"Afterward, it was just us. And I grew up without my mother's presence. My father..." The words drifted apart as Ferne paused, mouth tipping up on one side as if considering what she wanted to say. "I don't know what he was like before everything. Caidan talks about what kind of person he'd been, and I see it in the way he's tried his best to raise us, to fill in the void my mother left behind. He tries to hide it, yet even without sight, I can feel how sad, broken, and guilt-ridden he's become. I don't know what he'd been like before all of this. I only have what he is now." She shrugged, toeing the ground with one of her ballet flats. "It only is what it is for me. I think for them, for my brothers—it's harder."

Ferne's life, how she'd grown up in the Keep without a mother, I'd shamefully not given it, or her and her family, much thought, even when I'd learned their mother was dead. Nor when I'd found myself engaged to Graysen either. They were a lower family and deemed unworthy of my curiosity. Deep remorse leadened my limbs and for a moment I wanted to sink through the stone floor, curl into a ball, and weep at my selfish-absorbed entitlement as a Wychthorn princess.

Ferne gave a sweeping gesture of a hand to indicate us all. "And look where we all are now." Indeed it had been a futile effort to believe we'd escape this. Ultimately we would have eventually found ourselves standing where we were right now. Awaiting judgment.

I watched my father's stoic expression crumple with contrition and I was made to feel even worse when I realized Ferne would never see it cross his features.

"My mother was the heart of our family. From what my brothers say, you were her friend, visited with her often, you knew what she was like, Marissa."

"I'm sorry, Ferne," my mother cried, tears streaking down her gaunt cheeks.

"I don't care," Ferne retorted, her mouth pursed petulantly, looking like a sullen, spiteful teenager. It was a contradiction of two opposing sides. She was older than she should be with the weight of responsibility thrust upon her to save her mother, and she was younger at this moment too, as if she were on the verge of stomping a foot and melting into a tantrum. "It's too late for that. You spent most of your time pretending you didn't even know her." She lifted her chin higher, anger feathering lines around her puckered mouth. I didn't need to see her eyes to know that she blazed with righteous fury. "We want something from you and you're going to give it to us."

"It will destroy my family," my father shot back.

"We want it and you will hand it over!"

"Brangwene's Hjarte," my mother breathed, her eyes widening.

"Yes, Brangwene's Hjarte. You'll do this because you owe my mother," Ferne ordered. "You do it and I'll allow you to spend time with your daughter." Her voice grew softer and deeper with a meaning only I could decipher. "A final goodbye if you will."

A final goodbye clanged through me.

This was more for me than my parents. This might very well be the last time I spoke to them. At least, that's what I suspected Ferne thought. She was going to allow me one last moment with my family because, in a few months, I'd be auctioned off at the Witches Ball, and I was going to die.

"But if you don't give me what we want..." Ferne angled her head toward me and it was a simple enough gesture for my parents to understand the threat.

"You can't hand my daughter over to the Emporium," my father begged.

I couldn't let my parents hand over Brangwene's Hjarte.

Not for me.

It was on the tip of my tongue that this was all a ruse. The Crowthers were never going to go ahead with it. And I would have shouted it out to allay my parent's fears, but someone else spoke before I could spit it out.

"I have it!" It wasn't my father who had spoken. It was a desperate female voice that was slightly slurred from the medication that sedated her guilt. "I have Brangwene's Hjarte!"

Shock cracked along my bones.

I twisted around to fully face my mother. My father did the same. Dread paled his complexion. My mother for once had defiance shining bright in her eyes, not for the Crowthers, but for my father. She turned to Ferne, pressing her hands together and begging, "Please, don't hurt her. Don't punish her for what we did." She gestured to an interconnecting door and spoke to the guard standing beside it. "In there," she told him. "Open the connecting door and you'll see we've brought it."

My father breathed, "Marissa, what have you done?"

Her gaze snapped back to my father. "What you refused to do."

The guard opened up the connecting door and I caught a peek of a tall four-post bed draped in gray and silver brocade before a tall man, distinguished in an artful roguish manner, blocked my view, pushing a trolley into our room. "Thank you," my mother said to the man who ruled the Emporium.

Zielenski flashed her a devilish grin, which was more a baring of sharp teeth than a smile.

I glared at Zielenski, worried that he knew too much. The Crowthers now possessed Brangwene's Hjarte, but he could be the one to destroy my family. I slid a foot sideways and popped a hand on my hip, vibrating with attitude. "How do we know he won't double-cross us?"

Zielenski cocked an eyebrow. "My silence is assured, Miss Wychthorn. I am after all a businessman first and foremost, and your mother was more than generous in the effort to buy my silence."

He wheeled a large iron box into the middle of the room, and left it on the trolley, inclining his head as he retreated. "I'll wait in the other room. Let me know, Miss Crowther, when you need it transported to your vehicle and I'll deliver it personally." He gestured with a hand back the way he'd come. "There are ways in and out of the Emporium no one but myself is aware of." And on that, he strolled back through the interconnecting door, leaving us alone.

The iron box, dented and dull with age, sat between our two parties.

I released a tight breath, intrigued and fearful. The iron box was formidable in size and its battered state as if a caged beast was locked inside. Several of the bodyguards approached, easing it off the trolley and carrying it to the long boardroom table with office chairs encircling it. Lowering it onto the polished wooden surface, two drew back while the first opened the metal fastenings on the reptilian leather straps that bound it shut. CLICK. CLICK.

He lifted the lid just as Ferne approached with a hand stretched out in front of her, hesitant steps bringing her closer.

It was a wicked punch of dark magic, exploding from the box like a racehorse bursting from a starting gate. Streams of magic shimmered and shot upward and outward. Ferne's loose hair lifted with the dark magic. Power swirled about the room, teasing tendrils from my elaborate puffed hairstyle and the sheer tulle of my dress. Rocking elegant artwork and antiques crowding the fire's mantle.

I drew closer, rising on my tippy toes and canting forward, eager to see Brangwene's Hjarte.

Lying on a cushion of soft leather was a Brangwene's Warhammer. Whatever it had been forged from looked like blackened metal, liquid in a sense with the way it undulated like flowing lava with its crust black and cracked, allowing glimpses of its orange heat beneath. A ponderous th-thud, th-thud th-thud vibrated through the room on a sonorous note, shivering along my bones. Brangwene's own heart had been infused with the ancient weapon.

I looked on in astonishment as Ferne swept her hand slowly across the enormous warhammer, watching in awe as it shrank in size, changing its size to fit her hand.

"Our family has been custodians to the Hjarte for centuries. When Sirro discovers the Warhammer is gone from our care he'll slaughter us all. You've condemned us to death," my father whispered to my mother.

"Maybe he will never ask to see it," she replied, wringing her hands, desperate and hopeful.

He ran a hand down his face, his body slouching in defeat. "He will. He always seems to know the things anyone is trying to hide."

I pressed a shaky hand to my mouth. Oh gods, what had my mother done? Even if I escaped my fate at the Witches Ball, she'd just ensured my father would be forever owned by the Crowthers.

I wasn't aware that Ferne had fished a cell phone out of her pocket until she'd slid her thumb across the screen, unlocking it and pressing several buttons. She raised it to her ear and after a drawn-out moment as she waited for the receiver to pick up, she said, "Hi Aunty... No, I'm in charge of this... It's done. We have Brangwene's Hjarte." She smiled shyly, beamed more like, as she listened to Addie's reply. It would seem that it was praise. "Thank you... Are you ready?" She listened, then nodded. "Okay. Yes. Right now."

Ferne pulled her phone away and she turned it around to face us, holding the phone out for us to be able to see who was on the other line. She was a little off-center and we moved ourselves to be able to see the screen better.

I frowned at the image of the other woman's face on the screen. Wherever she was standing, it was dark, but the phone's light lit up her face and illuminated the vehicle she stood behind. I'd only briefly seen Aunt Addie a few days ago, and at a distance too, but I recognized her face, the hair cut into a bob with the ends feathered in a way that reminded me of a raven. She wore black clothing and was standing beside the open hatchback of an SUV. "Byron, Marissa," she greeted, dipping her body into a bow. She gestured into the car behind us, then twisted around so we couldn't see her, but we heard her. Whatever her phone was angled at, its light glanced off something blackened and long. A handle. An enormous hammered head.

I gasped. It looked exactly like Brangwene's Hjarte.

"It's a replica," Addie said in the background. "The Blacksmith made it for us and should Sirro, or any of the other Horned Gods, ask to see it. It should fool them into thinking it's the real Warhammer."

My father and I shared an astonished look.

"Thank you, Aunty," Ferne replied. She ended the call and slid the phone back into her pocket. She addressed my father. "My aunt is currently outside your property awaiting the transfer of our replica to you, whenever you're ready to receive it." She lifted a shoulder, the corner of her mouth tipping up. "We didn't anticipate that you'd bring Brangwene's Hjarte here."

"Why?" my father asked.

It wasn't why she didn't think we'd bring Brangwene's Hjarte to the Emporium, but why were they handing us a lifeline? Why give us a replica? I frowned with suspicion. Maybe it was simply another way to keep a leash on my father for much longer.

Ferne shut the lid of the box and it clicked downward. "Not that you'll believe me, Byron, but your wife remembers us differently. We once weren't always this way. Despite everything that's happened between our families, in regards to this particular matter of Brangwene's Hjarte, we're not as cold-blooded as you think."

Ferne's fingertips skimmed along the edge of the table as she edged closer to where I stood. I was so astonished by the Crowthers providing my father with a replica of Brangwene's Hjarte that I almost didn't hear her say quietly, "I'll leave you alone to spend time with your parents."

I blinked in astonishment, my gaze cutting upward to hers. It was wrong of me to feel this way toward Ferne, but gratitude burst like summer sunrays within my heart. Right at that very moment, I wanted to hug the younger girl for both saving my family from the Horned Gods' wrath and allowing me time with my parents. "Thank you," I whispered, placing my hand over hers and squeezing gently.

She sucked in a sharp breath, her warm fingers twitching beneath mine. Dark hair fell in waves as she angled her sightless gaze to where our hands connected. I swore I saw a rush of warring emotions score across her startled features.

I understood what she'd left out when she'd revealed a truth—that in this matter, her family wasn't as cold-blooded in their intent to gain Brangwene's Hjarte. But their intent with me, my impending auction at the Witches Ball, very much was. Though Ferne might have been all bark and steel spine when it came to obtaining the Warhammer from my parents, I'd suspected before in my dealings with the youngest Crowther that she was already uneasy with her family's machinations concerning my fate at the Witches Ball.

Ferne's voice was a hesitant rasp when she replied. "I'll give you as long as I can. An hour, two at most."

I withdrew my touch and she nervously tucked a thick glossy lock behind an ear with the hand I'd held. One of the bodyguards approached, leaning close to murmur his purpose before he offered his arm. She latched her fingers around his forearm and he guided her carefully across the room toward the interconnecting door through which Zielenski waited.

A creak of metal and a slight scraping of wood pricked my ears, and I drew aside just as a team of four bodyguards lifted the battered iron box from the table and placed it carefully onto the trolley, whereupon one of them took the lead and wheeled it behind their young mistress.

I glanced eagerly toward my parents where they stood at the other end of the board table. None of us dared move until we were alone. Well, almost alone; the majority of Valarie's stony-faced cadre remained at their posts scattered about the room, staring straight ahead with impassive expressions like human statues.

The last time I'd properly seen my mother was in my father's office weeks ago. Worry knotted my already-worn nerves. She looked much older and exhausted, with more silver threading through her tawny hair and deeper lines creasing outward from her bloodshot eyes than I remembered. Her skin was sallow and seemed to stretch tightly over sharper cheekbones. One of her bony hands gripped the back of a rolling chair to support her frail frame, while the other absentmindedly rotated that vile capsule of pills.

Deep shame rolled through me like a breaker tumbling across the shallows of a beach when I thought about that night not so long ago. There'd been shouting. Ugly confessions and even uglier accusations I'd flung at my parents. I'd learned of the Alverac's truth. How, with a naive stroke of quill dipped in blood, I'd enslaved my will to Graysen Crowther. And I'd finally understood why my mother had fallen apart and become this pale, insipid version of herself. She'd collapsed under the immense guilt she carried for what she'd done to her best friend.

Ferne disappeared into the next room, along with Brangwene's Hjarte, bringing me back to the here and now. There wasn't any point looking for an escape from the Emporium, not when the rope collaring my throat would stop me from fleeing and Valarie's cadre remained to oversee our reunion. I jittered from foot to foot full of excited energy.

The door snicked shut behind the Crowthers.

And I ran.

As did my father.