They endure because they were forged
from what the heavens tried to bury?—
the fragment of her light
that darkness could never return.
1
Aurelia
The apothecary’sdoor stuck halfway, swollen from sea-wind and salt. I leaned into it with my shoulder until it gave way, releasing the warm, herb-thick air inside.
Bundles of lavender and rosemary hung from the rafters, swaying when the draft followed me in. Shelves bowed under glass jars of roots suspended in amber liquid and parchment packets stacked in uneven piles. Somewhere behind the counter, Colette’s mortar scraped steadily, the sound as familiar as the sea.
“You’re late,” she said without looking up. With a small sweep of her hand over a clay pot, the herb inside unfurled a new leaf. Colette was godsblessed—Sylvara’s gift, tied to flora, to growth and decay of every kind.
“It’s not dark yet.” I brushed salt from my sleeves.
“You’re lucky I like you. Another ten minutes and you’d be getting willowbark and nothing else.”
I pushed a folded list across the counter. “The good kind, Colette.”
Her eyes skimmed it, and she began pullingjars and bundles from the shelves. Colette had been slipping me remedies since I lost my parents, back when I barely knew how to barter without giving myself away. She let me sweep her floors to pay for tea, let me loiter at her counter when the house felt too empty and Aeryn cried himself raw.
Once, when a councilman’s wife came sniffing around, Colette herded me into the back room without a word. Through the crack in the door, I watched her lie with a smile sharp enough to draw blood—my niece,she said, voice honeyed and sure.
The woman’s perfume clung to the air long after she’d left, heavy with coin and judgment. Council wives didn’t need titles; they carried power in whispers. One rumor from her could end you faster than any goddess’s curse.
When the latch clicked shut, Colette exhaled. “That one would trade her husband’s seat for a scandal,” she muttered, smoothing my hair like she hadn’t just risked everything. A seat could be lost. A secret could be wielded forever.
That was the kind of shield she was—quiet, practical, dangerous only if you gave her reason. The sort of woman who didn’t need to raise her voice because the world already knew to listen.
“Willowbark, valerian, feverfew… This for you?”
“For Aeryn.” My voice lowered. Colette had thought he was improving. I’d let her believe it. “He’s been… restless again. I thought it might quiet his mind.” Aeryn, at seventeen, seemed well enough to anyone passing by. His face was calm, his posture steady. But beneath the surface, he was a battleground—the darkness that clung to his mind made him a pariah.
In their so-called “compassion,” the town leaders let our family rot in peace—leaving us to the remnants of our estate. Mercy only in name. If not for the blood in our veins, for the ancient line we carried, we would’ve been cast out entirely. I’msure they thought we would wither on our own, too young to survive what had been done to us.
Among the people of Synnex, mental resilience was everything. A single crack in your spirit, and they’d brand you “necrotic”—a soul consumed by death. They said it softly, as if the label wasn’t a curse. But it followed you. Marked you. Until even the ones who loved you began to wonder if you were already half-gone.
Colette’s eyes softened in that sharp, knowing way of hers—the way she looked when she sensed a truth I hadn’t yet said aloud.
“Remedies can soothe the body, Aurelia, but the mind?” Her voice softened. “That’s a different sea to sail.” She set the jars down carefully. “Only one thing I’ve ever heard of might reach the kind of wound you mean—and it doesn’t grow anywhere near Synnex.”
“Etherblooms,” I said at once. “I know.” My throat felt tight.
Colette’s mouth thinned. “Then you know where they grow.”
“Nyxarra.” The name tasted like iron. The northern realm that sat permanently in twilight held as much horror as it did intrigue.
“It hasn’t gotten that bad yet,” I said, adjusting the jars to give my hands something to do. “I was reading, and this combination should help in the meantime.” At least, that was what I told myself.
When Colette looked up, her gaze was sharp enough to cut through the lie.
“Aurelia.” My name came soft but heavy. “Nyxarra isn’t a garden, child. The realm keeps what it loves—and it doesn’t love easy.” Her rings clicked softly as she set a jar down. “People go chasing blooms and come back with less of themselves—if they come back at all.”
“I’m not asking for them,” I said quickly.