Leif sat at the small, rickety table outside his rented cabin, a half-empty cup of cold coffee resting between his calloused hands. The warmth it once held had long since dissipated, much like the fire that had once burned bright within him. The table was cluttered with several axes, each of varying sizes and weights, their blades sharp and gleaming in the early morning light. These were the tools of a life he was trying to distance himself from, but the pull was always there—strong and ever-present, like a phantom itch he could never quite scratch.
His life as a rogue adventurer seemed so far away now, and yet the scars it left behind were fresh. He had been a thief, a mercenary, a killer—labels that clung to him even now, like soot that wouldn’t wash away no matter how many times he scrubbed. It wasn’t so much that he didn’t need those skills anymore; it was more that he wished he didn’t. Wished they didn’t define him. But they did. Every time he picked up an axe, every time he honed the blade until it could split a hair, those skills resurfaced, reminding him of the man he had been.
He let out a slow breath, running a hand through his hair. His dirty blonde locks had grown long enough to be tied back now, though they were still short enough to fall into his eyes if left untamed. It was a new look for him, one that felt like a small act of rebellion against the man he used to be. His beard, too, had grown in over the past few weeks. It was thin but not scraggly, a testament to the quiet, disciplined life he was trying to live now. He didn’t care much about appearances these days—there was no one left to impress—but it helped to keep his mind off darker things.
Leif’s wooden leg, the crude prosthetic that Nathor’s men had given him after Ayla severed his own, rested awkwardly beneath him. It had been a long and painful adjustment, learning to walk without a proper leg, but after several weeks, he’d grown used to it. He no longer limped so heavily, though the phantom pain was something he could never escape. And then there was the itch. Gods, the itch in the leg that wasn’t there. It drove him mad at times, an incessant nagging that he could never satisfy, no matter how much he scratched at the empty air where his leg had once been.
It was that phantom itch that reminded him he was still alive. A constant reminder that he had survived when his comrades hadn’t. His team—vile as they had become—was dead. Ayla had seen to that. She had spared him, and for what? He wondered that often. He wasn’t sure if he had deserved it, but here he was, alive and breathing, though barely living. He had survived by running, by hiding, by pretending to be something other than the monster he once was. And Ayla… she had humbled him in a way he hadn’t thought possible. She had shown him the fragility of life, the weight of death.
The rest of his team had been cruel—no, more than that—they had been sadistic, reveling in the pain they caused, taking pleasure in every life they snuffed out. Leif hadn’t been like them, not at first. He had joined their crew out of necessity, looking for something—anything—that would give his life purpose. But the darkness that surrounded them had swallowed him whole. Over time, he became numb to it all, the killing, the stealing, the destruction. It was just life, he had told himself. Just survival. But now… now he could see how wrong he had been.
He sighed and picked up one of the axes from the table, weighing it in his hand. The handle was smooth, worn down from years of use. It was familiar in his grip, comforting in a way that little else was. He was good with axes—damn good, actually. So good that some people had even taken to calling him an archer, a ridiculous moniker that still made him laugh. It didn’t make sense, really, but he had developed a strange knack for throwing axes with such precision that it rivaled the accuracy of a bowman. Killing in this world was something that happened more often than people cared to admit. It was just the way things were, and Leif… Leif had made his peace with it. Sort of.
He threw the axe toward the log he had set up on the far end of the yard. It spun through the air with a deadly grace before burying itself deep in the wood with a satisfying thunk. The center of the rings. His aim was still true. He had lost many things, but not his skill with an axe. For a brief moment, he let himself take some pride in that, in the fact that even after everything, he was still capable of something.
But that pride was fleeting, quickly swallowed up by the guilt that seemed to linger just beneath the surface. He had tried to change his direction in life, tried to become something better, but was he really atoning for his sins? Maybe not. Maybe he was just running from them, hiding behind the safety of the tavern, where the worst thing he had to deal with was a drunkard who’d had one too many mugs of Sandsweeper Ale.
Nathor had given him that opportunity. After his time in the Broken Compass, Leif had been released with nothing but the clothes on his back and a warning to keep his nose clean. Nathor had told him that leaving with his life was a gift in and of itself, and Leif hadn’t questioned that. He had taken the opportunity to start anew, to leave behind the chaos and violence of his past. He had limped away from that life—literally—and into the quiet, mundane existence of a bartender. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was safe, and for a while, that had been enough.
Leif stood up and walked over to the log, his wooden leg sinking slightly into the soft earth with each step. He pulled the axe from the wood and turned it over in his hand, inspecting the blade. It was still sharp, though it could use a touch-up. He made his way back to the table and sat down, placing the axe beside the others. The itch in his leg flared up again, and he gritted his teeth, trying to will it away. It didn’t work, of course. It never did.
He threw another axe, the weapon slicing through the air before embedding itself just off-center from the dead center of the rings. Not perfect, but close enough. He could have spent all day out here, throwing axes at that log, losing himself in the rhythm of it. It was a way to quiet his mind, to keep the darker thoughts at bay. But no matter how many axes he threw, no matter how precise his aim, the thoughts always crept back in.
Could he ever truly escape his past? Could he ever be free of the blood on his hands? He wasn’t sure. He wasn’t even sure if he deserved to be free of it. Maybe that was the real issue. Maybe deep down, he felt like he didn’t deserve peace, didn’t deserve the chance to live a quiet life by the river, tending bar for people who didn’t know him, didn’t care about who he used to be.
He threw another axe, then another, each one landing with a solid thud in the log. Each throw was an attempt to throw away the past, to forget who he had been, but it never worked. The memories were always there, lurking just out of reach, ready to pounce the moment he let his guard down.
Leif paused, wiping the sweat from his brow. He had work in a couple of hours, but for some reason, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he should take the day off. He didn’t really have a reason—there was nothing pressing that needed his attention—but the feeling was there, nagging at him like the phantom itch in his leg.
He stared at the log, the axes embedded in its surface like a row of jagged teeth. What was the point of it all? What was the point of honing these skills if he never planned to use them again? He could let them go, focus on other things, other directions. He could retire here, buy this place by the river and spend the rest of his days in peace. But even as the thought crossed his mind, he felt a pang of doubt. Did he deserve that peace? Did he deserve to live a quiet life after everything he had done?
Leif closed his eyes, trying to push the thoughts away, but they persisted. He had been grateful to Ayla for sparing his life, for setting him on a new path, but at the same time, he wondered if he had really earned it. Had he really changed, or was he just pretending? Was this new life of his just a facade, a way to hide from the guilt that gnawed at him every day?
He picked up another axe, turning it over in his hand. The weight of it was familiar, comforting, but at the same time, it felt like a burden. He could throw it, just like he had thrown all the others, but what would that accomplish? What would any of this accomplish?
He stood up, the wooden leg creaking slightly beneath him, and walked over to the log once more. He pulled the axes free, one by one, and carried them back to the table. As he set them down, he glanced out at the river, the water flowing lazily by. It was peaceful here, quiet, a stark contrast to the life he had once known.
But even in that peace, there was something missing. Something he couldn’t quite place.
***
Nathor soared high above the land, his obsidian wings cutting through the crisp afternoon air as he drifted toward Emberfall. His flight was neither graceful nor dignified; he hung limply from his wings, his body slouched like a corpse being dragged across the sky. His crimson jacket fluttered in the wind, ripped and dirtied from the relentless fighting he had endured. He would have liked to enjoy this moment, the freedom of flight, the vastness of the world stretching beneath him. But instead, all he could think about was how much he loathed it—this cursed ability that was part of his heritage. There was no joy in it, not for him. Not anymore.
Below him, the city of Emberfall sprawled out in a patchwork of contrasts. From this height, it was easy to see how the town straddled two worlds—one foot in the desert province of Seracian Sands, the other in the fertile lands of Tarnstead. The eastern side of Emberfall was marked by the pale, sunbaked hues of the desert. The houses here were low and squat, built from adobe and sandstone, their flat roofs layered with dust from the desert winds. Small courtyards dotted the landscape, filled with hardy plants and shaded by colorful canopies. The streets were narrow and winding, following the natural contours of the land.
In contrast, the western half of the city was more open and vibrant, with tall, wooden structures that gleamed in the sunlight. The roofs here were pitched and tiled, designed to handle the coastal rains that sometimes swept in from Tarnstead. Gardens and orchards were scattered throughout the area, thriving in the fertile soil fed by the Leviathan’s Flow, the river that cut through the town's northern edge. The people on this side of the city moved with a relaxed air, their clothes lighter and their lives seemingly untouched by the harshness of the desert.
The two halves of Emberfall were connected by the Emberfall Bridge, a wide stone structure that arched gracefully over the Leviathan’s Flow. Nathor’s gaze lingered on it for a moment, taking in the intricate carvings that decorated its sides—scenes of traders from the desert and coast meeting in peace, exchanging goods and stories. It was a symbol of unity, of cooperation between two very different worlds. Nathor felt nothing for it. Unity was an illusion, he thought bitterly. In the end, everyone was out for themselves.
As he neared the city’s outskirts, Nathor angled his wings downward, descending slowly toward the ground. The outskirts were a haphazard collection of buildings and tents, a transient space where travelers, traders, and mercenaries set up temporary homes. The roads here were dirt-packed and uneven, winding through clusters of merchant stalls, livestock pens, and makeshift inns. Smoke from cooking fires drifted lazily into the air, mingling with the scent of sweat, leather, and the occasional whiff of exotic spices from a distant stall.
He landed with a thud, his feet hitting the dirt with enough force to send a small cloud of dust swirling around him. He adjusted the red jacket that clung to his frame, its once vibrant fabric now marred by cuts, bloodstains, and patches of dirt. His pants were in even worse shape, torn and tattered almost beyond repair. Nathor cursed under his breath. He needed new clothes, and fast. But before that, he needed a drink. A long, strong drink to wash away the fatigue of endless battles and the creeping thoughts that haunted him.
Nathor trudged toward the center of town, his wings folding tightly against his back as he made his way through the outskirts. The people who passed him gave him a wide berth, their eyes darting nervously to his wings, the ominous black of his feathers shimmering in the sunlight. They knew better than to speak to him or get in his way. Nathor wasn’t in the mood for pleasantries, and his reputation preceded him—no one wanted to be on the wrong end of whatever mood he was in today.
Finally, he spotted it: The Ember Forge Tavern. The warm glow of lanterns spilled out onto the street, and the muffled sounds of laughter and conversation drifted through the open door. Nathor could already smell the ale, the faint scent of roasting meat teasing his senses. For a moment, he allowed himself to relax, his shoulders dropping just a fraction as he approached the entrance.
As he stepped inside, the tavern's familiar warmth washed over him. The interior was a blend of wood and stone, the walls adorned with various trinkets and trophies from travelers and adventurers who had passed through over the years. The large stone hearth on the far wall crackled with a steady fire, casting a golden light across the room. Wooden tables and benches were scattered throughout the space, and a long, well-worn bar dominated one side of the room, behind which shelves were stocked with an impressive array of spirits from across Aurelia.
Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.
The people inside noticed him immediately. Conversations died down, and heads turned in his direction. The lively chatter that had filled the air only moments ago was replaced by an uneasy silence as the patrons took in his appearance—his torn clothes, his obsidian wings, his hardened expression. Nathor ignored the stares, walking directly to the bar and seating himself on one of the stools. He leaned forward, elbows on the counter, and let out a long breath.
“Drink,” he said gruffly, not bothering to look up at the bartender. “Whatever’s strong.”
The bartender, a stout man with a graying beard, nodded quickly and busied himself with pouring a mug of Sandsweeper Ale. Nathor didn’t care what it was as long as it did the job. When the mug was placed in front of him, he grabbed it without a word and brought it to his lips, downing the ale in one long gulp. The alcohol burned as it went down, but it was a good burn—a reminder that he was still alive, still feeling something, even if it was only the dull heat of cheap ale.
Nathor placed the empty mug back on the counter and gestured for another. The bartender hesitated for only a moment before quickly refilling it. Around him, the patrons had returned to their conversations, though there was still an air of tension in the room. No one dared to approach him, and those who passed by gave him a wide berth. He could feel their eyes on him, could sense the whispers, but no one said anything to his face.
Good, he thought. Let them be afraid. It made things easier that way.
As he nursed his second drink, Nathor’s eyes wandered over the room. He spotted a figure in the corner, someone who looked vaguely familiar. Thrix? Could it be? Nathor squinted, trying to get a better look, but the dim light and the haze of alcohol made it difficult to be sure. Maybe it was just his mind playing tricks on him. It wouldn’t be the first time. He shook his head and returned his focus to his drink. Whether it was Thrix or not didn’t matter. Not right now. All Nathor wanted was to clear his thoughts and drown out the noise in his head with several more mugs of ale.
By the time Nathor reached his fourth drink, the world had started to blur around the edges. The fatigue that had settled in his bones after so many days of fighting began to lift, replaced by a warm, heavy buzz that dulled the sharp edges of reality. He stared down into his mug, watching the amber liquid swirl lazily as he brought it to his lips. For a moment, the world was quiet. For a moment, he didn’t have to think about the path he was on, the endless cycle of death and destruction that seemed to follow him wherever he went.
This path, this endless hunt for power, for control—it had brought him nothing but pain. And yet, he couldn’t stop. He was too far in now, too committed to back down. The title of King felt like a distant goal, something he had once longed for with every fiber of his being. But now? Now he wasn’t so sure. What was the point of all this power, all this bloodshed, if it left him feeling so hollow inside? What did it matter if he became King when the people he fought were the only ones who made him feel alive?
His thoughts drifted to the others who were likely in Emberfall—the River Lurkers, Thrix, maybe even Selene. He wouldn’t be surprised if Ayla or Paola were here, too. Chasing the Fallen Star had brought meaning to his life, a purpose he hadn’t realized he needed until he was neck-deep in it. The thrill of the chase, the battles with those who were strong enough to challenge him—it was intoxicating in a way that nothing else was. And yet, even that thrill was starting to wear thin. How long could he keep this up? How many more people would he have to kill before he could finally rest?
The thought lingered in his mind as he drained the last of his drink and set the empty mug down on the bar. He blinked slowly, his vision clearing just enough to see the three empty mugs already in front of him. When had he finished those? It didn’t matter. What mattered was that he needed to keep moving. The market. He needed new clothes. His jacket was a disaster, and his pants were little more than rags at this point.
Nathor stood up from the stool, swaying slightly as he steadied himself. He reached into his pocket and tossed a few coins onto the bar, more than enough to cover his drinks. Without a word, he turned and made his way toward the exit, his wings brushing against the doorframe as he stepped out into the street. The cool air hit him like a slap to the face, but it helped clear his head. He took a deep breath and started walking toward the market, his thoughts still swirling with doubt and exhaustion.
As he made his way through the streets, Nathor remained focused on his surroundings. He could feel eyes on him, but he didn’t care. He was aware of the stares, the whispers, but none of it mattered. What mattered now was finding a stall that sold clothes. He couldn’t walk around in these tattered rags much longer. He needed something that suited him, something that would remind everyone who he was—a force to be reckoned with.
Nathor’s eyes scanned the market stalls, searching for something that caught his attention. As he passed by one of the clothing stalls, he finally spotted what he was looking for. The merchant had a selection of dark, high-quality jackets and pants, the kind that looked both practical and imposing. Nathor approached the stall, his gaze locking onto a deep crimson jacket that reminded him of his own—before it had been ruined by battle, that is.
He reached out and grabbed the jacket, running his fingers over the fabric. It was sturdy, well-made. It would do.
“How much for this?” Nathor asked, his voice gruff.
The merchant, a nervous-looking man, glanced up at Nathor’s wings and then back down at the jacket. He swallowed hard before answering. “Twenty-five silver, sir.”
Nathor tossed a few gold coins onto the counter. “Keep the change.”
The merchant’s eyes widened at the generous payment, but he didn’t dare say anything. Nathor slipped on the new jacket, feeling the weight of it settle comfortably on his shoulders. It felt good to wear something clean, something that didn’t reek of blood and sweat. He grabbed a pair of matching pants and quickly swapped them out for his torn ones, discarding the old rags in a nearby bin.
Feeling somewhat more like himself, Nathor adjusted his jacket and started to head back toward the tavern. But as he walked, he passed someone familiar—though he didn’t realize it at the time. Leif, the bartender from the Ember Forge, was making his way toward the tavern to start his shift. Their paths crossed briefly, but Nathor was too focused on his own thoughts to notice the connection. Had he been paying attention to anything other than the threats around him, he might have recognized Leif from the time he had spent working as the man's shady boss. But right now, Nathor was too deep in his own mind, too preoccupied with the weight of everything that had brought him to this point.
And so, Nathor walked on, his thoughts tangled in the past, the present, and the uncertain future that lay before him. The hunt for the Fallen Star, the endless cycle of death, the pursuit of power—it all felt temporary, like stepping stones toward something greater. But what that something was, Nathor wasn’t sure anymore. All he knew was that the path ahead was still paved with blood, and for now, there was no way off it.
Maybe, just maybe, that was the way it had to be.
***
The cart creaked along the dusty road, the wheels grinding against the dirt in a rhythmic, almost hypnotic cadence. The sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows over the land as Emberfall appeared on the horizon. The sight of the town brought a small measure of relief to the otherwise tense atmosphere that had settled over the group. Paola and Poca sat in the back of the wagon, their thoughts tangled in the events that had unfolded in the last few hours. Selene’s departure had left a lingering awkwardness in the air, and though they hadn’t spoken much, there was an unspoken understanding that something significant had shifted.
Paola cradled Oso in her lap, her fingers absently running through his fur as she stared at the distant town. Carter, the eerie puppet, sat at the front of the wagon, his wooden smile fixed in place as he guided the oxen along the path. Paola glanced at Poca, who had been unusually quiet since Selene had handed her the feather. The tension between them was palpable, but Paola didn’t want to push. Not yet. She had seen the way Poca’s expression had fallen when she took the feather, the way she had looked at Selene with a mix of hurt and confusion. There was a lot that needed to be said, but Paola wasn’t sure where to start.
After a long stretch of silence, Paola finally worked up the courage to speak. “Poca,” she began hesitantly, “what is that feather? Why is it so important?”
Poca didn’t answer right away. She stared at the feather in her hand, her mismatched eyes reflecting the golden light of the setting sun. Finally, she shook her head slowly. “I zink it is best I explain zis when I am of a clearer mind, Paola. Zere is… much to say, and I do not wish to say it wrong.”
Paola nodded, understanding that this was not something to be rushed. She let the silence settle over them again, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to this than she realized. After a few more minutes, Poca spoke again, her voice softer this time.
“I trusted Selene,” Poca admitted, her gaze still fixed on the feather. “I zought she left because she wanted to, because it was what was best for ‘er. I didn’t realize…” She trailed off, her expression crumpling with a sadness that Paola had rarely seen in her. “Zis feather,” she continued after a moment, holding it up for Paola to see, “is a Thunderwolf Feather. It is a relic of a mythical beast, incredibly rare. It is… worth more zan I can truly explain.”
Paola blinked, trying to wrap her mind around the idea of something being as valuable as Poca suggested. “How valuable are we talking?” she asked, her curiosity piqued.
Poca looked at her, her eyes reflecting a deep sorrow. “More valuable zan a fallen star, Paola. Zis feather alone could change lives, shape destinies. Zat Selene took it from me… it is not just a betrayal of trust, but of everything I ‘ave tried to build ‘ere.”
Paola felt a pang of guilt in her chest. She had sensed Poca’s hurt, but she hadn’t realized the depth of it. “I’m so sorry, Poca,” she said softly. “I didn’t know.”
Poca waved a hand dismissively, though her expression remained pained. “It is not your fault, Paola. Zis is not a burden you should carry. But… it is one I must.”
Paola watched her for a moment, then asked quietly, “Why didn’t you ask more questions about… you know, me coming back from the dead?”
Poca turned to her, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “Because, Paola, I trust you. If you ‘ave secrets, I believe you ‘ave reasons for keeping zem. I would not force you to share what you are not ready to.”
Paola couldn’t help but smile at that, though there was a bittersweetness to it. “You trust too easily, Poca,” she said, though her tone was light.
Poca returned the smile, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Oui, I do. It is both a gift and a curse. But I cannot change who I am, no?”
They shared a small laugh, but the seriousness of the situation lingered in the air. Paola looked at Poca again, seeing the mix of emotions playing across her face—defeat, guilt, and perhaps a glimmer of hope. It was in that moment that Paola knew she couldn’t keep her secret any longer. Poca deserved to know the truth, even if it was difficult to explain.
Paola took a deep breath, steeling herself for the weight of the truth she was about to reveal. She had never told anyone else but Ayla the full story, but Poca deserved to know. Their bond had grown over time, and Paola couldn't bear to hide this any longer. She looked at Poca, whose mismatched eyes watched her with that warm trust she had come to appreciate so deeply. It almost made Paola hesitate—but she couldn't. Not anymore.
“Poca,” Paola began, her voice trembling, “do you remember when I told you that I was from a city named Helios on the other side of the world?”
Poca nodded, her brow furrowing in confusion at the sudden shift in tone. "Oui, I remember. But why do you ask zis now?"
Paola swallowed hard. "Because… I wasn't being honest. I'm not from Helios, and I'm not from this world either."
Poca’s eyes widened, her confusion deepening as she stared at Paola. She opened her mouth to respond, but Paola continued before she could get a word out.
"I'm from another planet called Earth," Paola said, her voice barely above a whisper. "Ayla… Ayla called me a Void Borne, a Fallen Star."
The silence that followed was thick, stretching out in a way that made Paola's heart pound in her chest. Poca just stared at her, her lips parted slightly as if she were struggling to form words. Her eyes remained fixed on Paola, wide with shock. Paola could almost hear the wheels turning in Poca’s mind, trying to process what she had just heard.
Seconds passed, then a minute. Poca’s face was unreadable—no comforting smile, no light-hearted comment, no reassurance. Just a stunned, uncomprehending stare. The silence became suffocating, each second of it gnawing at Paola’s nerves, making her wonder if she had just made a terrible mistake.
Finally, Poca blinked, shaking her head slowly, as if trying to wake herself from a dream. She opened her mouth, closed it, then finally managed to speak. “I… I do not… know what to say.”
Paola’s heart dropped. Her worst fear—the fear that revealing the truth would push Poca away—began to feel like a looming reality. She had expected questions, maybe skepticism, but not this… stunned silence. And certainly not this hesitant response. She could feel the distance between them growing, like an invisible wall being built brick by brick.
“I ‘ave never been so… unprepared,” Poca finally admitted, her voice trembling with an uncharacteristic vulnerability. She glanced down at the Thunderwolf Feather in her lap, her fingers tightening around it. “All of zis—Fallen Stars, Thunderwolf Feathers—I was not ready for any of it. I just wanted to help Abraham, to get ‘im to Windmere.”
She shook her head again, her expression one of disbelief. “Now, here I am, with a mythical feather in one hand and… and you—” She hesitated, her eyes darting back to Paola. “A Fallen Star in front of me. I never imagined… zis. I am just a farmer with some puppets, Paola. I do not understand any of zis magic or zis power. I thought I did, but…” She trailed off, her voice thick with frustration and doubt. “I do not.”
Paola felt the guilt tightening in her chest. She had put this on Poca, dropped this impossible truth on her shoulders when she was already dealing with the weight of Selene’s betrayal, the Thunderwolf Feather, and her own internal battles. And now, Paola had added to her burden. Maybe it had been the wrong choice after all—maybe she should have kept it to herself, let Poca believe in whatever story made her feel safe. Paola had pushed too hard, and now Poca was questioning everything.
But before Paola could apologize or try to backtrack, Poca looked up at her, her mismatched eyes full of conflict. “I trusted you,” she said softly, her voice barely more than a whisper. “I still do… but zis—zis is something else entirely. I don’t know ‘ow to feel.”
The cart rolled on, the silence between them heavy with unspoken words. Paola watched Poca, unsure if she had made the right choice in revealing her secret or if she had just driven a wedge between them that might never be removed. Poca's expression was clouded, her thoughts hidden behind those haunted, mismatched eyes. For the first time since meeting her, Paola couldn’t read what Poca was thinking.
They approached the outskirts of Emberfall, the town now looming closer on the horizon, yet Paola couldn’t shake the feeling of unease hanging between them. Poca had every right to be overwhelmed—Thunderwolf Feathers, Fallen Stars, magic and power—none of this was what she had asked for when she set out on her journey to help a boy. Paola had dragged her into something much larger, much darker.
Paola turned to face the town in the distance, her stomach churning with uncertainty. She didn’t know if Poca would ever fully accept what she had revealed, didn’t know if their friendship could survive the weight of such a truth. Maybe she should have kept her secret hidden a little longer. Maybe the trust she had put in Poca would come back to hurt them both.
But there was no going back now. The truth was out, and all Paola could do was hope that she hadn’t just ruined everything.