Chapter 1

The rain in the Midnight Market doesn't wash the grime away; it just makes the magic stick. It tasted of ozone and stale spells, a metallic tang that coated the back of my throat as I shoved my way past a stall selling pickled goblin toes.

I wasn't here for the sights. I was here for the thief.

I found him tucked into an alleyway that shouldn't exist, sandwiched between a noodle shop and a brick wall covered in moving graffiti. The Alchemist’s Stall was barely more than a rotting awning and shelves lined with glowing glass, but the man behind the counter looked like he owned the city.

"Glassman," I said, slamming my hand onto the wet wood of his counter.

He didn't jump. He didn't even look up from the vial he was polishing with a silk handkerchief. He was a spindly thing, all sharp angles and spectacles that reflected too much light.

"Rook," he purred, his voice like dry leaves skittering on pavement. "You’re missing the party. The Royal Ball is the event of the season. I hear the Prince is looking for a bride."

"I don't dance," I said, water dripping from the brim of my hat onto his wares. "I want the vial."

The Glassman finally looked up. His eyes were magnified by his lenses, swimming like fish in a bowl. "You’ll have to be more specific, Detective. I deal in many vials. Bottled courage? Distilled rage? I have a lovely vintage of first-love’s-blush on sale."

"Ella," I snapped. "The cinder-girl. You took her grief."

He smiled, and it was a jagged, ugly thing. "took? No. I facilitated a trade."

He reached under the counter and produced a slender, crystal phial. Inside, a silver liquid swirled sluggishly. It looked heavy, viscous like mercury.

"She couldn't stop crying," the Glassman said softly, tapping the glass. "Her father died three weeks ago. Step-mother locked her in the attic. She wanted to go to the ball, Rook. She wanted to wear the dress and the glass slippers and dance with the Prince. But you can't dance when your heart is actively breaking."

I stared at the silver liquid. It wasn't just tears. It was the raw, unadulterated agony of a girl who had lost the only person who loved her.

"So you lobotomized her emotional center," I said, my hand drifting toward the rune-etched revolver inside my trench coat.

"I gave her **One Night**," he corrected. "One night of numbness. One night to be beautiful and empty. She paid me with this. It’s high-quality sorrow, Rook. Potent. There are necromancers who would pay a fortune for this kind of despair."

"It belongs to her," I said. "You can't heal by cutting out the parts that hurt."

"And you can?" The Glassman leaned forward, the shadows under the awning deepening around him. "You’re young, Rook. But your eyes... they look like broken windows. You carry a lot of weight for a kid with a badge."

He set the vial down between us. The silver liquid swirled, almost hypnotic.

"I can make you an offer," he whispered. "I see what you carry. The cases you couldn't solve. The friends you couldn't save. I can take it, Rook. All of it. You could walk out of here light as a feather. You could go to the ball."

My hand froze on the grip of my gun. The rain hammered against the awning, a relentless drumbeat.

For a second—just a fraction of a heartbeat—I wanted it. I wanted to hand him my own grief like a heavy coat and walk away. I wanted to be like Ella, dancing in a castle, feeling nothing but the music.

But that was the trick, wasn't it? If you don't feel the hurt, you don't know who you are.

"I’m not buying," I grated out.

I drew the revolver. The runes along the barrel flared blue, humming with suppression magic. The Glassman didn't flinch, but his smile vanished.

"Give me the girl's tears."

"If you give them back to her," he warned, his voice losing its playful lilt, "the spell breaks instantly. She’s at the palace right now, Rook. Dancing with the Prince. If you force this back into her soul, she’ll shatter. She’ll be weeping on the ballroom floor before the clock strikes twelve."

"That’s real life," I said. "It hurts."

I didn't wait for him to negotiate. I snatched the vial from the counter with my free hand. It was cold, freezing against my palm.

"You’re a cruel kind of hero," the Glassman spat, fading back into the shadows of his stall. "Returning pain isn't the same as saving someone."

"I know," I said.

I turned and walked away, leaving him in the dark.

I stepped out of the alley and onto the main thoroughfare. The rain was coming down harder now. In the distance, high on the hill, the Royal Castle glowed like a beacon of gold and warmth. I could almost hear the music, the laughter, the sound of glass slippers on marble.

Somewhere in there, Ella was smiling. She was hollow, but she was happy.

I looked down at the vial in my hand. The silver liquid swirled, heavy and toxic.

If I walked up that hill and threw this at her feet, she would remember her father. She would remember the attic. The night would be ruined. The Prince would see a sobbing, broken girl, not a princess.

But if I poured it into the gutter... she would never mourn him. She would never heal. She would just be a doll in a pretty dress.

I stood on the corner, the rain soaking through my coat, the cold glass burning my hand. The castle lights blurred in my vision.

I gripped the vial tighter, and started walking. I just didn't know which way yet.