"I'm not hungry, Illy." His voice rasps like dried leaves. "Save it for yourself."
"You haven't eaten since yesterday morning." She dips the spoon and blows across its surface. "Just a little. Please."
I watch her adjust his blankets with infinite patience, tucking the worn fabric around his shoulders when he shivers. Whenperspiration beads across his forehead, she reaches for a cloth and wipes it away with the tenderness of someone who has performed this ritual countless times.
The devotion in her movements speaks of deep bonds forged through years of shared hardship. She doesn't flinch from his illness or show frustration at his stubbornness. Instead, she coaxes him to take small sips of broth between gentle words of encouragement.
"There," she murmurs when he manages half the bowl. "That's better."
He catches her hand as she reaches for the cloth again. "You're a good daughter, Illy. Better than I deserve."
"Don't say that." Her fingers tighten around his. "You're going to get better. The fever will break soon."
But I can see what she refuses to acknowledge—death creeps closer with each passing hour. Soon she will exhaust all mortal options. Soon desperation will drive her to seek solutions beyond the veil of her world.
Covenant law would allow it, certainly. For a price. There's always a price.
I settle deeper into shadow and wait.
5
ILYRA
Mariselle's scream tears through the house like shattered glass, sharp enough to crack the morning quiet and send my heart hammering against my ribs. The sound carries something beyond surprise—raw terror that makes my blood turn to ice water.
I bolt upright from where I'd dozed in the kitchen chair, the blanket sliding to the floor as my bare feet hit the cold stone. The scream came from upstairs. From Father's room.
I take the steps three at a time, my nightgown tangling around my legs as I race toward the sound of Mariselle's sobbing. The door stands open, morning light streaming through the window to illuminate the bed where Father lies perfectly still.
Too still.
"Father?" My voice cracks as I rush to his side. His face holds the waxy pallor of old parchment, his lips tinged blue beneath his graying beard. I press my palm against his chest, searching for the rise and fall of breath that doesn't come.
"Father, wake up." My hands shake as I grip his shoulders, giving him a gentle shake that produces no response. His skinfeels cold beneath the thin fabric of his nightshirt, cold in a way that makes my stomach lurch with understanding I refuse to accept.
"Please, you have to wake up." I lean closer, my voice rising with desperation. "We were going to fix the roof today, remember? You promised to show me how to lay the stones properly."
His eyes remain closed, peaceful in a way that should comfort me but only deepens the hollow ache spreading through my chest. I shake him harder, my voice breaking as tears blur my vision.
"Don't do this. Please don't leave me here alone. Father? Father, please!"
Footsteps thunder up the stairs behind me, and Vaelra appears in the doorway. She takes one look at the scene—at Father's motionless form, at my hands pressed desperately against his chest—and her composed mask shatters completely.
"No!" The word erupts from her throat like a physical blow. She shoves me aside with surprising strength, sending me stumbling backward as she throws herself toward the bed.
"My Edric!" Her voice climbs to a wail that seems to shake the very walls. She collapses beside him, her carefully maintained composure dissolving into raw anguish as she clutches at his still form.
The sound that pours from her throat carries years of grief compressed into a single, endless cry. It echoes through the small room and spills out the open window, loud enough to wake the entire settlement. Somewhere in the distance, I hear doors opening and concerned voices calling out, but all I can focus on is the sight of Vaelra's shoulders shaking as she presses her face against Father's chest.
"You can't leave me," she sobs into his nightshirt. "Not now. Not when we finally had something good."
The three of us remain frozen in our grief until Vaelra's sobs transform into something sharper, more urgent. She lifts her head from Father's chest, her tear-streaked face twisting with sudden fury as her gaze lands on me.
"What are you doing, stupid girl?" Her voice cracks, raw from crying but edged with desperation. "Get help! Call the healer, the elders!"
The words hit like a slap to the face. I stumble backward, my legs unsteady as the weight of her command penetrates the fog of my grief.
"I—yes, of course." My voice comes out as barely a whisper. "The healer."