood—throat still bare, Torin's forehead pressed to hers. Then the crowd swallowed them back into its warmth, and the brazier settled, its hunger sated.
The silence lasted exactly as long as it took Maxx to climb onto a table. "Fantastic." He clapped once, sharp enough to crack the tension in half. "Love a good unmasking. Very cleansing. Now if the flames are done being dramatic, some of us came here to dance."
Chapter 23
AMARIA
Laughter cracked through the tension and the musicians struck the opening chords of a triple-waltz. The rhythm surged through the cavern. Bodies pulled toward the floor like the music was a tide and none of us had the sense to swim against it.
I turned to Brannick. "What's this dance?"
His usual boisterous grin faltered. A flush crept up his neck, and he ran a hand through his hair—a tell I'd never seen from him before.
"The traditional Mask Swap," he murmured, eyes darting toward the couples already beginning to move. "Usually reserved for... well. Couples. It's intimate."
My gaze drifted to Ryla and Torin, their bodies swaying together, hands reaching for the ribbons of each other's masks. They exchanged them in silence, their touch a quiet sacrament.
"The couples trade masks," Brannick continued. "So they know what it feels like to be seen through the lies others branded onto their partner. And what it feels like to wear their partner's shame as their own."
My heart stilled.
Damn. These people were intense.
Terrifying. Thrilling. Both at once. I forced my mind to go blank before it could wander anywhere dangerous—before it could land on anyone in particular.
"I think I'll sit this one out," I said, forcing a smile.
I turned to leave. To melt into the shadows and watch from a safe distance.
A firm hand gripped my elbow.
I looked up—and my gaze locked with the inescapable, eternal eyes of Dreadscale.
"Going somewhere?" he purred.
My stomach dropped. No—worse. Every sense I possessed evaporated straight out of my body. Then my mouth went dry. I tried to swallow. Failed.
