Never his name, except in the most clinical context. Never a hint that he's a person.
My tea sits forgotten as I keep reading, something cold settling in my stomach.
*The familiar bond requires constant reinforcement. Any weakness in the master's will results in degradation. I have maintained perfect control for 47 years.*
*Today Cadeon hesitated before carrying out an order. Unacceptable. I have increased the compulsion accordingly. He will not hesitate again.*
"Oh, Grandmother," I whisper to the empty room. "What did you do to him?"
I keep flipping pages, watching her chronicle decades of his service with the emotional investment of someone documenting statistics.
Then, near the end, the handwriting changes.
The entries are still dated, but the ink is darker and fresher. The writing less steady. And in the margins, there are notes.
*He hasn't spoken voluntarily in months. I ask him questions; he answers in single words. When did I stop noticing?*
*I commanded him to rest today. He stood in the corner of his room for six hours, staring at nothing. I think he's forgotten how to rest. How to do anything I haven't explicitly ordered.*
*Hollow. I made him hollow. What have I done?*
The last entry is dated three weeks ago.
*I am dying. The healers say weeks, perhaps a month. I have left him to Iris. Perhaps she can do what I failed to do. Perhaps she can remind him what it is to be something other than a weapon.*
*I hope she's stronger than I was. And kinder.*
I have to set the journal down because my hands are shaking and my eyes burn. I blink back the tears threatening.
She knew. At the end, she knew what she'd done to him. And she left him to me not because I'm a powerful mage, but because I'mnot. Because I might not make the same mistakes.
No pressure or anything. I grab the mug beside me and warm it with a wisp of magic in my palms.
A knock at the front door makes me jump, sloshing tea onto the desk. I scramble to blot it with my sleeve, then shake myself, and hurry to answer.
There's a young woman on the doorstep, probably my age, bundled against the cold. She has the kind of face that suggests she laughs easily, though right now she looks worried.
"Miss Ashwood? Iris Ashwood?"
"That's me."
"Oh, thank the gods. I'm Thea Winters. I live in the village. I'm a healer." She holds out a hand, which I shake. Her grip is warm and firm. "I'm sorry to bother you so soon after your arrival, but we have a situation."
"A situation?"
"May I come in? It's rather complicated."
I step back, gesturing her inside. She stomps snow off her boots and looks around the entrance hall with barely concealed curiosity.
"I've never been inside," she admits. "Your grandmother was... private."
"That's one word for it." I lead her to the kitchen, which, to me, always feels like neutral ground. Plus, I need more tea. Hot tea. Would she judge me if I dump brandy into it? "What's this about?"
She settles at the kitchen table while I put the kettle back on. "Have you noticed anything unusual with your familiar bond?"
I freeze in the act of reaching for the tea tin. "Unusual how?"
"Weakness. Instability. A sense that it's... thinner than it should be?"
