A barefoot ten-year-old boy walked into a billionaire’s ballroom and made one impossible promise: “Let me dance with your daughter. I’ll make her walk again.” Everyone thought he was a delusional street child—until the girl reached for his hand. / Chapter 3 / 20

Chapter 3 - The Price of MiraclesJulian hung from Arthur Vance’s grip, his thin toes dangling inches above the marble. His lungs burned, his throat constricted by his own frayed collar, but he didn't fight back.

The light in his eyes had dimmed significantly. His grey skin looked even paler now, almost translucent, and tiny beads of dark sweat had broken out across his forehead. His hands were shaking violently.

Healing wasn't a trick. It was a transfer. To wake up what was dead inside her, he had to give her a piece of what was alive inside him.

"She felt it..." Julian choked out, his voice a dry, rasping whisper against the lord’s grip. "She felt... the floor..."

Arthur’s hand trembled against Julian’s chest. The tycoon turned his eyes toward his daughter, his mouth working silently. "Evangeline... what did you say?"

"My... my foot," Evangeline sobbed, tears finally spilling over her long lashes and tracing bright trails through the powder on her cheeks. "Father... it hurt. It burned. I felt... I felt the metal of the chair."

The ballroom exploded into chaotic noise.

Women fainted into their husbands' arms. Monocles clattered against marble floors. The four guards stopped dead in their tracks, looking between the crying girl, the dirty boy, and their terrifying employer.

"Is this a stunt?" a high-ranking city judge called out from the third row of onlookers. "Lord Vance, is this some theatrical performance to launch your new charitable foundation?"

"Call the police!" a woman shrieked. "The boy is a witch! He's using street hypnosis!"

Arthur Vance heard none of them. The world had shrunk down to his daughter's crying face and the gasping child he held pinned against the marble pillar.

Slowly, deliberately, Arthur loosened his fingers.

Julian dropped to the marble in a small, tangled heap, coughing violently, clutching his throat as he dragged cold air back into his lungs. He lay there on his side, looking smaller and more fragile than ever, his thin chest heaving against his ripped vest.

Arthur knelt down beside the boy. He didn't offer a hand, but the blind rage in his dark eyes had been replaced by something far more dangerous: a ferocious, unyielding scrutiny.

"What are you?" Arthur asked quietly, his voice low enough that only Julian could hear.

Julian coughed, wiping a bead of cold sweat from his eyebrow with his dirt-caked sleeve. "I'm... I'm just Julian."

"Where are your parents?"

"Dead," Julian rasped, struggling to sit up. "Winter took them three years ago."

Arthur reached out, his thick, heavy fingers grasping Julian’s jaw, turning the boy’s face to the light of the chandelier. He searched Julian’s eyes, looking for greasepaint, for hidden wires, for the sly, evasive glance of a trained street thief. He found only raw exhaustion and an ancient, quiet sadness that no ten-year-old should have possessed.

"You said you could make her walk," Arthur whispered, his grip on Julian's jaw tightening slightly. "Not just twitch a toe. You said walk."

"I can," Julian said, his grey eyes locking onto the lord's with unyielding defiance. "But not here. Not like this. If I do it all at once... I’ll die, and she’ll break."

Arthur’s eyes narrowed. "If you are playing a game with my heart, child, I will make sure you disappear into the deepest quarry in this province."

"I don't care about your quarry," Julian breathed, his chest rising and falling heavily. "Look at your daughter. She’s waiting."

Arthur turned his head.

Evangeline was leaning forward as far as her waist would allow, her pale arms extended toward them, her tear-stained face practically glowing in the golden light.

"Father," she pleaded, her voice cutting through the noise of the murmuring crowd. "Please. Don't let him go."

Arthur Vance stood up slowly. He adjusted the cuffs of his green suit coat, turned his back on the whispering crowd of nobles, and looked down at his head guard.

"Clear the ballroom," Arthur commanded coldly.