Vanzi didn’t speak much, the others were asleep in a tangle of limbs and blankets. She sat in Till’s lap, small and still, sketching in the corner of an old notebook till kept from when he was younger with a half-used pencil.

She drew a girl—again. Same sharp eyes. Same tangled hair. A moon above her, cracked down the middle.

She paused.

Everyone said the woman she came from had ruined things. Broke rules, broke hearts, broke the world a little. They called her a witch, a monster, a curse. No one ever said her name.

But Vanzi carried her blood. Her face. Her storm.

What if that meant she’d break things too?

She didn’t say it. Not out loud. But she shifted slightly, unsure. Afraid, maybe, that Till would feel it—that wrongness inside her—and push her away.

He didn’t. He just rested his hand on her shoulder, steady and quiet.

So she kept drawing. A bit hesitant, worried till would abandon her.