"You're so certain?"
"She barely looks at me." Except she does. I catch her watching sometimes, those hazel eyes tracking my movements before she glances away. Like she's memorizing something. Like she wants to understand. "And even if she did, I'm a dark elf. She's human. She has every reason not to trust anything I offer."
Daryn leans back again, that knowing smile playing at the corners of his mouth despite the exhaustion etched into his features. "I've seen her watch you, Val. When you're playing with Amisra. When you're working. When she forgets to keep her guard up." He pauses. "She looks at you the way someone looks at something they want but don't think they can have."
My pulse stutters. "You're imagining things."
"Am I?" His laugh is soft, rough around the edges. "You notice everything about her—how she takes her tea, what books she likes, the way she braids her hair differently when she's stressed. You think I haven't noticed you cataloguing every detail like you're studying for an exam? You've learned her entire life just from watching."
The accuracy of it steals my breath. He's right. I don't need Keira to tell me anything when I've been memorizing her for months. The way she tucks loose hair behind her ear when she's concentrating. How her laugh comes out surprised, like she doesn't expect joy. The specific tilt of her head when she's listening to Amisra's stories. The guardedness that never quite leaves her eyes, even during gentle moments.
I know her and I don't know her at all. And I want—desperately, dangerously—to bridge that distance.
"This shouldn't be our focus," I say instead, deflecting. "You're the priority. Amisra. Not my impossible attraction to a woman who barely tolerates my presence."
"Val." Daryn's voice goes serious, the teasing falling away. "There is no changing that I'm dying."
"Don't—"
"Listen to me." He leans forward, and I see the exhaustion behind his eyes. The acceptance. "I need to know that while you're caring for Amisra, someone is taking care of you. That you won't drown yourself in grief and duty and forget to live."
My throat closes. "You're not dying."
"I am." Simple. Certain. "We both know it. These remedies—" He gestures at the vial I'm still clutching. "They buy time. Maybe. But they won't save me. Nothing will."
"The alchemist in Ter said?—"
"The alchemist in Ter wants your money and to feel important." Not cruel. Just honest. "How many healers have you consulted now? How many remedies have failed? How many nights have you spent in my library searching for impossible cures?"
Too many. All of them. Every single night since he first told me, and countless hours before that.
I swallow hard against the burning in my chest. "I'm going to save you."
"No." His hand reaches across the desk, gripping my wrist with surprising strength. "You're going to let me die with dignity. You're going to care for my daughter. And you're going to let yourself be happy, even when I'm gone." His fingers tighten. "Promise me, Val. Promise you won't waste your life trying to fix the unfixable."
I can't promise that. Can't even pretend I could honor such a promise when everything in me screams to keep fighting. To findthe answer that must exist somewhere, in some dusty tome or distant land or forgotten spell. To refuse this surrender.
"I'll start you on the new remedy," I say instead, pulling my wrist free and standing. My voice comes out rougher than intended. "Tonight. We'll see results within a week if it's going to work."
Daryn watches me with eyes that see too much. "And if it doesn't?"
"Then we try something else." I uncork the vial, the sharp scent of herbs and magic filling the air. "I'm not giving up on you."
"I know." His smile is sad. Resigned. "That's what worries me."
I measure the dosage carefully—three drops in water, taken before sleep. The crimson liquid disperses like blood in water, swirling before disappearing. I hand him the glass and watch as he drinks, cataloguing every small detail. His breathing. The tremor in his hand. The way he has to brace himself to swallow.
The way he looks like a man who's already made peace with death while I'm still clawing desperately at life.
When the glass is empty, he sets it down and fixes me with that penetrating stare. "Go talk to her."
"Who?"
"Don't play dense. It's beneath you." He waves toward the door. "Keira. She's in the library with Amisra. Go. Let yourself want something besides my survival."
The suggestion makes anxiety spike through my chest. "She doesn't want to talk to me."
"Maybe not. Maybe you should keep trying anyway." He leans back, eyes already growing heavy. The remedy works fast, at least—sleep to help the body heal, even if healing feels increasingly theoretical. "Maybe I'm actually right about this and you just need to get her to let you in."
