Chapter 3 Valas
VALAS
Three months. Thirteen weeks of watching Daryn's silver-bright vitality drain away like water through cupped hands.
Thirteen weeks of exhausting every remedy I know and inventing new ones when the old ones fail.
Thirteen weeks of arriving at this house with my satchel full of medicines and my heart full of dread.
I've become permanent furniture in Daryn's estate.
His servants no longer question my presence—they simply nod and step aside when I arrive, sometimes before dawn, always after dark.
I've claimed the study as my workspace, covering Daryn's elegant desk with my research scrolls and ingredient vials and desperate scribbled notes.
Half my wardrobe now resides in the guest room because there's no point returning to my own apartment anymore.
Not when Daryn might need me. Not when every hour counts.
The sickness is unlike anything I've encountered in sixteen years of healing work.
It doesn't respond to purification spells.
Restorative draughts slow it for days, maybe a week, before it surges back with renewed hunger.
I've consulted with colleagues across three cities, pored over texts so ancient the pages crumble at my touch, even—in a moment of profound desperation—reached out to a necromancer who specializes in life-force manipulation.
Nothing. Every lead dissolves like smoke.
Daryn grows thinner. The hollows beneath his eyes deepen.
Some mornings he can't leave his bed, and I sit beside him mixing potions while he makes dark jokes about already being a ghost. Other days he rallies with stubborn determination, insisting on playing with Amisra in the garden even though the effort leaves him trembling.
He doesn't want her to know. Made me swear I wouldn't tell her, wouldn't let her see him at his weakest. "She's four, Val. She shouldn't have to watch her father rot from the inside out."
So I bring distractions instead. Toys that dance and sing, confections from the market that taste like crystallized starlight, storybooks with moving illustrations that capture her attention for hours.
Twice a week minimum, sometimes more if I can manage it.
Anything to keep that bright little soul from noticing how the shadows gather in her father's face.
Tonight I've brought candied brimbark stalks and a small puzzle box that reveals different enchantments depending on how you turn it. Expensive, but worth every nodal when Amisra squeals with delight.
"Uncle Val!" She barrels into my legs the moment I step through the door, nearly knocking me backwards.
Her hair catches the lamplight, silver-white and wild because she's been playing outside.
Grass stains on her dress. Dirt under her fingernails.
Perfect. "Did you bring me something? You always bring me something! "
"And what makes you think I brought you anything this time?" I ask, keeping the satchel deliberately out of reach.
She bounces on her toes, grinning. "Because you love me and you're the best uncle in the whole world."
"Manipulative child." But I'm already pulling out the puzzle box, watching her eyes go wide with wonder. "Your father mentioned you've been practicing your spatial reasoning. This should help."
She snatches it from my hands with zero decorum and immediately starts turning it, watching the symbols shift and glow. I ruffle her hair, then glance up to find Keira standing in the doorway to the solarium, watching us with that careful neutral expression she wears like armor.
My chest tightens. It always does when she's near.
"I'll bring tea," she says, not quite meeting my eyes.
"Thank you." The words come out rougher than I intend. She nods once and disappears toward the kitchen, moving with that quiet efficiency I've come to recognize. Grace under pressure. Competence wrapped in caution.
I want to follow her. Want to ask about her day, hear her laugh the way she does with Amisra, see that guarded expression crack just once when she looks at me. Instead, I let her go and turn my attention to the small girl currently attempting to solve a puzzle designed for adults twice her age.
"Where's your papa?"
"In his room." Amisra doesn't look up, too focused on the box. "He said he was tired after lunch. Keira made him soup and he only ate half. Is Papa sick?"
The question lands like a blade between my ribs. "Why do you ask, little bird?"
"He's tired a lot now. And sometimes..." She pauses, brow furrowed in concentration that has nothing to do with the puzzle. "Sometimes he looks at me like he's sad. But I'm right here. He shouldn't be sad."
Blessed Thirteen, she's too perceptive. Too bright for her own good.
"Your papa loves you very much," I say carefully, crouching down to her level. "If he seems sad, it's not because of anything you did. Sometimes grown-ups just have heavy thoughts."
"About what?"
"Boring adult things. Nothing for you to worry about." I tap the puzzle box, redirecting her attention. "Now, have you noticed these symbols match the ones in your astronomy book?"
It works. She lights up, already chattering about star patterns and constellation names, her concerns temporarily forgotten. I settle on the floor beside her and half-listen while she works through the puzzle's early stages, my mind elsewhere.
Daryn's room. I should check on him. See if today is one of his better days or if the sickness has him pinned to the mattress again, drowning in his own failing magic.
I've been tracking the patterns, searching for rhythm or reason in the disease's progression.
So far: nothing. It's random and vicious and utterly resistant to every remedy I've tried.
I'm failing him. My closest friend, the man who stood beside me through training and battles and the worst years of our lives, and I can't save him.
The tea arrives before I spiral too far into despair.
Keira enters with practiced quiet, setting the tray on the low table near where Amisra and I sit.
She's changed since this morning—fresh tunic and trousers, her chestnut hair rebraided over one shoulder.
There's a smudge of flour on her jaw that she hasn't noticed.
I want to reach up and brush it away, feel the warmth of her skin under my thumb.
I don't. Obviously.
"Thank you, Keira," I say instead, accepting the cup she pours. Our fingers don't touch. She makes sure of it, always maintaining that careful distance.
"Of course." Professional. Polite. Distant as the moons. "Lord Daryn mentioned you might stay for dinner."
"If it's not an imposition."
"It's never an imposition. I'll tell the cook." But her tone suggests she'd rather I spontaneously combust. "Ami, sweetheart, you need to wash up before the meal."
"But I almost have it!" Amisra protests, still manipulating the puzzle box. True enough—she's nearly solved the first layer already. Terrifyingly intelligent child.
"Five more minutes," Keira concedes, and there it is—that softness she reserves for the little girl. Her whole face transforms when she looks at Amisra. The walls come down. The armor dissolves. She becomes someone younger, gentler, unafraid.
Beautiful.
Then she catches me watching and the walls slam back into place. She straightens, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "I'll prepare Lord Daryn's evening tonic while you're occupied."
"I brought fresh ingredients." I gesture to my satchel. "The formula needed adjusting. I'll mix it myself after dinner."
"As you prefer." She's already moving toward the door, clearly eager to escape my presence.
"Keira."
She pauses, doesn't turn around. The line of her shoulders speaks volumes: tension and wariness and bone-deep exhaustion she tries to hide. I wonder if she sleeps. If she spends her nights worrying about Amisra, about what happens when—if—Daryn dies. Where a human nanny fits in the aftermath.
"Yes?"
I should say something meaningful. Something that might bridge this chasm between us. Instead: "I'm certain Daryn appreciates you doing so much."
"I'm glad to do it." Still not looking at me. "Excuse me."
She's gone before I can embarrass myself further. I stare at the empty doorway, my tea cooling in my hands, while Amisra hums beside me and solves puzzles designed for scholars twice her age.
This is torture. Exquisite, patient, devastating torture.
Dinner is a strange affair. Daryn joins us at the table—a good day, then—though he only picks at his food while Amisra chatters about her puzzle box triumph.
Keira is in the adjoining kitchen in case Amisra needs anything.
I see her as the door opens and shuts. I try not to watch her. Fail spectacularly.
She doesn't sit with us. Of course she doesn't. She's the hired help, and even in Daryn's relatively progressive household, there are lines that don't get crossed.
She eats separately, likely in the kitchen with the other servants who still treat her like a curiosity at best, an interloper at worst.
I want to invite her to join us. Want to pull out a chair and insist she belongs here, at this table, in this space. Want to see her face when Amisra tells her jokes or Daryn makes his sardonic observations about marketplace politics.
But I can't. It would make everything worse—for her, for the household dynamics, for the careful neutrality she's built to survive here. So I sit and eat and pretend I don't notice every time she enters the room, don't track her movements like a compass finding north.
After dinner, I settle Daryn in his study while Amisra has her bath. He looks better tonight—more color in his face, less tremor in his hands. The medicine is holding. For now.
"You're staring at my nanny again," he says without preamble, accepting the draught I've mixed. It glows faintly violet, infused with restorative properties and a prayer to the Healer that probably won't be answered.
"I don't know what you mean."
"Val. Please." He drinks the medicine in one swallow, grimacing at the taste. "You watch her like she's a scroll written in a language you're desperate to translate. It's not subtle."
I busy myself organizing the vials in my satchel, not meeting his eyes. "She's an interesting person."
"She's human."
"I'm aware."
"And clearly terrified of getting attached to dark elves, which—given our culture's track record—is remarkably sensible of her." He leans back in his chair, studying me with that sharp intelligence that illness hasn't dulled. "What are you doing, Val?"
"Nothing. I'm doing nothing." It's the truth and also a lie. I'm not doing anything, but I'm certainly feeling everything, and that's arguably worse. "She's Amisra's nanny. That's all."
"That's not all and we both know it." His voice gentles. "I've known you twenty years. I've seen you with lovers, with courtship interests, with the occasional ill-advised dalliance. You've never looked at anyone the way you look at her."
"Daryn—"
"Like she's air and you're drowning."
The words hit too close. I close my eyes, breathe slowly through the ache in my chest. "This is not the time. You're dying. Amisra needs stability. Keira is here for your daughter, not to be pursued by some desperate miou who can't take a hint."
"You're not desperate. You're smitten." He's smiling now, the bastard. Even dying, he finds time to mock me. "And I think she notices you more than you realize. She just doesn't trust it. Can't trust it."
"Which is why I'm not pursuing anything."
"Maybe you should."
I stare at him. "Your priorities are deeply skewed."
"My priorities are ensuring the people I love are cared for when I'm gone." He says it casually, like he's discussing weather patterns instead of his own death. "Amisra adores Keira. Keira clearly loves Amisra. You care for both of them. Seems like a natural solution."
"A solution to what? You're not dying, Daryn. I'm going to find an answer."
"Val—"
"No." I stand abruptly, gathering my supplies with shaking hands. "I'm not having this conversation. You're going to be fine. I'll figure this out."
He doesn't argue. Just watches me with sad, knowing eyes that say he's already accepted what I refuse to acknowledge. The silence stretches between us, heavy with everything neither of us can say.
Finally: "At least talk to her. As a friend. She's lonely here, Val. The other servants don't accept her. She has no one except Amisra."
"She wouldn't want my friendship."
"You don't know that."
"She doesn't trust me."
"Then earn her trust." He's serious now, all humor gone. "You're good at that. Patient. Kind. Show her she doesn't have to be afraid."
I want to. Blessed Thirteen, I want nothing more than to break down those walls, see what she's like when she's not performing careful neutrality. But I remember the way she looks at me—guarded and distant and so very careful—and I know it's not that simple.
"I'll think about it," I lie.
He sees through me but lets it pass. "Stay tonight?"
"Of course."
I leave him to rest and retreat to the study, where my research scrolls wait with their mocking lack of answers.
Hours pass. Midnight comes and goes. I work by lamplight, cross-referencing symptoms with obscure diseases, testing new ingredient combinations, occasionally stopping to rub my burning eyes.
Footsteps in the hallway. Soft, careful. Keira, checking on Daryn before she retires for the night. She does this every evening, I've noticed—makes sure he's comfortable, has water by his bedside, hasn't fallen or hurt himself.
She does it because she's kind. Because she cares, even though caring is dangerous for someone in her position.
The footsteps pause outside the study. A shadow falls across the doorframe. I don't look up, don't acknowledge her presence. If I do, I'll say something foolish. Something I can't take back.
After a moment, she moves on. Her door closes with a soft click, and I'm alone again with my research and my futile hope and this persistent ache in my chest that has nothing to do with Daryn's illness.
I work until dawn, ink-staining my fingers and breaking my heart one failed remedy at a time. Somewhere in the house, Keira sleeps. Amisra dreams. Daryn fades.
And I pretend that medicine is the only thing keeping me here night after night, when the truth is so much more complicated than that.