Locked from the Inside
“My name is Morena,” the woman said, her voice unsteady. “Morena Silvertree. Alisse was my older sister.” She took a step forward, her hands reaching out to touch Lark’s face. “You look so much like her.”
Lark stepped back.
The movement was instinctive, a reaction born of years spent trusting no one and nothing.
This woman claimed to be her aunt, claimed to have known her mother, but Lark had learned long ago that claims meant little.
People lied. People wore faces that were not their own and spoke words designed to manipulate and deceive.
But right now, none of it mattered.
“Rion,” she said, cutting through whatever Morena had been about to say. “You were called here to help him. Can you?”
Morena blinked, clearly thrown by the abrupt shift. At first, she looked as though she might press the issue, might insist on the conversation they both knew was coming. Then her gaze moved past Lark to the bed where Rion lay, and her expression changed as the healer took precedence over the aunt.
“Let me examine him,” she said.
She crossed to the bed and sat in the chair the younger healer had vacated. Her hands moved with expertise, checking Rion’s pulse, lifting his eyelid, pressing gently against various points on his body. Rion stirred but did not wake, his breathing remaining slow and even.
Morena’s hands hovered over his chest, and Lark felt a subtle pulse of aetheria, different from the flow of her own magic. This was gentler, softer, like sunlight filtering through leaves. It reminded her of her mother’s healing touch, but she pushed that thought away before it could take root.
After several minutes, Morena sat back with a troubled expression.
“The physical injuries will heal,” she said. “The burns, the ribs, even the eye socket with proper care. He’s strong, and his body wants to recover.” She paused. “But the magic is another matter.”
“What’s wrong with it?” Pippa asked. She had moved to stand at the foot of Rion’s bed, her arms wrapped around herself.
“There is nothing wrong with it, exactly. It’s still there.
I can feel it, bright and strong, the signature of a powerful fire witch.
” Morena’s brow furrowed. “But there’s a barrier between him and aetheria.
It’s not physical damage. It’s more like …
” She searched for the right words. “Like a door that’s been locked from the inside. ”
“Can you unlock it?” Lark asked.
“Not directly. This kind of barrier is usually self-imposed. A defense mechanism. The mind protecting itself from things too painful to face.” Morena looked at Rion’s face, at the bandages covering the ruin of his left eye.
“Whatever was done to him, his magic retreated to escape it. It won’t return until he feels safe enough to let it. ”
“So there’s nothing you can do.”
“I didn’t say that. We can help his body heal and create conditions that encourage his mind to heal as well. Rest, safety, time, patience.” Morena’s gaze returned to Lark. “These things can’t be rushed. He needs weeks, perhaps turns, before he’ll be ready to reach for his magic again.”
Weeks. Turns. Lark thought of the Ashen Enclave’s army, of Duskwood’s plans, of the war that was surely coming. They did not have weeks or turns. They barely had days.
But looking at Rion’s pale face, at the fragile rise and fall of his chest, she knew there was no alternative. They had come to Springhope to find safety, and safety was what he needed.
“What about the rest of us?” Darian asked. “Can we stay with him? Keep watch?”
“Of course. Stay as long as you like.” Morena rose from the chair and smoothed her healer’s robes. “He should sleep through the night. The medicines I’ve given him will ensure that.” She looked at Lark. “In the meantime, perhaps you and I could speak privately. There is much we need to discuss.”
Lark hesitated. She didn’t want to leave Rion, didn’t want to let him out of her sight even now that they had reached relative safety. But she also knew that the conversation with Morena could not be avoided forever, and having it here, in front of the others, felt somehow improper.
“Go,” Pippa said quietly. “We’ll stay with him. If anything changes, I’ll send for you immediately.”
Lark nodded once. Then she followed Morena out of the room and into the corridor beyond.
They walked in silence through the healing halls, past doors that stood open to reveal empty beds and rooms filled with the scent of herbs.
Morena led her to a small chamber at the end of the corridor, a space that seemed to serve as both office and sitting room.
Shelves lined the walls, filled with jars, bottles and bound journals.
A fire burned low in a hearth set into the stone, and two chairs faced each other before it.
Morena gestured for Lark to sit. She did, though she kept her back straight and her hands in her lap, the posture of someone ready to move at a moment’s notice.
“Tea?” Morena asked.
“No, thank you.”
Morena poured herself a cup from the pot that sat warming near the fire, then settled into the chair across from Lark. Neither of them spoke. The fire crackled between them, filling the silence with small sounds.
“You don’t trust me,” Morena said finally.
“I don’t know you.”
“I’m your aunt. Your mother’s sister. We share blood.”
“You’re a stranger who claims to be those things.” Lark kept her voice even. “I’ve met many strangers who claimed many things over the years. Most of them were lying.”
Morena absorbed this without visible reaction. “That’s fair. You’ve survived for a long time in a dangerous world. Suspicion has probably saved your life more than once.” She took a sip of her tea. “What would it take to convince you?”
“Time. Proof. Answers to questions only my mother’s sister would know.”
“Then ask.”
Lark considered. There were a hundred things she could ask, details about their childhood and the life they had lived in Wintersorrow before everything changed. But those questions felt too raw, too personal to ask someone she had just met. They would keep.
“Why are you here?” she asked instead. “In Springhope. Why did you leave Wintersorrow?”
Pain surfaced in Morena’s eyes. “Because your mother told me to.”
“When?”
“Thirty-seven years ago. Before you were born.” Morena set down her teacup and folded her hands in her lap. “Alisse came to me in the night. She had run from Duskwood and had just arrived home.” Her voice caught.
Lark went still. This was not the story of a woman who had fled.
“She was terrified,” Morena continued. “More frightened than I had ever seen her. She told me that something terrible was going to happen, that there were people who wanted to destroy Ianorrah and everyone in it. She told me I had to leave immediately, had to go somewhere safe, somewhere they would never think to look for me.”
“Why you specifically?”
Morena was silent, and when she spoke again, her voice was careful. “Because of what I can do. What we can do. Our family’s gift.”
Lark said nothing.
“You know what I’m talking about,” Morena said quietly. “I can see it on your face. You have it too, don’t you? The ability to create matter from aetheria. Alisse had it. Our mother had it. And you.”
This was exactly the sort of information that could get her killed if the wrong people learned of it.
Morena seemed to understand. She nodded slowly and did not press.
“Did she tell you why?” Lark asked. “Why Wintersorrow was in danger?”
“Yes. She told me about her husband.”
Husband. That word connecting Lark’s mother to the man who had destroyed everything she loved.
“Theron Duskwood,” Lark said flatly.
Morena flinched at the name. “You know.”
“I know he married her and that she ran from him. I know he’s spent a lifetime hunting me, and yes, I know exactly why.”
The bitterness in her own voice surprised her. But she was tired of secrets, tired of dancing around the truth that had shaped her entire existence.
“He told you,” Morena said quietly.
“He found me in Autumncrown. Walked right into my life wearing a pleasant smile and speaking of family.” Lark’s hands curled into fists in her lap. “When I refused to go with him, he tried to take the city. When that failed, he took Rion instead. Used him as bait to draw me out.”
Morena’s face had gone pale. “He attacked an entire enclave?”
“He would destroy the world to get what he wants. And what he wants is me.” Lark met her aunt’s eyes.
“He wants me to build him new obelisks. Ones that he controls. It took little to figure out that someone with our gift could create more of them. A network of power spanning all of Ianorrah, with him at its center. Every witch, every drop of magic flowing through pillars of his own making.”
“That’s what Alisse told me.” Morena’s voice was barely above a whisper. “That night. She said he wanted to use her to reshape the very foundations of magic itself. She said that she would die before she let him.”
“She did die. Along with everyone else in Wintersorrow.”
The words hung between them, heavy with decades of grief.
“I didn’t know,” Morena said. “Not for many turns. I was here in Springhope when the news finally reached the mountains. The massacre at Wintersorrow. Everyone dead. No survivors.” Tears welled up in her eyes.
“For twenty-five years, I believed I was the last. The last of our family. The last person alive who remembered Alisse’s face, her voice, the way she laughed when she thought no one was listening. ”
“There was one survivor.”
“I know that now.” Morena wiped at her cheeks with trembling fingers. “You just walked into my healing hall, wearing her face like a ghost. Wearing the face of the baby I held, the niece I thought I had lost before I ever had the chance to know her.”
Lark did not know what to do with the grief in Morena’s voice. It felt genuine, but she had been fooled by genuine-seeming things before. She had worn her suspicion like armor for too long to shed it at the first sign of emotion.
“We came here because it was the only safe place we could reach,” she said, steering the conversation back to practical matters.
“Springhope’s isolation, the mountain paths, the terrain that makes large-scale military movement impossible.
And also because Councilor Thornwood thought the council here might be willing to help.
To join the fight against what’s coming. ”
Morena let out a long breath, visibly collecting herself. “The council will not be easily convinced. Springhope has remained neutral in every conflict for generations. It’s how we’ve survived. Isolation and neutrality.”
“Neutrality won’t protect you from Duskwood. He wants to control Ianorrah. Every enclave. Including this one.” Lark paused. “He will not stop. Ever. Not until he has me or I’m dead.”
“You sound very certain of that.”
“I watched him try to raze a city to capture me. I pulled Rion out of a torture cell where Duskwood’s people had been working on him for days, trying to break him, using him as bait that would bring me running.” Lark’s voice was flat, cold. “I am certain.”
They sat in silence as the fire crackled and popped, sending shadows dancing across the walls. Outside, the sounds of the city at night drifted through the window, distant voices and the ever-present bleating of goats.
“You should stay with me,” Morena said finally. “You and your companions. My home has room enough for all of you, and it would be more comfortable than the guesthouse. More private.”
“No.”
The refusal came out harsher than Lark had intended. She saw the flash of hurt in Morena’s eyes and forced herself to soften her tone.
“Not yet. I appreciate the offer, but I’m not ready for that. I need time to process all of this. And I want to be close to Rion.”
“Of course. Your husband.”
“No,” Lark answered quickly. Were her feelings that obvious, even to a complete stranger? “No. He’s …” She didn’t know how to finish the sentence.
Morena nodded slowly. “I understand. Well, the offer stands whenever you’re ready.
” She rose from her chair and moved to a small desk near the window, retrieving a piece of parchment and a quill.
“This is where I live. Fourth terrace, near the western greenhouses. If you need anything, day or night, you can find me there.”
She handed the parchment to Lark, who took it and tucked it into her dress pocket without looking at it.
“I should get back,” Lark said, rising.
“Of course.” Morena walked her to the door. “I’ll check on Rion in the morning. If his condition changes before then, send for me immediately.”
Lark nodded and turned to go. She was halfway down the corridor when Morena’s voice stopped her.
“Larkindel.”
She turned back. Morena stood in the doorway, silhouetted by the firelight behind her, looking suddenly old and tired.
“I refused to leave when Alisse told me to. I told her I had to stay until you were born.” Morena said.
“You were so small and perfect, with those wisps of silver hair already showing. You wouldn’t stop crying, and Alisse was exhausted from the birth, so I walked you around the house for hours, singing the lullabies our mother used to sing to us.
You finally fell asleep against my shoulder just as the sun came up.
It was only then that I finally left.” Her voice trembled.
“I know you have no reason to believe me yet. But I have never forgotten you. Not for a single day in thirty-seven years.”
Lark didn’t know how to respond. So she simply nodded once and walked away, leaving her mother’s sister standing alone in the doorway behind her.