Chapter 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 skin feels 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."
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 terrible certainty 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 the doorway 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.