“Do youwantto get drinks with him?” Serafina ducked into the ramshacklebuilding, nodding to the females already lined up waiting for them, many of them clutching heavy bellies.
“Maybe.” Araya had too much fae blood to lie to Serafina—no matter how badly she wanted to, the denial stuck in her throat. “For old time’s sake.”
Serafina made a sound somewhere between a scoff and a snort, but whatever sharp retort she’d been ready to unleash died when one of the waiting females doubled over, a rattling cough overtaking her thin frame. She clutched her swollen stomach, her breath coming in sharp gasps.
Serafina stopped instantly, her irritation evaporating as she slid an arm around the female’s shoulders and rubbed slow circles on her back until the spell passed.
Araya slipped past them and ducked into the clinic, blinking hard. She blamed the burn in her eyes on the harsh soap the Healers used to scrub everything down. The astringent tang clung to the air, mingling with the sour stench of damp wood and sweat.
But it wasn’t the soap.
It was the line of females, hollow-eyed and desperate for whatever reprieve their wombs could buy them. If they delivered healthy children, they would earn the chance to move to a better district—a safer one, further from the shadowed mists that crept in from the Obsidian Shore. Ravonfar was a pit, one of the grimy corners of Aetheris where fae survived by only the narrowest of margins.
If not for Serafina, she would have ended up here when Jaxon left. And she still might, if the Arcanum declined her waiver and restricted her movements.
Araya cast a quick glance over the clinic, scanning the stained privacy screens and sagging cots to ensure everything was in place before taking her place at the wobbly desk by the door. She checked each female in, flipping quickly through their papers and recording the relevant information for the Arcanum’s records.
Every one of them carried marks of their fae heritage, just like she did. Hair that was too bright or too dark, eyes that gleamed withan inhuman hue in the dim light, ears that were either delicately pointed or scarred. Araya avoided looking too closely at any of the fae with clipped ears, unwilling to recognize anyone from her past.
“Araya, can you come here, please?” Serafina’s voice was calm, but Araya could see the tension that hid beneath her serene expression.
“She’s afraid to talk to me,” Serafina whispered as Araya ducked behind the screen, pulling it shut behind them. “Can you try?”
Araya nodded, her throat tight as she stared at the female huddled on the rickety cot, her body curled protectively around her swollen belly. Araya could see the marks of a life in the camps on her skin and body, the jagged edges of her ears not quite hidden by the fall of her black hair. She must have fought when they clipped them.
Araya knelt beside the cot, moving slowly in an effort not to startle her. She had enough nightmares of her own to guess at this female’s fear.
“Vira’thal,” she murmured, one of the few phrases she remembered of her native tongue that had nothing to do with magic.
The female’s head whipped up, her violet eyes wide. Araya stayed perfectly still, letting the female take in her silver eyes, the deep red hue of her hair and the way it darkened to violet, and—most telling of all—the jagged edges of her own ears.
Araya had fought too.
“Velgrim?” the female whispered, her voice so quiet that even Araya’s fae hearing struggled to catch it.
“Kaldrath,” Araya replied just as softly.Never speak too loudly—it was the first of many hard lessons all fae learned in the camps. Humans could hear much better than fae children realized.“What’s your name?”
“Eilwen,” the female murmured, her voice trembling. “I… I’m from Farhallow. But I heard…they said there was someone in Ravonfar who could help fae like me…if you knew who to ask.”
“She helps,” Araya said, glancing toward Serafina. The Healer couldn’t hear their muttered conversation, but watched with quietconcern. Araya knew her friend bent every rule she could, walking the knife’s edge between what was permitted and what was right. Clearly, word of her kindness had traveled.
“You can trust her,” Araya added. “She’s a quarter fae.”
Eilwen’s gaze darted between them, her fear almost tangible in the dim light. Slowly, she nodded, her hands twisting in her tattered shawl until her knuckles whitened.
“I didn’t report my pregnancy to the Arcanum,” she said loudly enough for Serafina to hear, her hushed words heavy with desperation. “The father… isn’t the human they matched me with.”
“Fae?” Serafina asked, her careful tone betraying no judgment.
Eilwen nodded, tears glimmering in her violet eyes. “He’s dead—he didn’t even know. I thought… I thought I could hide it, just until the baby was born.” Her voice cracked, breaking into a sob as she buried her face in her hands.
Serafina stilled, the dread that flashed over her face echoing the tightness in Araya’s chest. Araya had checked her in—that meant the pregnancy had to be recorded. And even if they left the father’s name blank, the babe’s fae bloodline would be obvious the moment it was born.
“Let’s just start with an exam,” Serafina said gently, stepping forward. “How far along do you think you are?”
“About seven months,” Eilwen whispered, trembling as Serafina helped her stretch out on the cot and lift her thin shirt to expose her swollen belly.
“Are you eating enough?” Serafina asked, her hands moving in careful, practiced motions along Eilwen’s abdomen. “Any pain? Cramps?”
