The iron gate of the Devil's Throat slammed shut behind them with a final, echoing thud. The village streets were a ghost of their daytime selves—silent, silver-washed by a cold moon, and empty save for the flickering lanterns of the night watch. Miguel didn't slow his pace. He marched forward, his tall frame cutting a jagged silhouette against the cobblestones, his hand still clamped around Madeline's wrist like a brand.
"Miguel," she whispered, her voice cracking the heavy silence.
The man didn't flinch. He didn't turn. He simply kept walking, his boots striking the ground with a rhythmic, violent precision that spoke of a rage barely held in check.
Madeline dug her heels into the dirt, forcing him to a halt. "Miguel!" she cried out, her voice echoing off the narrow walls.
To Madeline, Miguel was the anchor in her storm—the brother she had never been gifted, the protector who had bled for her just hours ago. Seeing that bond fraying under the weight of his fury was a pain sharper than any blow the guards could have dealt.
He finally spun around. The anger in his eyes hadn't faded; it had deepened into something darker, a mixture of betrayal and raw, visceral terror.
"What were you thinking, Maddy?" his voice was low, vibrating with a suppressed roar. "In what world did you think stepping into that den of wolves was a good idea?"
"I'm sorry! I didn't know, Miguel!" Madeline's eyes dropped to his boots, her shoulders trembling. "I was told I would be a cleaning assistant. I thought I would be scrubbing floors behind the scenes..."
"Are you truly that naive?" he barked, his voice rising, cutting through the night air. "Does a place that smells of sin and stale wine look like it needs a cleaning assistant? Did the leather collars and the silver bids not tip you off?"
The image of her standing on that stage, a hundred silver coins being traded for her life, made his blood run cold. If Charlene hadn't broken her promise—if she hadn't come to the forge, white-faced and trembling, to tell him where Maddy had gone—he would have been too late.
"What if I hadn't arrived?" Miguel stepped closer, his shadow swallowing her. "What if that man in the shadows had taken you? What then, Madeline? Do you think a 'cleaning assistant' gets to go home at the end of the night?"
The dam finally broke. The tears Madeline had been stifling since the stage lights hit her eyes began to pour down her face, soaking into the fabric of her veil. "I'm sorry," she sobbed, her voice small and broken. "I was just... I was so desperate, Miguel. The debt... the two days... I didn't see any other way."
At the sound of her broken sob, the iron in Miguel's posture shattered. The rage drained out of him, replaced by a crushing guilt. He stepped into her space, pulling her into a fierce, protective embrace.
"I'm sorry," he murmured into her cloak, his hand cradling the back of her head. "I didn't mean to shout. I was just... I was so close to losing you, Maddy. If anything happened to you, I wouldn't have a reason to wake up tomorrow."
Madeline wrapped her arms around his waist, clinging to him as if he were the only solid thing in a world made of shifting shadows. "I'm so sorry."
"It's okay," he whispered, pulling back just enough to look at her. He reached out with his calloused thumb, gently caressing her cheek through the thin fabric. "I will find the silver, Maddy. I'll work the forge until my hands bleed. I promise you, I will pay Woodsman. You are never going back to that place."
Madeline nodded, though a cold dread lingered in her gut. She knew the weight of ten silver coins; she knew Miguel couldn't forge them out of thin air in two days.
He walked her the rest of the way in silence, his hand never leaving hers until they reached the small, sagging porch of her cottage. Charlene was there, pacing the floor, her face a mask of frantic relief when she saw them.
"Take care of her," Miguel said to Charlene, giving Madeline one last, lingering look before turning back into the night.
"Maddy, talk to me," Charlene whispered the moment the door was bolted. "What happened? You're shaking."
"Where's Grandma?" Madeline gasped.
"I put her to sleep. She thinks you're still at my house mending linens," Charlene said, leading her to the kitchen table.
As Charlene began to wash the dark, purple bruise the Matron had left on Madeline's wrist, the story spilled out—the red dress, the chicken dance, the hundred-silver-coin bid, and the mysterious man in the dark who had watched it all.
"I'm so sorry, Maddy," Charlene whispered, pulling her into a hug as the candle flickered its last. "We'll figure it out. We have to."
But as Madeline closed her eyes that night, she couldn't stop thinking about the man in the VIP lounge. A hundred silver coins was a price someone paid only when they intended to own the prize forever.