13. Healer Kalemon
HEALER KALEMON
The snow crunched beneath her boots, shallow but biting, every step sending a shiver up her legs.
Allora pulled her heavy cloak tighter around her shoulders as the wind threaded icy fingers through the frayed edges of her scarf.
Her breath fogged the air in pale bursts, slow and steady, while she trudged along the narrow country road.
Bare-limbed trees lined either side like skeletal sentinels, and frost clung to the stone fences that wound across the white-dusted fields.
The weight of the bag Kirelle had left for her in a secret hollow pressed heavier on her back with each passing day.
The contents weren't what burdened her. It was her body, betraying her step by step.
Her pace faltered, and she pressed a hand to the small of her back as another pang knifed through her spine, biting and unexpected.
The ache had been building, radiating down her pelvis, spreading outward like a slow poison.
Her boots sank into the softened snow as she stopped, panting, her hands trembling against her sides.
The cold no longer clung to her skin the way it had before.
Beneath the layers of wool and fur she felt too warm, flushed where she should have been shivering.
She had begun to gain weight despite eating barely more than scraps of bread and broth, her body softening at her midsection.
And then there was the worst of it: her monthly cycle had vanished.
Disappeared without warning. She had been so wrapped up in Malec's bullshit and trying to figure her next step to freedom out that she had completely ignored the fact that her cycle had been absent for at least two months, maybe three.
Allora lowered herself onto a snow-covered rock at the roadside, the crunch of frost against stone loud in the stillness.
She pulled one glove off with her teeth, her bare fingers trembling as she pressed them to her abdomen.
The touch lasted only a moment before she tore her hand away as though burned.
She was not a gynecologist, but she knew enough about the female body to understand that the changes in her led to one impossible conclusion.
Why is this happening to me? Why her, why was this bullshit always happening to her?
She shut her eyes tight, willing herself not to name the possibility that whispered through her like a secret she wasn't ready to carry.
I'm not ready for this. Not here in this world, with his blood inside me.
The thought lashed through her, hot and sickening, and she shoved herself to her feet, swaying slightly before finding her balance. She had to keep moving.
There was a name. Rumors that had passed from worker to servant, carried like a candle through the dark: Healer Kalemon.
A Canariae, one of the best known medically competent healers that wasn't an Awyan just poking around for curiosity's sake.
Perhaps one of the only who might understand what was happening to her.
She needed to think about this scientifically.
She was a doctor, trained to parse data and symptoms with clinical precision, and right now she needed that training more than ever.
She needed a healer who understood the human female body specifically, someone who could help her make sense of what should be impossible.
Someone she could bounce ideas off of, discuss the biology, figure out how in the hell a pregnancy could even occur between two beings who weren't the same species.
The science of it made no sense. Awyans and humans were biologically incompatible. Everyone had told her so. Malec had told her so. And yet her body was telling a different story, one that defied every logical reasoning.
And as a scientist, she knew that sometimes nature carved space for impossibilities.
The town appeared as the sun dipped behind the hills, its shadows stretching long over clustered rooftops.
Snow blanketed every surface until the whole place seemed to glimmer under a veil of silver.
Small though it was, the town bustled with the comfort of routine.
Smoke curled from chimneys, and bundled figures moved through winding streets, their voices carrying the familiar sounds of everyday life untouched by her chaos.
Allora pulled her scarf higher over her face, hiding as best she could, though she knew her dark skin marked her as different. A few heads turned as she passed. She kept her eyes low and walked faster.
She turned down a narrow street that curved toward the town's center, where shops and low houses crowded together like old friends sharing secrets. At a small fruit cart, she slowed and spoke in a low, careful tone.
"Excuse me… have you heard of someone named Kalemon? A healer."
The vendor, a middle-aged Awyan man with weathered cheeks, looked at her with suspicion, his eyes narrowing as though weighing her worth. But she was cloaked, unarmed, nothing more than a weary traveler, and so at last he nodded.
"Old house by the hollow tree," he said gruffly, gesturing toward the southern edge of town. "Past the baker. Can't miss it."
Allora dipped her head in thanks, her heart knocking hard against her ribs. She adjusted the strap of her bag, pulled her hood lower, and threaded herself quickly back into the stream of people.
Her pulse chased the name like a lifeline.
Kalemon.
Please be what they say you are.
Unbeknownst to Allora, eyes were already on her.
From across the town square, just beyond the bustle of vendors and the cries of barter, a cloaked figure sat astride a tall black horse.
The beast's breath fogged the air in thick white plumes, curling like smoke from a forge.
Its muscles shifted beneath its sleek hide, coiled and ready, yet the animal stood unnervingly still, alert and silent, waiting for a command that had not yet come.
The rider remained motionless, patient as a spider at the center of its web.
The cloak they wore was dark velvet, deep as midnight, the fabric catching faint light where snow-heavy clouds parted above. Stitched into its folds were constellations in fine gold thread, symbols of the stars, ancient maps, sigils of farseeing things. The hood fell low, shadowing their face.
People passed without notice. The horse was regal but calm, the cloak extravagant but not suspicious in a large town accustomed to noble visitors and foreign merchants.
No one lingered to stare. Neither did they question.
But the figure's head tilted slightly, tracking every step Allora took.
Following the sway of her scarf as she slipped around a corner, the way her hand adjusted the strap of her bag, the way her lips shaped a question in hushed tones.
Gloved fingers tightened imperceptibly on the reins. Then loosened again.
The pursuit had not yet begun, only the patient gathering of information.
Snowflakes clung to the velvet cloak, catching on the golden constellations like stars fallen from the sky, the rider made celestial by it, and ominous for the same reason. The black horse snorted once, its breath curling white against the cold, before shifting its weight and stepping away.
It moved through the narrow back alleys leading south rather than following Allora directly through the square. Each hoofbeat landed soft, deliberate, carrying horse and rider along the winding lanes with the certainty of someone who already knew where their quarry was heading.
The bell above the door gave a rusty chime as Allora slipped into the narrow shop.
Her boots sank into a rug dulled by years of wear, and the air was thick with the scent of clove, dried citrus, and wood smoke that had long seeped into the grain of the walls.
Dim light filtered through frosted windows in fractured beams that cast soft shadows over the cluttered space.
Bundles of herbs dangled from the rafters like sleeping bats.
Shelves groaned beneath jars filled with strange powders, suspended roots, corked bottles labeled in a hand she didn't recognize.
Animal bones bound in twine hung alongside dried orange slices strung in neat rows, and the faint hum of power lived in the very walls.
This place had a spirit. Old. Earthbound. Allora could feel it and it strangely made her homesick.
At the back, an older woman swept the floor with a straw broom so worn the bristles were split to threads. She didn't look up. Didn't pause. Her voice came low and firm. "The shop's closed."
Allora hesitated in the doorway, the scents wrapping around her, both comforting and unnerving.
No sign hung above the door and there most certainly was no insignia marking the jars.
Nothing told her she was in the right place.
Just a hum that didn't belong here, that belonged to a world she had left behind.
She took a cautious step forward, then another.
The broom swiped again. The woman's tone demanded respect without her gaze even lifting. "Did you not hear me, girl?"
Allora blinked, startled. She forced her voice steady. "I'm looking for Kalemon the healer."
The sweeping stopped. The woman straightened slowly.
She was tall, taller than Allora had expected, and broad in the shoulders, built like someone who could lift a mule if pressed.
Her plain green-and-brown dress and tan apron didn't soften the impression of strength; it only underscored it.
Her skin was a warm golden tan, her wild hair piled into a high bun and skewered through with a carved pin, more functional than decorative.
But it was her eyes that stopped Allora cold: dull gray, like storm clouds that had weathered too many winters.
"Who's asking?" the woman said, voice flat.