Chapter 1
“Elira.”
I shot up, heart hammering against my ribs. My hands flew to my tangled hair, then to the sheets wrapped around my legs.
Shit.
I scrambled out from under the covers, panic surging through me as I desperately attempted to right myself. The thick-woven blanket scratched against my skin, catching on my ankles as I tried to pull up my trousers. Something was making this seemingly easy task impossible.
I smacked my hand down hard, connecting with something solid.
“Ow!”
A muffled yelp sounded from under the bedding. I grabbed a fistful of fabric and yanked it back, dragging Eli up by his hair.
His tousled head emerged, blue eyes glinting with mischief despite the grimace twisting his features—stretching the small scar above his mouth.
“Get up and get out,” I hissed.
The urgency in my eyes should’ve made him move, but a smile played at the corner of his lips, dimples appearing in his sun-bronzed cheeks. He stretched lazily, like a cat lounging in a patch of sunlight.
“Your mother loves me,” he purred, running a hand through his dark curls. “She won’t care.”
I shoved him hard, toppling him sideways. The last thing I needed was my mother walking in and finding our neighbour’s son, naked and tangled in my sheets.
“I swear to the Heavens, if she finds you, she will kill you.” I tugged at his arm, trying to haul him out of the bed, but his solid frame barely budged.
“Elira!”
My mother’s voice rang through the air, far too close.
Eli’s amusement vanished. Finally—finally—he moved, snatching up his loose-fitting shirt and billowy trousers and heading straight for the door.
No. Not the door!
I leaned over the side of the bed, grabbing a leather sandal off the floor and launching it with deadly precision. It landed with a sharp slap against his bare shoulder.
He whirled around, eyes wide.
“Why are you always hitting me?” he hissed, rubbing his shoulder.
I glared at him, my hands flying toward the arched window. “That way!”
Understanding flashed across his face. He slipped his trousers on, hopping on one leg while bracing to climb over the sill, pulling back the sheer, gold-embroidered curtain. The steady tread of my mother’s feet against the floor grew louder.
With one last glance at Eli’s partially clothed form, I shoved him out with both hands.
A grunt sounded from below, followed by a string of curses.
I clamped a hand over my mouth, fighting the urge to laugh while peering down at him. He was sprawled in the dirt, surrounded by the broken remnants of my mother’s prized ceramic pots, flower petals scattered across his chest.
He scurried away, crouched low behind the garden wall, his shirt still unbuttoned and flapping behind him.
I sank back into bed, exhaling in relief as I adjusted my clothes and smoothed down my hair.
I should’ve never brought him here, but I needed something—anything—to dull the ache. The nightmares that had been haunting me for a week straight left me desperate for a distraction.
He didn’t help. Nothing did. But at least for a few hours, I wasn’t alone with my thoughts. Thankfully he got out in time, though my mother’s roses hadn’t been so lucky.
“Elira, it’s time to wake up,” my mother’s voice drifted into the room, warm as honey. I barely had a moment to compose myself before the wooden door creaked open.
“You mustn’t sleep too long.” She stepped inside with a tray balanced on her work-worn hands. The scent of cinnamon and cardamon wafted through the air. “It’s almost noon, and we have so much to do today.”
I groaned, pulling the blanket up near my face, inhaling the lingering scent of sandalwood that definitely wasn’t mine.
“Ummi, the markets are open all day,” I argued leaning to draw back the curtain. The early morning sun filtered through my room, casting amber patterns on the walls. “And there’s no way it’s near noon.”
She clicked her tongue, placing the tray of steaming tea on the mosaic bedside table. “You know me, Elira. I like to go early. If we wait too long, all the good produce will be gone.”
She settled on the edge of the bed with a huff. The wooden frame groaned beneath her weight, mirroring the quiet ache in her body. She adjusted her colourful shawl, tucking a rebellious strand of silver-streaked hair back into place.
“They’re a bunch of scavengers if you ask me,” she muttered. “Taking everything before anyone else has even had a chance. Did I tell you what happened last time? That horrible Nasimeh snatched the last of the saffron from right under my nose!”
She extended a small painted cup toward me, the fragrant scent curling into the air. I inhaled deeply before taking it, the warmth seeping into my fingers.
“You should’ve seen her smug face,” she continued, with a sour look on her own. I snorted into my tea. “Walking away with my saffron!”
I took a small sip, letting the familiar taste linger on my tongue. “Ummi, you are the scavenger who takes everything before anyone else has had a chance.”
She gasped in mock offence, pressing a hand to her chest. The gold bangles on her wrist clinked together. Then, in one swift motion, she smacked me upside the head, just hard enough to make me sputter.
“Hey!” I coughed, laughing as I wiped stray drops of tea from my chin. “Is that any way to treat your only child?”
A playful smile tugged on her lips, deepening the lines around them. “Better me than them,” she declared, raising her chin with exaggerated dignity. “At least I taught you to dodge, most of the time.” She rose up with a grunt and a light wheeze.
We shouldn’t even be going to the markets, as the dust wouldn’t be good for her lungs. But she never missed a market day, and I had zero fight left in me to try and stop her.
“Come on, finish your tea. We’ll leave soon.” She moved toward the door before pausing, glancing over her shoulder. Her bright green eyes—so like my own—narrowed critically. “And do something about your hair. You look like you’ve risen from the dead.”
She swung the door shut.
I chuckled under my breath. “If you only knew.”
My mother had always been my safe haven—the one person who would listen without judgement. But when it came to omens and fate, her mind was made of stone. She was deeply superstitious, believing that every misstep, every strange occurrence, carried a hidden warning.
Seers in particular were strictly forbidden. Once, I had made an offhand remark about how I wished I could speak with one, just to see if they truly held the knowledge they claimed.
She’d shut me down instantly, her face paling beneath her olive complexion.
“They are nothing but frauds,” she had said, slamming her mortar and pestle down so hard that spices jumped from the bowl. “Dealing with them will only bring misfortune. Promise me, Elira. Promise you’ll never seek them out.”
When I’d hesitated, she grabbed my wrists with a strong grip. “Promise me!”
“I promise, Ummi,” I’d said, startled by her intensity. “But why?”
She never explained, as if the very thought of entertaining such an idea was dangerous.
And yet, despite her disdain for Seers, she was a firm believer in dreams. She believed they were more than just fleeting illusions of the mind. That each carried a meaning—a purpose.
A warning.
The truly terrible ones were to never be spoken aloud, for fear that to give them a voice, was to give them power.
I didn’t believe that, but she did.
I couldn’t tell her about my nightmares. The same one, night after night. Not just something I saw, but something I felt.
No matter what I did or how many times I begged for reprieve, the nightmares only seemed to worsen. Each night becoming more vivid. More painful.
I didn’t know what it all meant—if it even meant anything at all—but the last thing I needed was to add another burden to my mother’s already frail shoulders.
Two years had passed since my father’s death, and since then, she has never been the same.
An illness had swept through our village in Edla, my father among the many who didn’t make it. She fell apart when she thought I wasn’t looking. Spent endless nights trying to nurse him back to health—prayed, in hopes the Heavens would hear.
It hadn’t been enough.
After his death, my mother began to wither slowly, like a desert flower denied sunlight. I had sought help from countless healers, but they offered only weak remedies to help with the coughing fits that would take her breath away.
So many nights I would wake to her choking, her body wracked with violent hacking. I had never felt more useless.
I would rush to stay by her side, smoothing the damp strands away from her forehead and whispering reassurances that I hardly believed myself.
“I’m fine,” she would always insist between gasps.
We both knew she wasn’t. Something was stealing her away from me, piece by piece.
On the worst nights—when the coughing wouldn’t stop and her lips took on a frightening bluish tinge—I would stroke my fingers over her face and hum a melody. One my father used to sing.
When he sang, she’d looked at him as if the whole world had melted away. It was just the two of them, wrapped in a moment only they could share. There was a softness in her gaze back then, a quiet kind of love that needed no words.
My voice was never as good as his, but it still brought her comfort. It was never about the song. It was about the memory.
Some nights I would simply lie beside her, watching the slow, steady rise and fall of her chest. Memorising every part of her.
Time had carved itself into her features—the faint lines deepening on her once smooth skin. The delicate streaks of silver threading through her dark hair. She had always seemed unbreakable, too strong to ever fade.
But she was fading.
No matter how much I tried, I couldn’t ignore the truth. One day she would leave this world.
She would leave me.