Chapter 13 Valas
VALAS
The numbness settles over me like frost—cold, crystalline, absolute.
I kneel beside Daryn's body long after the warmth has left his skin. Long after his eyes have filmed over with the milky veil of death. Long after the magic has drained from my hands, leaving them shaking and useless in my lap.
I had months to prepare for this moment.
Years, really, if I'm honest. I've watched hundreds of patients slip away. Held their hands as they crossed that final threshold. Spoken the ritual words of comfort to grieving families. Death is nothing new to me—I'm a healer, and death is the shadow that follows every healer's steps.
But this is Daryn.
This is my brother in everything but blood, and all the preparation in the world couldn't blunt the raw edge of this grief. It saws through my chest, leaving nothing but jagged wounds where my heart used to beat.
Someone—Keira, I think—eventually pulls me to my feet. Guides me from the study like I'm the one who's lost all strength. Maybe I have.
The rest of the day passes in fragments.
The servants preparing Daryn's body for the pyre, their movements efficient and reverent. Someone draping white silk over his face. Someone else pressing his favorite sword into his hands—the blade he hasn't been able to lift for months but kept polished anyway.
Amisra's screams when someone finally tells her. High and piercing and endless, they drill straight through my skull. Through my soul.
I should go to her. Should comfort her. Should be the uncle she needs.
But I can't move. Can't think past the roaring void in my head.
Keira goes instead. She scoops Amisra up, holds the sobbing child against her chest, and carries her away. I watch them disappear down the hallway, my little bird clinging to the only parent she has left now.
And still I just stand there, useless.
The pyre is built in the garden—Daryn's favorite spot, where the aracin blossoms grow wild and reckless. The servants work quickly, stacking wood with practiced hands. Someone strings flowers through the logs. Someone else lights incense that fills the air with sweet, cloying smoke.
A Priestess of the Mother arrives as the sun begins its descent. She's elderly, her silver hair elaborately braided, her violet eyes kind despite the ritual severity of her expression. She moves through the space with quiet authority, blessing the pyre, murmuring prayers to the Thirteen.
Keira appears with Amisra just as the Priestess begins the formal rites. The child's face is blotchy and swollen, her pale eyes red-rimmed and glazed. She doesn't look at me. Won't look at me.
Every time I try to catch her gaze, she turns her face into Keira's shoulder.
Does she blame me? Does she see her father in my face and can't bear it? Or does she know—in that way children sometimes do—that I failed? That I promised to save him and couldn't deliver?
The thought hollows me out further. Carves away everything until there's nothing left but shame and grief and this terrible, aching emptiness.
The Priestess places Daryn's wrapped body on the pyre with help from two servants.
Her voice rises, melodic and ancient, speaking words in Old Elvish that I know by heart but can't seem to process.
Something about the journey between worlds.
About the Thirteen receiving their child home. About peace and rest and—
I stop listening.
All I can see is that white-wrapped form. All I can think is that he's inside there—my best friend, my brother—and soon there will be nothing left but ash and memory.
The Priestess lights the torch.
Fire catches, spreads, consumes. Orange flames climb toward the darkening sky, painting everything in shades of amber and gold. Heat washes over us in waves. Smoke spirals upward, carrying prayers and incense and whatever remains of Daryn's spirit toward whatever waits beyond.
Amisra starts crying again—quiet, hitching sobs that shake her whole body. Keira holds her tighter, murmuring soft words I can't hear over the roar of flames.
I should go to them. Should put my arms around them both. Should be strong for Amisra, for Keira, for the family Daryn wanted us to be.
But I can't make my feet move. Can't tear my eyes from the pyre. Can't do anything but stand here and watch my brother burn.
The Priestess finishes her prayers. She approaches me, places one aged hand on my shoulder. "He's with the Guide now. At peace."
I nod because that's what you do. Because arguing with a Priestess at a funeral pyre is the height of rudeness.
But I don't believe it. Not really.
Peace is what Daryn deserved in life—years and decades more of it. Peace is watching his daughter grow, seeing her smile, hearing her laugh. Peace is not this.
This is just ending.
The Priestess moves on, offering similar platitudes to the assembled servants. They nod and weep and accept her comfort with more grace than I can manage.
I just stand there until the fire burns low. Until the sun has fully set and stars prick through the velvet sky. Until there's nothing left on the pyre but glowing embers and ash.
Only then do I finally turn away.
Keira has already taken Amisra inside. I find them in the child's bedroom—Amisra curled into a tight ball beneath her blankets, Keira sitting on the edge of the bed and stroking her hair with infinite gentleness.
I linger in the doorway, unsure if my presence is wanted.
Keira glances up. Her hazel eyes are dull with exhaustion and grief, but she doesn't send me away. Doesn't tell me to leave.
So I step inside. Move quietly to the other side of the bed. Reach down to brush my fingers over Amisra's silver-white hair.
She flinches.
The movement is small but unmistakable. She pulls away from my touch, burrows deeper into Keira's side, and keeps her face turned away from me.
The rejection slices through whatever thin composure I'd managed to gather. I withdraw my hand, tuck it against my side, and try not to let the hurt show on my face.
"She's exhausted," Keira murmurs. "She'll feel better after she sleeps."
I nod. Don't trust my voice not to crack if I try to speak.
We sit there in silence as Amisra's breathing gradually evens out. As the tension drains from her small body and sleep finally claims her. Even in sleep she doesn't look peaceful—her face is pinched, her fingers clutching Keira's tunic like a lifeline.
Keira carefully extricates herself, tucks the blankets more securely around Amisra, and gestures toward the door. We slip out together, leaving the door cracked so we can hear if she wakes.
The hallway feels impossibly long. Impossibly quiet.
"How are you doing?"
Keira's question is soft. Careful. Like I'm something fragile that might shatter at the wrong word.
Maybe I am.
"I don't know," I admit. "Hard. This is... it's hard."
She steps closer, and then she's in my arms—or I'm pulling her into my arms, I'm not sure which. Either way, she's there, solid and warm and alive, and I bury my face in her hair and just breathe.
"I'm so sorry," she whispers against my chest. "I know he was—I know how much—"
"He was my brother." The words come out rough, scraped raw. "Not by blood, but in every way that mattered. And I couldn't save him."
"You gave him time. You gave him months."
"It wasn't enough." I tighten my hold on her, needing her warmth, her presence, needing something to anchor me before I drown in this grief. "I should have done more. Should have found something, anything—"
"You did everything you could." Her hands fist in the back of my shirt. "He knew that. He was so grateful for the time you gave him."
I want to believe her. Want to accept that I did my best, that some things are beyond even magic's reach.
But the failure still tastes like ash in my mouth.
We stand there, holding each other in the dim hallway, and I let myself take whatever comfort she's offering. Let myself be weak for just a moment. Let myself—
Footsteps on the stairs. Quick and purposeful.
We pull apart just as one of the servants appears—Maella, the older woman who handles most of the household correspondence. Her face is apologetic but determined.
"Healer Morthen." She dips into a shallow bow. "I'm terribly sorry to intrude, but there's a k'sheng here. Says he's been appointed to handle Master Daryn's will and settle his affairs. He's requesting to speak with you immediately."
Of course. Because death doesn't pause the machinery of society. Doesn't halt the administrative necessities of transferring property and settling debts.
I close my eyes, summon whatever composure I can scrape together. "Where is he?"
"The study, sir."
The study where Daryn died just earlier. Perfect.
I glance at Keira. She looks as wrung-out as I feel, shadows beneath her eyes, grief written in every line of her body. "You should rest. I'll handle this."
"No." She straightens, lifts her chin. "I'm coming with you."
"Keira—"
"Amisra is asleep. There's nothing I can do for her right now except be nearby if she wakes." Her hazel eyes meet mine, steady despite the exhaustion. "And you shouldn't have to face this alone."
The gratitude that swells in my chest is almost painful. I reach for her hand, twine our fingers together. "Alright. Together then."
Maella leads us back downstairs. The study has been cleaned—someone removed Daryn's body, scrubbed away the evidence of his final moments, returned the scattered papers to neat stacks. But I can still see him sprawled across that floor. Can still hear the rattle of his last breaths.
The k'sheng stands near the desk, examining Daryn's collection of books with the detached interest of someone cataloging assets.
He's younger than I expected—maybe two hundred years, sleek and polished in the way all merchants are.
Dark gray skin, black hair pulled into an elaborate knot, amber eyes sharp with calculation.