Chapter 3 Iris
Iris
I wake to pale morning light filtering through unfamiliar curtains and the disorienting certainty that I'm not in my apartment.
The bed is too large. The ceiling is too high. And there's a presence somewhere in the house that feels like winter pressed against my skin: cold and vast and empty.
The bond. I can feel it now, gossamer-thin but definitely there, connecting me to Cadeon somewhere below. It's strange, like having a sixth sense I didn't know existed. Not quite thoughts, not quite emotions. Just... awareness. He's awake. Or whatever vampires are during daylight hours.
I sit up, and my wrist throbs.
The bite marks are still there, two small punctures surrounded by faint bruising. I touch them gingerly and feel an echo of last night's heat, which is absolutely not something I'm going to think about right now. Nope. Not even a little bit.
I swing my legs out of bed and take stock of my surroundings properly for the first time.
The room is nice, actually. Better than I expected.
Large windows facing east, currently showing a snow-covered forest that looks like something from a painting.
A writing desk in the corner. Bookshelves, because of course there are bookshelves, this is an Ashwood house, filled with what look like grimoires and herbology texts.
The furniture is old but well-maintained, dark wood that's been polished until it gleams.
It doesn't feel like Grandmother, though. Too warm. Too lived-in.
I wonder if this was my mother's room, before she left. Before she met my father, had me, and died when I was too young to remember her face.
The thought sits heavy in my chest, so I push it away and focus on getting dressed.
Downstairs, the house is silent.
I half-expected to find Cadeon somewhere.
Maybe standing guard or brooding dramatically or whatever ancient vampires do in the morning, but the rooms I pass are empty.
The sitting room from last night, with its dying fire.
A dining room that looks like it hasn't been used in years.
A library that makes my fingers itch to explore but probably contains fewer "how to grow the perfect tomato" books and more "advanced battle magic for the discerning warmonger. "
I find the kitchen at the back of the house, and it's... actually kind of perfect.
Large windows letting in the morning light.
A wood-burning stove that's probably original to the house but looks well-maintained.
Copper pots hanging from hooks. Dried herbs bundled along one wall, though they're so old they've probably lost most of their potency.
The counters are slate, worn smooth by decades of use.
This room feels lived-in. Loved, even.
I run my hand along the counter and feel the faintest whisper of magic. Kitchen magic. Hearth magic. Someone cooked here with intention, with care.
My mother? My grandmother, before she became the battle-mage everyone fears?
I'll probably never know.
There's a kettle on the stove and tea in the cupboard: black tea, loose leaf, the expensive. I get a fire going in the stove and set the kettle to boil.
While I wait, I explore.
The pantry is well-stocked, which surprises me. Preserved foods, mostly. Jams and pickled vegetables and cured meats. A few fresh things that must have been delivered recently: bread, cheese, winter apples. Did Cadeon arrange this? Does he even eat?
The thought of an ancient vampire carefully stocking a pantry for a mage he's never met is oddly touching.
Or maybe my grandmother had a standing order with the village. That seems more likely.
The kettle whistles. I make the tea, add honey from a jar that smells absolutely lovely, , and carry my cup toward what I'm pretty sure is grandmother's study. At least it used to be when I lived here.
Time to figure out what exactly I've inherited.
The study is exactly what I expected and somehow worse.
More weapons. A desk that could double as a fortification. Bookshelves crammed with grimoires, battle strategies, and what appears to be a complete collection of "Magical Warfare Through the Ages." The morning light streaming through the windows only makes it all look more austere.
But it's the desk I'm drawn to.
Grandmother's desk. One of many, but she used this one the most, if I recall correctly. It’s organized with military precision, with everything at right angles, not a speck of dust, a place for everything and everything in its place.
There's a leather-bound journal sitting in the exact center, and I know without opening it that this is what I need to see.
I sit in her chair that feels too big for me, and it makes me feel like a child playing dress-up, and open the journal.
Her handwriting is exactly as I remember. Sharp. Jagged. Rigid.
The entries are dated, going back decades. The earliest ones I can find are from about fifty years ago. I flip through, scanning.
*The familiar transfers to me upon Mother's death. Cadeon has served House Ashwood for 160 years. He is efficient. Reliable. I will maintain the bond as Mother did.*
*Cadeon dispatched to the border conflict. Three enemy mages neutralized. Asset performed efficiently.*
*The vampire requires less maintenance than previous familiars. Optimal.*
I flip forward, watching the years pass. The entries are all the same: clinical observations, tactical reports, notes about "the asset's" performance.
*Cadeon's combat effectiveness remains unchanged after 200 years of service. Remarkable durability.*
Asset. Tool. Weapon.
Never his name, except in the most clinical context. Never a hint that he's a person.
My tea sits forgotten as I keep reading, something cold settling in my stomach.
*The familiar bond requires constant reinforcement. Any weakness in the master's will results in degradation. I have maintained perfect control for 47 years.*
*Today Cadeon hesitated before carrying out an order. Unacceptable. I have increased the compulsion accordingly. He will not hesitate again.*
"Oh, Grandmother," I whisper to the empty room. "What did you do to him?"
I keep flipping pages, watching her chronicle decades of his service with the emotional investment of someone documenting statistics.
Then, near the end, the handwriting changes.
The entries are still dated, but the ink is darker and fresher. The writing less steady. And in the margins, there are notes.
*He hasn't spoken voluntarily in months. I ask him questions; he answers in single words. When did I stop noticing?*
*I commanded him to rest today. He stood in the corner of his room for six hours, staring at nothing. I think he's forgotten how to rest. How to do anything I haven't explicitly ordered.*
*Hollow. I made him hollow. What have I done?*
The last entry is dated three weeks ago.
*I am dying. The healers say weeks, perhaps a month. I have left him to Iris. Perhaps she can do what I failed to do. Perhaps she can remind him what it is to be something other than a weapon.*
*I hope she's stronger than I was. And kinder.*
I have to set the journal down because my hands are shaking and my eyes burn. I blink back the tears threatening.
She knew. At the end, she knew what she'd done to him. And she left him to me not because I'm a powerful mage, but because I'm not. Because I might not make the same mistakes.
No pressure or anything. I grab the mug beside me and warm it with a wisp of magic in my palms.
A knock at the front door makes me jump, sloshing tea onto the desk. I scramble to blot it with my sleeve, then shake myself, and hurry to answer.
There's a young woman on the doorstep, probably my age, bundled against the cold. She has the kind of face that suggests she laughs easily, though right now she looks worried.
"Miss Ashwood? Iris Ashwood?"
"That's me."
"Oh, thank the gods. I'm Thea Winters. I live in the village. I'm a healer." She holds out a hand, which I shake. Her grip is warm and firm. "I'm sorry to bother you so soon after your arrival, but we have a situation."
"A situation?"
"May I come in? It's rather complicated."
I step back, gesturing her inside. She stomps snow off her boots and looks around the entrance hall with barely concealed curiosity.
"I've never been inside," she admits. "Your grandmother was... private."
"That's one word for it." I lead her to the kitchen, which, to me, always feels like neutral ground. Plus, I need more tea. Hot tea. Would she judge me if I dump brandy into it? "What's this about?"
She settles at the kitchen table while I put the kettle back on. "Have you noticed anything unusual with your familiar bond?"
I freeze in the act of reaching for the tea tin. "Unusual how?"
"Weakness. Instability. A sense that it's... thinner than it should be?"
I turn to look at her. "Well. I can barely feel it. I thought that was just because it's new. The bond only activated last night."
Thea accepts the tea I offer with a grateful nod.
"Bonds all across the region are weakening.
It started about two months ago, gradual at first, but it's accelerating.
Mine with Ash, he's my familiar, wolf shifter,it used to feel solid as iron.
Now it's like spider silk. He says he feels untethered. "
"Is it dangerous?"
"We don't know yet. No one's died, nothing that dramatic.
But familiars are reporting feeling disconnected.
Mages are losing the ability to sense their familiars' locations, their emotional states.
Some of the commands don't... stick anymore.
" She wraps her hands around her mug. "The village wants to research it together.
Pool knowledge. Your grandmother was supposed to join us, before. .."
"Before she died."
"I'm sorry for your loss."
Am I sorry too? I'm still not sure. "What do you need from me?"