He straightened. “I can’t help her.”
For a moment Thessa thought she had misheard. Heat surged to her face, then drained, leaving her cold.
Their mother blinked. “What do you mean?”
“I’m sorry,” he admitted. “I can’t.”
“You haven’t even looked—” Joren began, but her Thessa was already moving, voice rising.
“You barely touched her,” she snapped. “You said you were trained—we brought coins!”
“I know what I see.”
He backed away from the bed like it had teeth.
Thessa walked into his path. “Please,” she begged. “You have to help her. We’ve done everything. We boiled sage, we tried the blessed water, we prayed. Just—just do something—”
Joren stepped in. “We can pay more. Just tell us what’s wrong.”
The healer shook his head, fast and shallow.
“She’s not sick,” he explained. “She’s... marked.”
Thessa’s stomach dropped; her fingers went numb around the edge of the cot.
“She’snine,” her mother growled. “She’s my daughter. Don’t you dare say that—”
“I won’t touch her,” he protested, stepping toward the door. “Not for ten times what you gave me. Not for all the gods.”
“Don’t go—” Thessa grabbed his sleeve. “Don’t you fucking leave us like this—”
He tore his arm free, stumbling back a step. “If you’re smart, you’ll lock the door and pray she doesn’t start dreaming.”
With that he turned and fled, door slamming shut.
Her mother collapsed onto the bench by the hearth, elbows on her knees, hands covering her face. Her brother stood frozen, one hand raised like he meant to catch the door and missed.
Thessa stormed out into the morning air. The world outside felt wrong. The smell of smoke from a nearby chimney clung heavy to the mist, undercut by the acrid tang of piss from the alley. Somewhere down the street, a dog barked.
Her legs shook beneath her. She braced against the stone, breath ragged, but the trembling wouldn’t stop. She was so thin, so hollowed out, she could barely stand. Work was impossible. She couldn’t go back, couldn’t sit among the others with her hands steady and her mind empty. She had no idea what to do next.
Marked.
What did that even mean?
Marked like Thessa?
No. That wasn’t possible. Sera hadn’t been taken anywhere. She’d been home. Every day. On that cot. Eating barley and broth.
Thessa scrubbed her hands over her face, hard enough to sting.
It wasn’t just a fever. That much was clear.
But what the hell was it?
She thought of the physician’s expression—how his eyes had slid over Sera, as if she were something contagious. As if she were already lost. As if calling for help had been a foolish mistake.
Thessa pressed her forehead against the cold stone of the building, jaw clenched.
