Chapter 22 The First Fracture #2
"You survived Frostvein."
The words caught Eira off guard, not because of what they meant, but because of how casually they were spoken, as though surviving such a place were an achievement worth acknowledging.
Perhaps it was.
Maren turned her gaze back toward the harbor.
"Silverwake likes collecting strays."
Eira raised an eyebrow.
"Is that what I am?"
"At the moment?" The captain considered the question briefly before adding, "Possibly."
"And what happens to them?"
A slow smile appeared on Maren's face.
"They usually discover they're much more dangerous than everyone assumed."
For reasons Eira couldn't fully explain, she found that answer deeply satisfying.
The dresses arrived two days later.
Not just one dress, but five.
Eira stared at them in mild horror while the seamstress looked delighted, the servants looked delighted, and even the housekeeper seemed pleased.
Eira alone remained unconvinced.
"You make it sound like a military operation."
"It is a military operation," the seamstress replied.
The servants immediately nodded in agreement.
Traitors.
One by one, the garments emerged from their protective wrappings: deep blue wool, soft grey fabric, dark green trimmed with silver stitching, and a lighter dress the color of sea glass.
There was not a single piece of white fabric among them.
The realization caught her unexpectedly, and for several moments she simply stood there looking at the dresses.
The seamstress noticed.
"You don't like them?"
"No."
The woman visibly deflated.
Eira regretted the answer immediately.
"I mean—"
She reached toward the dark green dress.
"I like them."
The seamstress relaxed at once.
"Oh, good."
"You sounded as though I had murdered someone."
"I spent three nights sewing."
"Ah."
"Exactly."
An hour later, Eira found herself standing before a mirror while two servants circled her like particularly determined vultures.
The green dress fit perfectly, skimming her figure without restricting movement, and the sleeves actually allowed her to lift her arms, which felt like a remarkable innovation.
One servant adjusted a fold near her shoulder while the other stepped back and tilted her head.
"Oh."
Eira narrowed her eyes.
"What?"
The servant smiled.
"It suits you."
The answer felt strangely embarrassing.
Before she could respond, the younger servant disappeared and returned carrying a small wooden box.
"We almost forgot."
The lid opened to reveal two combs carved from pale shell, their surfaces shimmering faintly in the afternoon light.
Eira recognized the material immediately.
The sea.
The servant carefully lifted one of the combs.
"These came from the western coast."
The second servant moved behind her.
"May I?"
Eira nodded.
The comb slid gently into her hair, followed by the second.
When the servant stepped away, silence settled over the room.
Eira looked up.
For a moment, she barely recognized the woman staring back at her.
The silver-white of her hair seemed brighter against the dark green fabric, and her eyes appeared clearer, warmer, and somehow older—not because she looked older, but because she looked more like herself.
The thought arrived unexpectedly and refused to leave.
The younger servant clasped her hands together.
"Oh, that's unfair."
"What is?"
"You have no right looking that beautiful."
Eira laughed, and it was a genuine laugh.
The room felt lighter than it had in days, perhaps even weeks.
She turned slightly toward the mirror, studying the unfamiliar reflection: the shell combs, the green fabric, and the woman she might have become if someone had asked what she wanted years ago.
The familiar awareness of Soren flickered unexpectedly.
Eira frowned.
At first she thought it was nothing more than a passing sensation, the familiar awareness of Soren that had become as natural as her own breathing. Even separated by mountains and distance, she could still feel him sometimes—a steady presence beneath everything else, distant but unmistakably there.
Then something answered.
The sensation struck so abruptly that her hand tightened against the edge of the dressing table.
For a single disorienting moment, she felt two directions at once—not two emotions or two thoughts, but two distinct pulls, one familiar and one impossible.
The room blurred around her as the sensation deepened.
It felt as though something beneath the surface of her skin had suddenly awakened, stretching between opposite points and pulling taut.
Neither presence overwhelmed the other or disappeared; they simply existed together in a way that felt profoundly wrong.
A chill ran through her as she realized that, for one impossible heartbeat, she could no longer distinguish where one ended and the other began.
The world lurched.
Pain exploded through her chest.
Eira sucked in a sharp breath as heat flared beneath her skin, not from Soren's mark, but from the older one—the mark buried beneath years of obedience, years of fear, and everything Frostvein had taught her to become.
The pain came again, deeper this time, and beneath it she felt something else.
Not a voice.
Not words.
Only the unmistakable certainty of attention.
It felt as though something far away had suddenly become aware of her existence, as though a hand had reached across an impossible distance, touched a forgotten thread, and discovered that it still remained intact.
"Eira?"
The voice sounded distant.
The room tilted violently.
The two sensations collided again, overlapping for a brief, unbearable instant before the pain surged through her body so fiercely that her knees gave way beneath her.
Voices erupted around her as someone caught her before she struck the floor completely. One of the shell combs slipped from her hair and shattered against the stone, but Eira barely noticed.
When Eira opened her eyes again, evening light filled the room. Everything felt distant, muted, and heavy.
The pounding pain behind her eyes had faded, leaving only exhaustion in its place. For several moments she simply stared at the ceiling, trying to remember what had happened.
The dresses, the mirror, the shell combs, and then the pain. The memory returned all at once, and Eira inhaled sharply.
Movement beside the bed immediately drew her attention.
Leander sat in a chair near the window with an unopened book resting in his hands, and the moment he noticed she was awake, he set it aside.
"Good."
His voice was calm, perhaps a little too calm.
"How long?"
"A few hours."
Eira frowned.
"I fainted."
"Briefly."
The answer sounded suspiciously diplomatic.
She attempted to sit upright and immediately regretted it when the room shifted around her.
Leander was beside her before she could argue.
"Slowly."
"I hate when people say that."
"I know."
That somehow made it worse.
A knock sounded at the door, and an older woman entered without waiting for permission.
She had silver hair, sharp eyes, and practical clothing, giving her the appearance of someone entirely unimpressed by both illness and stupidity.
Eira immediately disliked how familiar that expression felt.
The woman approached the bed.
"How are you feeling?"
"Tired."
"Good."
Eira blinked.
The woman nodded.
"If you said anything else, I'd assume you were lying."
Leander looked irritatingly unsurprised.
The woman spent several minutes examining her, checking her pulse, asking questions, and studying the old mark beneath her collarbone.
The entire process felt deeply invasive.
Eventually the healer stepped back, and for the first time genuine concern crossed her features.
It was not panic, merely concern, which somehow felt worse.
"You need rest."
Eira opened her mouth, but the healer raised a finger.
"No. Rest."
Apparently Silverwake produced an unusual number of people who believed they could issue orders.
The healer turned toward Leander.
"A word."
Leander nodded, and together they crossed toward the far side of the room.
Eira closed her eyes, partly because she was exhausted and partly because neither of them seemed inclined to continue the conversation in front of her.
The voices dropped lower, and she caught only fragments.
"...how long?"
A pause followed before the healer answered.
"I don't know."
Silence lingered for a moment before another phrase reached her.
"The old mark is active."
The words drifted through the haze while Eira remained motionless. The old mark. Her father's mark.
Another pause followed.
"And the other one?"
This time the silence stretched long enough to become unsettling. When the healer finally answered, her voice sounded grim.
"Stronger."
Something tightened in Eira's chest.
The conversation continued, but it was too quiet and too distant for her to follow clearly. Then another question reached her.
"Can they interfere with one another?"
It was Leander.
The healer did not answer immediately, and when she finally spoke, each word seemed carefully chosen.
"They already are."
Silence followed, lingering long enough that Eira almost convinced herself she had imagined it.
Then came another question.
"Does she know?"
The healer again.
"No."
Leander's answer came immediately.
"She should."
"Not yet."
The exhaustion dragging at her thoughts suddenly felt much less important as her heart began beating faster.
Not yet. Not yet what?
Another stretch of silence followed before the healer spoke again, this time so quietly that Eira nearly missed it.
"If my suspicions are correct..."
A brief pause followed.
"...the man who placed the second mark is in far greater danger than she is."
Everything inside Eira seemed to stop. For a moment she thought she had misunderstood. The second mark.
Soren.
The room fell silent.
When Leander finally answered, his voice carried none of its usual humor or ease, only certainty.
"I know."