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    Chapter Twenty Three


    The Broker


    The fireflies trapped in the glass compartment


    wink at me, their tiny bodies flickering like mischievous stars—though, of


    course, they aren’t stars. <i>Obviously.</i> But the way they dance? Almost


    poetic. <i>Almost.</i>


    Their glow is soft, delicate, like a thousand


    whispered secrets spilling into the dusk. And secrets? Oh, I’m practically a


    vault—though the Mistress would probably call me more of a leaky sieve.


    I crouch low, more shadow than person, barely a


    breath in the dark. My father sleeps soundly below me, his face slack,


    peaceful. My blade rests against his throat—cold, too cold. One press. One


    slice. Done. Easy.


    <i>So why aren’t my hands moving?</i>


    The weight in my chest presses deeper—thick,


    heavy, impossible to ignore. <i>This</i> is why the Mistress says I’m useless.


    Dead weight. A liability. And yet... I’m still here. Still hesitating.


    <i>Why? Why can’t I do it?</i>


    I tilt my head, watching the slow, steady rise of


    his chest. It’s almost hypnotic—like waves lapping against the shore, in and


    out, grounding me when I should be gone. I should feel rage. Betrayal.


    Something sharp enough to cut through this fog.


    But instead? I feel hollow.


    <i>Pathetic,</i> right? This was supposed to be


    my moment—the cold, clean act that proves my loyalty to the Mistress. <i>Ta-da.</i>


    And yet, here I sit, blade in hand, trapped in the middle of a personal crisis.


    I pull the blade back, just slightly. He doesn’t


    stir. Not a flinch. He still trusts me. <i>Even now.</i>


    That burns more than I want to admit.


    <i>Doesn’t he know what I am? What I’m supposed


    to do?</i>


    But then it hits me—the part I can’t shake—why


    does the relief taste so damn sweet?


    “You’re supposed to hate him,” I mutter, lacing


    the words with mock drama. “You’re supposed to end this.”


    Yet here I am, stuck in this strange, calm peace.


    The kind that settles deep, makes you question everything. The kind that


    whispers—<i>what if I’m not the Mistress’s perfect little pawn after all?</i>


    <i>Now that</i> would be a twist.


    Nay, a cruel joke.


    I feel him stir—slow and heavy, like a bear


    crawling out of hibernation. A low groan vibrates through the air, and then...


    <i>Oops.</i>


    With a flick of my wrist, the dagger vanishes


    into its hidden sheath, snug inside the sleeve of my onesie hoodie. Clever,


    right? I cross my legs, yawn wide, and stretch like <i>I’m</i> the one waking


    up—arms overhead, all innocent and cozy. Who, me? Perched on top of my dad with


    a blade at his throat? <i>Never.</i>


    “Son of a—!” he spits, jerking awake, eyes


    squinting at the dim light. “Like a damn hound in the pig pen!”


    <i>Pig pen?</i> I blink. No clue what that means.


    But <i>pig?</i> Yeah, we had that yesterday. Now I want bacon.


    “Ember… sweetheart.” His voice softens, sliding


    into that <i>dad</i> tone. “You really gotta stop sleeping on top of me. I mean


    it. Honey, seriously—<i>stop.</i>”


    He groans, shoving me off as he rubs at his face,


    sleep still clinging to him. “Personal boundaries, kiddo.”


    <i>Boundaries.</i> Cute. Like he respects mine.


    I’m <i>this</i> close to rolling my eyes into another dimension.


    “You know, some people actually like their


    space,” he adds, all fatherly wisdom and zero self-awareness.


    The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.


    Yeah, well, some people also don’t trust their


    half-demon kids. <i>Hello?</i> Ever heard of patricide? Basic demon 101.


    “Listen.” He rakes a hand through his hair,


    already onto the next thing. “After breakfast, I need you to grab more ore for


    the schematics I’m working on.”


    <i>Riveting.</i>


    “Mr. Spuds found a fresh vein—iron. We need it


    yesterday. The cavern’s deep, so congrats, you’re on mining duty.”


    I stretch again, all drama. “Rocks. Wow. Living


    the dream.”


    He grunts—either ignoring the sarcasm or too


    tired to fight it. “Get to it, kiddo. And <i>don’t wander off</i> this time.


    We’ve got work to do.”


    But the second his back’s turned, my smirk


    blooms, sharp and smug.


    <i>Don’t wander off?</i> Oh, Daddy... if only you


    knew. Hauling rocks? Yeah, that’s <i>so</i> not happening.


    I edge toward the lake''s edge, the water still


    and calm—cool, quiet, almost unnervingly perfect. The air smells of damp earth,


    like secrets buried deep beneath the soil. My toes brush slick stones, cold and


    smooth, as though nature couldn’t be bothered to greet me warmly. The lake


    hums, a quiet tug, tempting me to dive in and discover its hidden secrets.


    Figures. Even the lake’s got trust issues.


    I crouch, steady my breath, and—<i>splash</i>—I’m


    in. The cold hits like a slap, sharp and unrelenting, wrapping around me and


    dragging me deeper. The world above blurs into a smear of silver, sounds


    swallowed by the water’s silence. Down here, it''s just me, the pressure


    squeezing in on my chest, like it knows something I don’t.


    I skim my fingers across slimy rocks, algae


    brushing my skin like ghostly fingers. I kick harder, pushing deeper. The water


    grows colder, thicker, like the lake’s warning me. <i>Turn back.</i>


    Not happening.


    My fingers scrape jagged rock. There it is—the


    entrance. It gapes in the lakebed like a shadowy wound, dark and inviting. The


    water thickens around me, resisting, like it knows what I’m after. I shove


    forward, slipping under the ledge, diving into the cave’s waiting mouth.


    Regret? Maybe. But no turning back now. The


    pressure tightens, wrapping me in cold coils, dragging me deeper. Darkness


    surrounds me, a thick, suffocating blanket that silences the world. My breath


    comes fast and ragged, my fingers finding rough, sharp stone—guiding me deeper


    into the unknown.


    The lake’s behind me now, its silence replaced by


    something heavier. The shadows here twist unnaturally, stretching like they


    know too much. My pulse pounds in my throat, a steady beat against the cave’s


    quiet.


    Then—movement.


    A figure steps from behind a cluster of jagged


    stalagmites. Hooded, face hidden beneath fabric as black as a midnight storm.


    “It’s about damn time you showed up,” the figure


    growls, voice sharp with impatience. “What, your daddy got you on a leash


    again?”


    I grin, water dripping from my chin. “Family


    first. But hey, I’m here now.”


    He doesn’t answer. Just watches me. His silence


    cuts through the air, sharp, like a blade hovering over my skin. I wait, trying


    to make sense of him. There’s something unnerving about how still he


    stands—solid, unshakable, like the stone walls around us. This isn’t a man you


    mess with.


    I break the silence first. "So… what should


    I call you?"


    His voice breaks through the quiet, smooth and


    cold, as though he’s been waiting for me to ask.


    "Come on, love. You should know better than


    to ask for names. They’re burdens, things we nameless folk are better off


    without." He slaps his forehead like he’s just had a revelation.


    "Right, though... you’re not one of the nameless anymore, are you? Ember,


    was it?"


    I scowl. “If looks could kill…”


    He whistles, unfazed. "Fine. Call me the


    Broker." He bows like he’s giving me a gift.


    The words hang there, heavy, thick with something


    I can’t quite place. A challenge? A warning? The way he says it—the weight of


    those few syllables—makes the blood in my veins slow.


    "And what exactly does the Broker


    broker?" I ask, letting mock curiosity bleed into my voice. This whole


    thing feels like a joke. A weird one.


    He doesn’t laugh. Not even a flicker of


    amusement. Instead, from beneath his cloak, he pulls out a small, delicate bag,


    pale blue and heavy. The sound it makes is unsettling—soft, like it holds


    secrets.


    "Well," he drawls, his voice flat,


    "Ain’t it painfully obvious?" He shakes the bag, and the sound echoes


    like the ticking of a clock running out of time. "Watch. Learn.


    Report."


    I raise an eyebrow, eyeing the bag like it might


    bite. “What did you say?”


    "Watch. Learn. Report."


    “Stop that.”


    “Watch. Learn. Report.”


    I growl, frustration bubbling up. “Stop. Saying.


    That.”


    "Whoa!" He laughs, the sound too loud,


    too close for comfort. "Sorry, love. Am I getting under your skin?"


    I stand taller, crossing my arms, locking my gaze


    with his. "No."


    He tilts his head, just slightly, a barely-there


    smile—sneer, maybe? His voice drops, dripping with mockery.


    "Alright..." He flicks his wrist and the bag sails through the air


    toward me. "Go on, then. Get to it."


    "Or… what?" I challenge, standing my


    ground.


    His eyes gleam, that smile turning into something


    sharper, more dangerous. "Love, you should already know the answer to


    that."