The fire in the small hearth flickers low, painting the walls in trembling light. I sit beside Mira, my fingers combing through her damp hair, whispering words that don’t feel strong enough to reach the gods.
“Hold on, my love,” I murmur. “Just breathe.”
Her chest rises and falls, shallow but steady. The curse lingers — cruel, patient, unrelenting. Every breath she takes feels borrowed.
Ysabet stands by the table, one hand pressed to the bandage on her forehead, the other stirring something in a clay cup. The scent is sharp—iron and herbs, bitter smoke.
I don’t ask what’s in it anymore. As long as it helps, I don’t care if it’s poison dressed as medicine.
Ysabet glances over her shoulder. “Drink,” she says softly, passing me a cup.
I obey, because defiance is a luxury I no longer have. The taste burns.
We’ve stopped pretending things will be fine.
Hours ago, I told her everything — the truth I’d carried alone for years. About Aldric. About the ring. About Seraphine. About the night that changed everything. Ysabet didn’t flinch, didn’t judge, didn’t even sigh. She just listened and said quietly, “Then the curse makes sense.”
Now, silence stretches thick between us. Only the sound of the wind pressing against the windows fills the void.
“You can’t just do nothing, Lara.” Ysabet’s voice breaks the quiet.
I stare down at Mira’s pale hand in mine. “What can I do?” My voice sounds foreign, hollow. “Aldric’s gone. The curse lies deep, tied to his blood. Without him, there’s no cure. The most we can do is keep her breathing.”
Ysabet’s stirring slows. “There has to be a way—”
“There isn’t one!”
The words tear out of me sharper than I intend. Mira stirs in her sleep. Ysabet turns her gaze toward the fire, letting the sting pass unspoken.
I press a hand to my face, shame burning my cheeks. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
“I know,” she says quietly. “You’re tired. Too much loss for one heart to hold.”
She sets down the cup and reaches for her satchel. “If you want to help, go to the market. I need more herbs for the stabilizing spell — feverleaf, wolfsroot, and marrowvine. It’ll keep her temperature from climbing again.”
I nod, though the thought of leaving Mira makes my stomach twist. Still, I rise. “I’ll go.”
Ysabet’s hand rests briefly on my arm. “Don’t be long.”
***
The air outside is heavy, the kind that tastes like rain before it falls. The village feels abandoned — shutters drawn, chimneys dark. Only the wind moves through the streets, stirring old leaves and dust.
I walk quickly, basket clutched tight in my hands.
When I pass the edge of the market road, my feet falter.
There it stands — the old stitchery.
The sign still hangs crooked above the door, faded letters spelling, colors almost fully gone—ones I once helped my father paint. The windows are broken, vines creeping through the cracks. I stand there for a long time, unable to move.
This was my world once. The smell of fabric and thread, my father humming as he worked, the echo of his laughter when I pricked my fingers for the hundredth time.
“As long as we have each other, we’ll always be rich,” he used to say.
Now all I have is silence.
I swallow hard and turn away before memory breaks me completely.
***
The market is nearly empty. The few merchants left hurry to close their stalls before the rain arrives. I find what Ysabet asked for — herbs bundled in paper, a vial of powder that smells like burnt roses. I don’t speak. I just hand over coins, nod, and leave.
The walk back feels longer. The first drops of rain fall, cool against my skin. The path to the clinic is muddy, the kind that sticks to your shoes and slows every step.
When I push the door open, the warmth of the fire hits me again. Mira’s still asleep. Ysabet hums softly as she grinds the herbs into a paste.
I kneel beside her. “Here. I found everything.”
“Good.” She mixes the ingredients quickly, her hands sure despite the tremor in them. “Help me with the blanket, please.”
I adjust it around Mira’s shoulders, tucking her in carefully. Ysabet dips a cloth into the mixture and places it on Mira’s chest.
For a long time, nothing changes. The only sound is the steady drip of rain on the roof.
Then—
“Wait,” Ysabet whispers, leaning closer.
I freeze. “What is it?”
Her fingers press to Mira’s wrist. “Her pulse…”
I can barely breathe. “What about it?”
“She’s better.”
My heart stops. “What?”
Ysabet looks up, eyes wide. “She’s still weak, but… her pulse is stronger. Her skin isn’t as cold.”
I rush to the bedside, taking Mira’s hand. Her breathing, though faint, feels steadier. There’s color in her cheeks again — soft, fragile, but real.
Tears sting my eyes. “How?”
“I don’t know,” Ysabet says, voice trembling between shock and hope. “Something must have shifted. Maybe the curse loosened… maybe—”
Before she can finish, the door bursts open.
The wind howls in, scattering papers and herbs.
Sir Brenno stands in the doorway, breathless, his armor streaked with mud and rain.
“Lara Venn!” he shouts.
I whirl toward him, heart hammering. “What happened?”
He steps forward, removing his helm. “Prince Aldric has returned to the palace.”
For a moment, I can’t speak. The words hang in the air like thunder before lightning.
“He’s alive?” My voice cracks.
Brenno nods. “Alive and victorious. The battle’s over. The prince rides home even now.”
The basket in my hands slips from my fingers, hitting the floor with a dull thud. Dried herbs scatter across the wood like falling leaves.
Ysabet stares between us. “Then…”
Then I look down at Mira.
Her pulse. Her color. The sudden, impossible improvement.
It all makes sense now.
The thread between them—the bond of blood and heart—had tugged him back from the edge of death. And through it, she had begun to heal.
I press a trembling hand to my mouth, a sob of relief breaking free.
Ysabet exhales shakily, whispering something that sounds like a prayer.
Brenno’s voice cuts through softly. “What will you do, Lara?”
I meet his gaze. My heart knows the answer before my lips do.
“I’m going to the palace.”