I turn and flee from the room, my bare feet slapping against the cold stone stairs as I race toward the door. The morning air bites at my skin through the thin nightgown, but I barely notice as I burst into the settlement's main square.
"Help!" The word tears from my throat, raw and desperate. "Please, someone help us!"
The few early risers in the square turn toward my voice, their expressions shifting from mild curiosity to alarm as they take in my appearance—wild-haired, tear-stained, trembling in my nightclothes.
"My father," I sob, the words tumbling over each other. "Something's wrong. He won't wake up. Please, he needs help."
Old Henrik, the settlement's closest thing to a healer, drops the bundle of herbs he'd been sorting and rushes toward me. Elder Caspian appears from the council hall, his weathered face creased with concern.
"Calm yourself, child." Henrik's voice carries the steady authority of someone accustomed to crisis. "Take us to him."
I lead them back through the narrow streets, my heart hammering against my ribs as hope wars with the terriblecertainty growing in my chest. Behind us, I hear the murmur of other voices as word spreads through the settlement.
When we reach the house, I notice a familiar figure standing in the shadows near the stone wall. Bram Hethryn leans against the corner with practiced casualness, his violet eyes tracking our movements with the detached interest of someone watching a mildly entertaining performance. He makes no move to approach or offer assistance—simply observes, as if filing away details for later use.
Henrik and Caspian follow me upstairs, where Vaelra still kneels beside the bed. She's composed herself enough to wipe her tears, though her hands shake as she smooths Father's hair back from his forehead.
"Please," she whispers to Henrik as he approaches the bed. "Please tell me there's something you can do."
Henrik places gentle fingers against Father's throat, checking for a pulse we all know he won't find. His examination is thorough but brief—lifting eyelids, pressing an ear to Father's chest, testing the temperature of his skin.
"I'm sorry." Henrik's voice is weighed down by too many similar pronouncements. "He's been gone for some time. There's nothing to be done."
The words settle over the room like a shroud. Vaelra's composure cracks again, a fresh sob escaping her throat, while Mariselle presses herself against the far wall as if trying to disappear entirely.
"We'll need to prepare him for the rites." Elder Caspian's voice cuts through our grief with practiced efficiency. "I'll send for the burial cloths and arrange for the body to be moved."
Within the hour, neighbors arrive with solemn faces and gentle hands. They wrap Father in clean linen and carry him from the house on a simple wooden bier. I watch from thedoorway as they bear him toward the settlement's burial ground, my legs too weak to follow.
"Come inside." Vaelra's voice has changed—harder now, stripped of the raw emotion that marked her earlier grief. "We have matters to discuss."
I turn to find her standing in the main room, her spine straight and her hands clasped before her. The transformation is startling—where grief had shattered her composure just hours ago, something colder and more calculating has taken its place.
"The burial will cost us," she continues, her tone brisk and practical. "And without your father's income, we'll need to make arrangements quickly."
The floor seems to shift beneath my feet, as if the solid stone has transformed into something unstable and treacherous. Father's body isn't even cold in the ground, and already the life I knew is crumbling around me.
6
AZRATHIEL
The mortal thread that has whispered at the edges of my consciousness for days suddenly blazes white-hot with grief so pure it burns through the infernal planes like molten silver. The intensity staggers me—not the grief itself, but its crystalline quality. Most mortal sorrow carries the muddy taint of self-pity or rage. This cuts clean as a blade forged in starfire.
I step through shadow into the settlement's narrow streets, arriving just as four humans emerge from the modest stone dwelling. They carry a simple wooden bier between them, a linen-wrapped form secured with rope. The man I observed dying slowly over these past weeks now makes his final journey, borne on shoulders that strain under grief rather than weight.
From my position in the shadows cast by the neighboring wall, I watch the procession pass. The girl—Ilyra—stands frozen in the doorway like a statue carved from pale marble. Her face holds the hollow expression of someone whose world has tilted beyond recognition. Behind her, the older woman maintains rigid composure, though her knuckles shine white where she grips the doorframe.
The thread of grief pulls taut between Ilyra and the departing bier, vibrating with the frequency of absolute loss. I have witnessed countless deaths across millennia, but this mortal's anguish resonates with something deeper than ordinary sorrow. It’s filled with injustice—not merely the random cruelty of mortality, but deliberate malice disguised as natural order.
Once the burial party disappears around the corner, I slip through shadow into the house itself. The room where Edric died still holds the lingering scent of death—that peculiar sweetness that clings to mortal flesh as the soul departs. But beneath it, my infernal senses detect something else entirely.
I examine the simple wooden table beside the bed where a clay pitcher sits alongside a wooden cup. Both appear innocent enough to mortal eyes, but the residual traces of alchemical compounds paint a different story entirely. I lean closer, inhaling deeply through nostrils that can parse molecular structures with precision no mortal instrument could match.
Thornbane extract, distilled and concentrated. The bitter compound derived from the purple-flowered vines that grow wild in the northern forests. Clever choice—the symptoms mirror a dozen common ailments, from lung rot to heart weakness. A few drops in his evening water, night after night, would produce exactly the slow decline I observed.
The dosage was precise, calculated to extend suffering while maintaining the illusion of natural decline. Too much would trigger immediate suspicion. Too little would allow recovery. This required knowledge of both alchemy and human physiology—not skills typically possessed by grieving stepdaughters.
I run one finger along the pitcher's rim, tasting the residue with senses that can detect poison in concentrations measured in parts per million. The thornbane carries a secondary signature—a preservative that extends its potency. Professional work, purchased rather than brewed in some kitchen cauldron.