VALAS
The sun bleeds crimson across Pyrthos as I make my way through the winding streets toward Daryn's home. The air tastes of jasmine and coming twilight, and already the first glowmoth lanterns flicker to life along the cobblestones, their magical phosphorescence painting everything in shades of amber and violet.
Daryn's estate sits on the edge of the merchant district—modest by khuzuth standards, but tasteful. Flowering vines crawl up the stonework, and the garden is well-kept, if a little wild around the edges. That's always been Daryn's way. Order where it matters, chaos where it delights.
He's waiting for me on the terrace when I arrive, two crystal glasses already set out beside a familiar purple bottle. Amerinth. The good stuff, judging by the way the liquid catches the dying light.
"You're late," he says without turning around. "I was starting to think you'd found someone more interesting to spend your evening with."
"Not possible." I settle into the chair opposite him, studying his profile. He looks... tired. Shadows beneath his eyes thatweren't there a month ago, and something about the set of his shoulders suggests an effort being made, a weight being carried. "Though I did get cornered by Vessik from the Healer's Assembly. Apparently, my latest research on bone-knitting spells is 'reckless' and 'shows a fundamental disregard for proper magical theory.'"
Daryn huffs a laugh, finally meeting my gaze. His eyes are still that striking silver-blue, but they seem duller somehow. Tarnished. "High praise, coming from Vessik. The man wouldn't recognize innovation if it grew teeth and bit him."
"I suggested as much. He didn't appreciate it."
"I'm sure." Daryn pours the Amerinth with steady hands—thank the Thirteen for that, at least. He passes me a glass, and we clink them together in the old familiar way. The liquor burns sweet down my throat, warmth spreading through my chest like liquid starlight.
We sit in companionable silence for a while, watching as the day surrenders to evening. The magical nightlife of Pyrthos begins to wake around us—glowmoths dancing in lazy spirals, whisperwind chimes singing their crystalline songs from nearby rooftops, the distant thrum of enchantment that pulses through every dark elf city like a second heartbeat.
But something's wrong.
I can feel it in the spaces between Daryn's words, in the way he keeps refilling his glass before it's empty, in the white-knuckled grip he has on the armrest when he thinks I'm not looking. We've known each other since our training years. I've seen him bloody and triumphant after battle, drunk and laughing at dawn, quiet with grief when his parents passed. I know the shape of his silences.
This one has teeth.
"Daryn." I set down my glass. "What aren't you telling me?"
He doesn't answer immediately. Instead, he takes another long drink, eyes fixed on the horizon where the first stars are beginning to pierce through the violet sky. When he finally speaks, his voice is too light, too careful.
"Can't a friend simply enjoy another friend's company?"
"Yes. But you're gripping that chair like it's the only thing keeping you anchored to this plane of existence, and you've already gone through half the bottle." I lean forward, elbows on my knees. "Talk to me."
The laugh that escapes him is broken glass wrapped in silk. "You always were too observant for your own good."
"Occupational hazard of being a healer." I keep my tone gentle, but I don't look away. Won't let him deflect this time. "Daryn. Please."
He's quiet for so long I think he might refuse altogether. Then he drains his glass in one swift motion and sets it down with a sharp click of crystal against stone.
"I'm dying, Valas."
The words hang in the air between us, simple and devastating. For a moment, I can't process them. They don't make sense. Daryn is—he'sDaryn. Strong and vital and always there, constant as the moons. He can't be...
"What?" The word comes out rougher than I intend. "What do you mean you're—that's impossible. You're miou caste, you're in perfect health, I've seen you take down three opponents at once without breaking a sweat?—"
"It's not that kind of sickness." He finally meets my eyes, and what I see there stops my protest cold. Terror. Quiet and bone-deep and trying so hard to be brave. "It's magical. Something eating at me from the inside out. Started maybe six months ago—just fatigue at first, nothing concerning. Then the headaches came. The weakness. Now I can barely make it through a full daywithout feeling like I've run a marathon through the Causadurn Ridge."
My mind races, cataloging symptoms, running through every magical malady I've studied. "Have you seen a healer? Have they confirmed it? There are spells that can?—"
"I've seen five." His smile is bitter. "Including two from the royal medicae. They all say the same thing. It's a degradation curse, ancient and deeply woven. The kind that doesn't respond to counterspells or purification rites." He pours himself another measure of Amerinth with hands that aren't quite steady. "One of them estimated I have maybe a year. Probably less."
The world tilts sideways.
No. No, this isn't—it can't be real. Daryn is thirty-six years old. We have centuries ahead of us. We're supposed to grow old together, watch Amisra grow up, drink too much Amerinth on solstice nights and argue about magical theory and?—
"Amisra." The name comes out strangled. "Fuck, Daryn, she's only four."
"I know." His voice cracks. "I know. That's—that's what terrifies me most. Not the dying, not really. I've made my peace with mortality, or I'm trying to. But Amisra..." He scrubs a hand over his face. "She needs someone. Someone who'll protect her, who'll love her the way she deserves. The way I won't be here to do."
