Chapter 5
I wake with a start. My whole body aches as if I have been wrung out and left to dry. Even the faint sliver of sunlight pressing through the curtains stabs behind my eyes. I squeeze them shut again, my head throbbing in protest.
The first thing I register is the fire. The soft, steady crackle of it, and the waves of warmth rolling over me.
I am not in my bed. I’m not even in my clothes, as my tank top and shorts are gone, replaced with something loose, soft, and unfamiliar.
My pulse kicks up, but I am too heavy, too sore, to do more than shift against the impossibly comfortable mattress.
The room itself presses in on my senses, slow and careful.
I let my lashes lift a fraction, enough to glimpse what I can: walls washed in earthy tones, grounding greens and russet browns, like the entire space has been built to calm a racing heart.
The fire’s glow paints the stone hearth in amber.
Heavy curtains half-pulled against the windows let in angled bands of light.
A chair sits near the fire, carved wood that looks as if it belongs to an age older than me but still lived in, softened by use.
Have I gone back in time? The thought drifts through the haze, absurd and yet stubborn. Before I can chase it down, pain lances through my skull, sharp enough to drive the question away. I close my eyes against the pain, trying to anchor myself in the room I glimpsed.
Wealth—that’s the impression that slides over me, quiet but confident. Whoever owns this place has money, but the kind that speaks through subtlety rather than gaudiness. Not gilt frames and crystal chandeliers, but quality. Every line of the space whispers it.
I sink back into the pillow, overwhelmed by the sheer invitation of it. Everything around me soothes and makes me feel safe, yet my skin prickles with unease. My throat is dry—my head pounds. I don’t know where I am, or who has undressed me, or how long I’ve been here.
Time is a blank space. Hours, days—it all slips through my fingers like water.
I notice a scent. Soft, herbal, familiar: lavender. It curls in the air, sinking into me the way it always has, coaxing me toward calm even when every nerve in my body wants to stay alert. My mother used to tuck sprigs of it into drawers and pillowcases, saying it helped restless minds.
The smell clings here, stronger, woven with smoke from the fireplace and something deeper, resin, maybe, or old wood. It should comfort me. Instead, my chest tightens.
I try to move. My limbs respond sluggishly, like they aren’t my own. The bed holds me like a weight, swallowing every effort I make to push myself upright.
Panic claws up my throat. Where am I? What happened? The lavender presses harder, pulling me back down.
Darkness sweeps in again before I can chase an answer.
The next time I surface, the fire is lower. Its glow has cooled to embers, shadows stretching long across the walls. My eyes drift toward the curtains, but now they are dark, the faint shimmer of moonlight edging their folds.
How long has it been?
I try to move again, harder this time. My head turns sluggishly, my arms heavy as stone. But when I try to shift my legs beneath the blanket, nothing happens. No sensation. No response.
A sharp wave of terror breaks through the haze. Am I paralyzed? Has something broken in me? I fight, clawing my way upward against the numbness, but my body stays stubborn, dead weight beneath me. My breath turns shallow, ragged.
And then, like a cruel trick, the panic dulls. My limbs don’t return, but the fear bleeds out of me all the same, stolen by exhaustion. The lavender again, sweet and suffocating, coaxes me under.
I don’t know how much later it is when I hear them. Voices.
Low, hushed, just beyond the edge of where I can reach. I cling to the sound, dragging it closer. One voice, deeper, steady, laced with something that tugs at me. Familiar. I can’t place it, but I know it.
I try to follow the Thread. Try to surface. But every time I reach, it slips through my fingers, dissolving into the dark until nothing is remaining.
The sound that wakes me isn’t a voice, or a door, or even the fire crackling back to life. It is my stomach; loud, hollow, insistent. I groan softly, pressing a hand against it, but before I can peel my eyes open, a voice breaks through.
“Finally.”
It is feminine, light, laced with amusement rather than threat. Relief slides through me before I even understand why. Something in her tone feels… safe. My eyes jerk open.
Daylight floods the room again, filtered through the curtains, warm across my face.
Someone has stoked the fire, a fresh log sending up steady flames.
A young woman kneels before it, her braid falling over one shoulder, catching the light like pale gold shot through with brown.
She brushes her hands against her apron and rises, noticing me at once.
She is younger than I expected, maybe my age, perhaps even a few years younger, with freckles dusted across the bridge of her nose and hazel eyes that seem to shift with the firelight. Her cheeks are flushed, lips full and rosy in a way that makes her look perpetually sun-kissed.
Her dress is simple, practical, the sort of thing meant for work, not show. The russet fabric drapes her slim frame, the color deepening the warmth of her sun-browned skin. Pockets sag slightly at the hips, and I catch the faint outline of herbs bundled inside.
Her gaze softens when it meets mine, and for the first time since waking here, my chest loosens.
“You’re finally awake,” she says, stepping closer, her hands still faintly smudged with ash. “How do you feel?”
The instant my eyes meet hers, I feel comfortable. It makes no sense—I have no idea where I am or who she is—but something about the warmth in her face anchors me.
“Are you in any pain?” she asks.
I swallow, testing my body. My head still aches faintly, but the crushing weight is gone. The fog has thinned. I flex my fingers, shift against the sheets. I let out a breath—and then it hits me.
“How do you know these words?” I whisper.
She tilts her head, baffled.
“These words?” She echoes, not understanding. “I’m not sure what you mean, but I have some questions for you as well—”
“Sirona.”
The voice cuts gently but firmly through the room, and the young woman’s shoulders snap straighter.
An older woman steps inside, tall and slim, her presence immediately commanding the space.
Her hair, blondish-brown like the younger woman’s, is swept up into a neat but practical crown braid.
Hazel eyes, steady and kind, soften her expression.
She moves with the assurance of someone used to being needed, her long fingers folding together as she comes toward me.
“Patience,” she says, her tone more reminder than scold. “What’s most important? Healing first.”
“Yes, Mother.” Sirona ducks her head, though a mischievous glint still lingers in her eyes as she glances back at me—a silent promise: we’ll talk later.
The woman stops at my bedside; her presence is calm, grounding. “I’m Alva. This is my youngest daughter, Sirona. We’ve been taking care of you.”
My throat tightens. “How long?”
“In and out for about three days,” Alva says evenly. “What you endured… it was dire. Your body was fighting something I’ve never seen before.”
My pulse quickens. “What even happened? How can we speak?”
Alva studies me, her head tilting. “Speak? I—I was hoping you could tell us what happened to you. You clearly struck your head. Your whole body carried tremendous trauma. When you arrived, I felt your magic immediately. It was pulsing through you, violent and wild, faster than I’ve ever seen.
My healer’s magic screamed at me not to touch it.
Not to connect. So I stayed with herbs, with what your body could mend on its own, without my magic interfering. ”
I blink at her. “My—did you say magic?”
“Yes, of course. Your magic.”
I almost laugh. “Magic? I don’t have any magic.”
Alva’s brow furrows, her voice calm but incredulous. “Of course you do. How could you not?”
“Because there is no such thing as magic,” I snap, more sharply than I mean.
Her eyes soften, studying me as though I’ve grown a second head. “How could you, of all people, believe that?”
I freeze. “Me, of all people? Why would I know anything about magic?”
Alva doesn’t hesitate. “Because you’re a Donovan.”
My chest seizes. The air in the room seems hushed. “How do you know that?”
Her gaze drops briefly to my hair. “The red hair, of course.”
Alva’s gaze lingers on my hair, soft but certain. “Though how you got here, when there are none of you left, is a story for another time. When you’re feeling stronger.”
My chest tightens. “There is no story. And what do you mean, none of us left? My mother said this language—these words—” My head throbs harder as I try to make sense of it. “She said that nobody spoke it anymore.”
As soon as the words leave me, doubt crashes in. Maybe I really am concussed. Or did my mom even tell me that? It seems improbable because if so, how are they able to speak to me in a forgotten tongue? Exactly how hard did I hit my head? I don’t even know what’s real anymore.
The flicker of worry in her eyes tells me I’ve shown my hand. She smooths her expression quickly, but I saw it. When she speaks again, her voice is deliberate, steady—the careful tone of a healer.
“I think now is not the time for questions and more questions,” she says gently. “Most importantly, I need to ensure you’re stable and gaining your strength. So, first things first: food. Then a bath. You are safe here. Let’s start there. Are you able to tell us your name?”
Safe. The word soothes and stings all at once. It feels like I’ve stepped backward in time, and yet my mind is so jarred I wonder if I’ve always been here—that everything else was just a dream.
I nod slowly, though my mind spins. “Yes. My name. It’s Metra, but—where’s my mother?”