Istand outside Heidi's door for longer than I care to admit, my hand hovering inches from the wood. The bond churns between us like a living wound, and I can feel her distress bleeding through the connection—waves of nausea, exhaustion, and that bone-deep weariness that comes from fighting something stronger than yourself.
She's killing herself trying to resist this. We both are.
My fingers curl into a fist, and I have to resist the urge to tear the door from its hinges and demand she stop being so gods-damned stubborn. The protective instincts that rule every aspect of my relationship with Irida have somehow extended to include this maddening human woman, and the need to fix this, to make her better, claws at my chest like a caged beast.
But force won't work with Heidi. I've learned that much since we met. Push too hard, and she retreats further into herself, walls slamming down like fortress gates. She's spent her entire life fighting to maintain control over her own existence, and here I am—a walking reminder that some things are beyond her power to change.
"Dad?" Irida's voice drifts up from the main floor, bright with excitement. "Are we going to the festival soon? You promised we could go early!"
Noxalyth. I'd forgotten, somehow, that today marks the beginning of the winter solstice celebrations. The thought of navigating crowds and noise while the bond wreaks havoc on both our systems makes my jaw clench, but disappointing Irida isn't an option. She's been looking forward to this for weeks.
"Coming, little spark," I call back, though my eyes remain fixed on Heidi's door.
Maybe space is what she needs. The idea makes my stomach turn—every instinct I possess screams against putting more distance between us when the bond is already tearing us apart. But if staying close only makes her feel more trapped...
"Can we ask Heidi to come with us?" Irida's voice is closer now, and I turn to find her practically bouncing at the top of the stairs, dressed in her festival clothes—a deep burgundy dress that brings out the gold in her eyes, her dark curls twisted back with ribbons. "Please? She's never been to Noxalyth before, and I want to show her everything!"
The hope in my daughter's voice settles the matter. I've never been able to deny her anything, and I'm not about to start now. Even if the thought of watching Heidi struggle through a day of crowds and celebration while fighting the bond's effects makes something protective and dangerous rise in my chest.
"We can ask," I concede. "But if she's not feeling well..."
"She'll want to come!" Irida insists with the absolute certainty only children possess. "She promised she'd go with us last week!"
Right. The promise. I remember now—Heidi had been telling Irida about the festivals she’d been to, sparse and meager as they were, and my daughter had immediately demanded she experience a proper xaphan celebration. The way Heidi'sface had softened when she agreed, like the idea of sharing something joyful with Irida meant more than she wanted to admit...
I knock softly on her door. "Heidi? Irida and I are heading to the festival. She wants to know if you're still planning to join us."
Silence stretches long enough that I begin to worry she's unconscious. Then I hear movement—slow, careful steps that speak of someone moving despite significant discomfort.
When the door opens, my carefully controlled composure nearly cracks. She looks like death. Her skin has a grayish pallor that makes the gold flecks in her eyes seem dim, and there are dark circles under them that speak of sleepless nights. She's dressed in one of the gowns Thera insisted on having made for her—deep forest green that should complement her coloring but instead only emphasizes how unwell she looks.
"I promised Irida I'd go," she says before I can speak, her voice rougher than usual. "I'm not breaking a promise to a six-year-old because I'm feeling a little tired."
A little tired. I can see her exhaustion, her pain, and the effort it's taking her just to stand upright. My hands itch to reach for her, to pull her against my chest and somehow transfer my strength—the strength that I know is nowhere at the level it should be—to her failing body.
"Heidi—"
"I'm going." There's steel in her voice despite its weakness. "Don't try to talk me out of it."
Before I can argue, Irida appears at my elbow, practically vibrating with excitement.
"Heidi! You look so pretty! Are you ready? Can we go now? I want to show you the fire dancers and the blessing circles and the candy makers and?—"
"Breathe, little spark," I murmur, placing a steadying hand on my daughter's shoulder. But seeing the genuine smile thatcrosses Heidi's face as she looks at Irida—tired but real—makes something in my chest loosen slightly.
"I'm ready," Heidi tells her. "Lead the way."
The walk to the festival grounds takes longer than usual. I keep our pace deliberately slow, using Irida's tendency to stop and examine every interesting sight as an excuse to give Heidi frequent chances to rest. She doesn't complain, but I can feel the bond's feedback—the way her energy flags with each step, how the noise and crowds make her head pound.
It’s been odd how the bond has grown strong enough to give me more insight to how she’s feeling. But also…comforting in a way.
Still, watching her experience Noxalyth through Irida's eyes provides moments of genuine pleasure that cut through the concern. My daughter is an excellent guide, chattering excitedly about every tradition, every sight and sound and smell that makes the daytime festivities special.
I'm certain that Heidi knows about Noxalyth. She lives in New Solas, after all. But Heidi lets her prattle on.
"Those are blessing fires," Irida explains as we pass a circle of Nashai healers tending flames that burn in impossible colors. "People throw in notes asking Solis for good things in the coming year. And over there—" She tugs on Heidi's hand, pointing toward a group of performers breathing streams of gold and crimson fire into the air. "Fire dancers! Dad used to be able to do that, but now he says he's too old."
"I never said I was too old," I correct. "I said it was undignified."
