Nothing can make this pain go away.
I try to sit up, desperate to escape the crushing weight of grief, but my limbs are stiff, rusted, like machinery left too long in the rain. My muscles don’t respond the way they should, protesting every movement. Everything aches with the deep, persistent pain of healing wounds.
“Micah. . .” My voice is barely a whisper, threaded with panic. “Ty. Trys. Rodyn. Are they okay?”
He pulls back just enough to meet my eyes, his own red-rimmed and exhausted. His expression is tired, worn thin by worry and sleepless nights. Grief sits in the lines of his face like it’s carved there with a sculptor’s careful hand.
“They’re safe. Still at HellNight Academy. Miss Margaret went back to watch over them.” He pauses, swallowing hard. “There was a battle at Callum Academy. . .Professor Bodin, he. . .he didn’t make it.”
The news hits me like a physical blow. Another loss to add to the growing pile of things I couldn’t protect, couldn’t save.
I try to push myself up again, urgency flooding my system. “We have to go. Micah. Oh God, Micah. We need to help?—”
He cups my cheek with one warm hand, thumb brushing away fresh tears. “Esme, you almost died. You were hardly breathing when we got here. You’ve been unconscious for a while.”
I freeze, the words hit me like ice water.
“How long?” I ask, already dreading the answer, my voice small and hollow.
“Almost a month.”
The weight of it crushes my chest, steals what little breath I’d managed to reclaim.
“But I feel?—”
“You feel fine because your body has healed. You were broken. Your magic, your light was gone.” His voice cracks, fractures along fault lines of barely contained emotion. “I thought I lost you. I thought. . .”
I can’t respond. There are no words for the grief wrapped around my bones like chains, for the emptiness where my magic used to live. I lean into him, let his arms hold the pieces of me together while I try to remember how to breathe, how to exist in a world where everything I was has been stripped away.
When the tears stop, or perhaps when I simply run out of them, I lift my eyes and finally look around, taking in my surroundings with the slow deliberation of someone learning to see again.
The room is circular, built of smooth river stone, the walls curved in places and artfully cracked in others, as if time and magic have shaped them with gentle hands. Thick woven tapestries flutter gently along the walls, even though I can’t feel a breeze—deep blues and greens that remind me of deep forest pools. Morning light spills through a small round window, casting dancing patterns across the floor. Shelves line one wall,stacked with glass jars filled with mysterious contents, bundles of dried herbs hanging like fragrant curtains, and glimmering stones that seem to pulse with their own inner light. Everything feels old and ancient, touched by magic that predates memory.
The furniture is handmade, each piece curved and polished with obvious care, built with both skill and magic woven into every joint. The bed is low to the ground, piled with mismatched quilts and cushions that smell of lavender and something older, something wilder. Something familiar in a way I can’t explain, like coming home to a place I’ve never been.
Like a memory from before I was born.
“Sam. . .” My voice is quiet, barely disturbing the peaceful atmosphere. “Where are we?”
He brushes a damp curl from my forehead, his smile soft and sad and full of hope I’m not sure I can share.
“We’re in Vanir,” he says gently. “With your mother.”
For a moment I can’t breathe. I try to speak, but the words tangle in my throat.
“My mother,” I finally manage, the words floating between us like smoke. “I wasn’t dreaming. She’s real.”
“She’s been by your side every day. Left to gather herbs about an hour ago,” Sam says threading his fingers through mine.
I remember the humming, the melody that wove through my nightmares like a silver thread. Not a dream after all.
The door creaks open. My eyes widen as they snap up to see her there.
My mother stands on the threshold, a basket of wildflowers and herbs balanced on her hip. Time has woven pure white through her once-silver curls, but her eyes, those sea-glass eyes I’d almost forgotten they’re the same. They widen like mine when they meet my own, tears gathering at the corners.
“Esmeralda,” she breathes, and the way she says my name breaks something loose inside me. “My girl.”
The basket drops, forgotten. She’s across the room in three heartbeats, her arms around me, her scent of earth and honey and something wild, cocoons me like a blanket I’d lost years ago.
