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“Are you hurt?” she asked, her eyes searching him for any sign of wounds.

“Not physically, no.”

Leila moved to sit up, and he propped her against his arm, holding her close. “What happened?”

“I saved you,” he repeated, his voice breaking slightly. “But I wasn’t able to save them…”

Them? Who did he mean?

Was he not making sense, or was her mind hazy from the smoke?

“My brother? But you said he wasn’t there…”

And she knew he wasn’t.

“No, not him.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “My wife. Sarah. And my daughters.”

Leila shifted in his arms, her heart clenching at the raw pain in his voice.

“How did they die?” she asked, though part of her already knew.

He shook his head—not in response, but as if to shake off the memory.

“Tell me,” she said gently, her thumb brushing his cheek and lingering over the scar that marked his skin.

For a long moment, he said nothing, staring out at the spring. When he finally spoke, his voice was hollow, like he was reciting a story he’d told too many times.

“I wasn’t there. I was out of the house, like I was many nights… and days.”

He gave a bitter laugh, jostling Leila slightly in his arms.

“Doing important work, I thought. When I got home… my house was on fire.”

Leila’s chest tightened. A wave of guilt surged through her, so heavy it made her nauseous.

She did this. She made him relive it.

“I wanted to run inside,” he continued, his voice taut with strain. “But it was too late. The house was engulfed in flames. Neighbors held me back—said it was suicide to go in. I still wish I’d gone. If I hadn’t saved them, at least I could’ve died with them. Either outcome would’ve been better than what came next.”

“What came next?” she asked, but he wasn’t looking at her. His gaze remained fixed on the water ahead.

“Hours later, the fire was put out. They found the bodies of my wife and children still in their bedrooms.” His voice cracked. “They probably suffocated from the smoke before the fire reached them. Or at least… that’s what I was told. Maybe they just wanted me to feel better.”

“Gideon,” she whispered, but he continued as if he hadn’t heard her.

“I don’t know if there was anything worse for me to feel. But I dream about that night frequently. In the dream, I manage to go into the house. And my wife… my daughters, they are not asleep; they try to run, and I try to save them, but I fail every single time.”

Leila felt tears burning her eyes. The weight of what she had done—forcing him to relive this nightmare—was crushing.

“I have had this dream for years,” he said, his voice distant. “And I only hope it will stop once I avenge them—once I eliminate every member of the Brotherhood of the Crimson Fist.”

“They did this,” Leila whispered, not asking a question.

“Yes. They left a mark on my doorstep—a crimson fist. Taunting me. I won’t rest until I’ve burned down or soaked in blood every mark I find. They wanted their fists to be bloody, and it is my pleasure to oblige.”

His determination was palpable. Revenge had given him purpose, but Leila feared what would happen to him once it was over. “What if it doesn’t?” she asked.

“What if it doesn’t—what?”