One Small Thing
Lark woke with a stiff neck and an ache in her lower back from too many hours spent dozing in a chair not designed for sleeping.
Muted morning light fell through the window, casting long shadows across the healing room.
She blinked, briefly disoriented, before the events of the previous day came rushing back. Springhope. The healing halls. Morena.
Rion.
She turned her attention to the bed. He lay as he had for most of the night, still and pale against the white linens, his breathing slow and even.
The bandages covering the left side of his face stood out starkly in the dim light, a reminder of everything that had been done to him. Everything she had failed to prevent.
She had watched him for hours after returning from her conversation with Morena. She had told herself she was keeping guard, that someone needed to stay alert in case his condition changed. But the truth was simpler. She had not wanted to be anywhere else.
So she had sat in the uncomfortable chair and watched him breathe and tried not to think about her aunt’s words. About the baby Morena had held. About the family she had never known she had.
Movement on the bed drew her attention. Rion’s hand twitched against the blanket. His breathing changed, becoming shallower, more rapid. His eye opened.
At first, he simply stared at the ceiling, confusion evident in the furrow of his brow.
Then his head turned, searching, and Lark realized with a sharp pang that he was compensating.
Learning to work with his diminished vision.
Finding her required more movement than it once would have, his remaining eye sweeping the room until it landed on her face.
His expression changed. Recognition, but more than that. Relief. Tenderness. His hand lifted from the blanket and moved toward her, an instinctive gesture, the reach of a man who had spent weeks finding excuses to touch her before everything fell apart.
Then he stopped. His hand hung in the air between them for a fraction of a heartbeat before falling back to his side. The warmth in his eye shuttered, the walls went up, and the Rion who had reached for her was hidden behind them.
But she had seen it. That moment before the retreat. It was a small thing to hold on to.
“Where am I?” His voice was rough, unused, but stronger than it had been on the mountain trails.
“Springhope. The healing halls.” Lark kept her own voice steady, neutral, giving him space. “We arrived yesterday evening.”
He absorbed this in silence. His eye moved around the room, processing the stone walls, the herbs hanging from the rafters, the low fire burning in the hearth.
“How long was I …” He trailed off, apparently uncertain how to finish the question.
“Unconscious? Most of the journey up the mountain. You woke a few times, but you weren’t lucid.” She paused. “The healers say you’ll recover. Your body, at least. The rest will take time.”
He nodded slowly, as though this confirmed what he already suspected. His hand drifted up to touch the bandages, his fingers tracing the edge of the cloth with a kind of detached curiosity. Exploring the new geography of his own face.
“Noctis.” The word came out sharp and sudden, cutting through whatever else he had been about to say. “Where is he?”
“Safe. At the guesthouse.” Lark saw some of the tension leave his shoulders and felt an answering looseness in herself.
Even now, shattered, guarded and barely present, he thought of his wolf.
The core of who he was remained intact beneath the damage.
“He wanted to stay with you, but the healers don’t allow animals in the sickrooms. Darian’s looking after him. ”
“Good.” Rion’s eye closed briefly. “That’s good.”
Silence settled between them, not comfortable but not hostile either.
Lark searched for something to say, some way to bridge the chasm that had opened up between them.
But every sentence that formed in her mind felt too heavy.
Too demanding. He needed space to heal, not pressure to be who he had been before.
So she said nothing, he said nothing, and they existed together in the quiet of the healing room while the morning light grew stronger outside the window.
The door opened softly. Pippa’s strawberry-blonde curls appeared first, followed by the rest of her, with Darian close behind. He carried a tray, steam rising from bowls and cups that smelled of bread and broth and healing herbs.
“You’re awake.” Pippa’s smile was bright, perhaps deliberately so. “How are you feeling?”
“Like I’ve been trampled by a horse,” Rion said. “Several horses. Large ones.”
It was such a normal thing to say, such an ordinary complaint, that Lark felt herself relax. Just a bit. He was still capable of this. Of dry humor and mild grumbling. Of being Rion.
“The healers said the broth would help.” Darian set his tray on the small table near the bed and settled into the chair on the opposite side from Lark. “Something about restoring strength and encouraging healing. I stopped listening after the first ten ingredients.”
“Darian has very strong opinions about herbal medicine,” Pippa added. “Specifically, that it tastes like pond water and works half as well.”
“It kept me alive on the mountain,” Rion said quietly, the humor fading from his voice. “I remember that much. Someone kept making me drink things.”
“That was Lark, mostly.” Pippa glanced at her. “She barely slept the whole way up. Made sure you took medicine every few hours, kept watch at night, carried half your weight when you couldn’t walk.”
Rion’s eye moved to Lark. She saw the question in it, the uncertainty. Perhaps even a moment of guilt.
“You would have done the same,” she said, turning away before he could respond.
Pippa caught her arm. “Speaking of not sleeping, you’ve been in that chair all night. You need to eat.” Her grip was gentle but insistent. “Come on. Darian can keep Rion company for a while.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re exhausted. You haven’t eaten since yesterday, and you’ll be no good to anyone if you collapse.” Pippa tugged at her arm. “There’s a terrace nearby with an excellent view and food that actually has flavor. I checked.”
Lark hesitated. She looked at Rion, searching for some sign of what he wanted. An invitation to stay. A dismissal. Anything.
He gave her nothing. He just watched her with that one green eye, his expression unreadable, distant and unknowable.
She went.
The terrace was everything Pippa had promised.
It jutted out from the mountainside three levels above the healing halls, offering a sweeping view of Springhope’s streets and the peaks beyond.
The morning sun had burned away the early mist, leaving the air crisp, clear, and smelling faintly of the greenhouses that dotted the slopes above.
Pippa had procured food from somewhere. Bread still warm from the oven, sweet jams, and a pot of tea that steamed gently in the cool air. She arranged it all on the low wall that served as a railing and gestured for Lark to sit.
Lark sat. She accepted the cup of tea Pippa pressed into her hands, but she didn't reach for the food.
“You didn’t say a word last night.” Pippa settled beside her, close enough that their shoulders touched. “You came back from talking to your aunt and sat in that chair and stared at nothing until you fell asleep. So.” She paused. “Your aunt.”
Lark wrapped her hands around the warm cup and stared out at the mountains. “Morena. She fled Wintersorrow after I was born because my mother warned her that something terrible was coming.”
“And?”
“And she has the same gift I do. The same gift my mother had. She’s been hiding here for almost forty years, working as a healer, believing she was the last of our family.”
Pippa waited.
“She wants me to come and stay with her. At her home. She says there’s room for all of us.”
“And you said no.”
This was not a question. Pippa knew her well enough by now to predict that much.
“I said I needed time.” Lark took a sip of tea, letting the warmth spread through her. “To process. To decide what I believe.”
“What’s there to decide? Either she’s your aunt or she isn’t.”
“She’s a stranger who claims to be my aunt.”
Pippa was quiet. When she spoke again, her voice was gentler but no less direct. “She’s your family, Lark. Your only family member who isn’t actively trying to conquer the world. Duskwood shares your blood, too. Are you going to treat them the same way?”
“That’s not fair.”
“No, it’s not. None of this is fair.” Pippa turned to face her, curls catching the morning light. “But Morena isn’t Duskwood. She’s a healer who has spent years believing you were dead. And you’re pushing her away like she’s going to hurt you.”
Lark said nothing, looking down at the tea cooling in her hands.
“I’m not saying you have to trust her completely,” Pippa continued.
“I’m not saying you have to move into her house tomorrow and call her Auntie and pretend everything is wonderful.
But you could try. A little. You could let her in enough to find out who she actually is instead of assuming she’s another threat. ”
Lark looked up. “I don’t assume everyone is a threat.”
“You assume everyone is a potential threat until proven otherwise. Which is probably why you’re still alive.” Pippa’s voice softened. “But it’s also why you’re alone, Lark. Why you’ve been alone for most of your life.”
“I have you. And Darian. And … Noctis.” She stopped.
“And Rion,” Pippa finished for her. “Who is currently lying in a healing bed with his magic locked away because his mind is protecting itself from things too painful to face. That’s what Morena said, isn’t it? That his magic retreated. That it won’t come back until he feels safe enough to let it.”
Lark remembered. The door locked from the inside. The defense mechanism.
“You’ve been doing the same thing,” Pippa spoke quietly now, the words landing like stones in still water. “For most of your life. But you call it survival.”
“It is survival.”
“It was. When you were alone, hunted, and had no one to trust. When every person you met could be an enemy and every kindness could be a trap.” Pippa reached out and took one of Lark’s hands in hers, the touch comforting.
“But you’re not alone anymore. You have me, you have Darian, and you have Rion, even if he’s struggling right now.
And now you have an aunt who wants nothing more than to know you.
The walls that kept you alive are the same ones keeping you trapped. ”
The words hit harder than Lark expected. She felt them settle somewhere near her heart, in that hollow space she had learned to ignore years ago.
“You and Rion,” Pippa said. “You’re both so locked up inside yourselves. Both so afraid of being hurt that you won’t let anyone close enough to help you heal.” She squeezed Lark’s hand. “But his magic won’t come back until he opens that door. And your life won’t really start until you open yours.”
Lark stared at their joined hands. Pippa’s fingers were larger than hers, the nails bitten short, a smudge of grease on one knuckle. Evidence of a woman who built things, fixed things, and never stopped moving.
“I don’t know how,” Lark said. The words came out barely above a whisper.
“Neither does he. Neither does anyone really.” Pippa shifted closer, her shoulder pressing against Lark’s in a gesture of comfort.
“But you try anyway. One small thing at a time. You let someone in, just a little, and see what happens. You take a chance on something that might hurt you because the alternative is staying safe and empty forever.”
The morning sun was fully up now, warming the terrace, making the distant peaks glow like fire and ice. Somewhere below, people called to one another, and Springhope went about its business, oblivious to the two women sitting above it all.
“Please eat,” Pippa said eventually, releasing Lark’s hand and reaching for the bread. “And then we should go back. Darian is many things, but a skilled conversationalist with someone who doesn’t want to talk is not one of them.”
Lark ate. The bread was wonderful, the jam sweet on her tongue. She had not realized how hungry she was until she started, and once she started, she found it difficult to stop. Pippa watched her with a satisfied look on her face, refilling her tea when the cup ran dry.
They walked back through the winding streets of Springhope in comfortable silence. Past the shops, the terraced homes and the children playing in the narrow alleys. Past the everyday life of a place that did not know what was coming for it.
At the entrance to the healing halls, Pippa stopped.
“I’m going to check on Noctis,” she said. “Just to make sure he hasn’t destroyed the guesthouse in our absence. Will you be alright?”
Lark nodded.
Pippa studied her thoughtfully, then reached out and squeezed her arm. “One small thing at a time,” she said. “That’s all anyone can do.”
Then she was gone, disappearing into the maze of streets, and Lark was alone.
She didn't go inside immediately. Instead, she stood in the entrance, her hand drifting to her pocket, to the folded piece of parchment she had tucked there the evening before. Fourth terrace, near the western greenhouses.
She pulled it out and looked at it. Morena’s handwriting was neat and careful, the directions precise. It wouldn’t be difficult to find.
One small thing at a time.
Lark stood there for a long while, the parchment in her hands, the morning sun warm on her face, considering.