He's exhausted. Not just physically, though the illness is devouring him from the inside out. He's tired of fighting, of pretending, of watching me scramble for solutions that don't exist.
"I've been writing my will." He gestures to the desk in the corner, where parchment lies scattered. Fresh ink gleams in the lamplight. "Finally getting my affairs in order."
My throat closes. "Daryn?—"
"Someone needs to care for Amisra when I'm gone." His voice cracks on her name. "Someone who'll love her like I do. Protect her. Make sure she grows up knowing she's cherished."
"Of course I'll?—"
"Not just you." He fixes me with those fading eyes, and I see the calculation there. The planning. "Keira too. She loves my daughter like her own already. I want her to stay. Want you to make sure she stays."
Understanding crashes over me. "You've been pushing us together."
"Obviously." A ghost of his old grin. "You think I'm blind? You've been pining after her since the moment she walked through my door, and she's been fighting herself just as hard. Someone had to give you both permission."
"So you played matchmaker while dying." The words come out sharper than I intend, edged with something that might be anger or grief or both.
"I played father." Correction, soft but unyielding. "Because my daughter deserves parents who love each other, who'll build a life together. Not just a guardian and a nanny coexisting out of obligation."
The presumption of it should irritate me. The manipulation, the scheming. But looking at him now—silver hair dull against white pillows, chest rising and falling with labored breaths—I can only feel the weight of what he's asking.
What he's trusting me with.
"You really think you're that close?" My voice breaks on the question.
"I know I am." No hesitation. "Weeks, maybe. A month if the Mother's feeling generous."
A month. Four weeks. Thirty days.
Not enough time. Will never be enough time.
"I can't—" The words jam in my throat. "Daryn, you're my best friend. My brother. I can't just?—"
"Yes, you can." He reaches out, hand trembling, and I clasp it between both of mine. His fingers are cold, grip weak. "Youcan because you have to. Because Amisra needs you whole, not shattered by grief. And you can't be whole if you're still fighting the inevitable."
Tears burn behind my eyes. I blink them back viciously, refusing to let them fall. "This isn't fair."
"No." Agreement, simple and devastating. "It's not. But very little in this life is fair, and you know that better than most."
He's right. Of course he's right. I've seen enough death, enough suffering, to know the universe doesn't give a fuck about fair.
But this is different. This is Daryn.
"Promise me." His grip tightens fractionally. "Promise you'll take care of them. Both of them. That you'll love Keira the way she deserves and raise Amisra to know her father wasn't a coward."
"You're not?—"
"Promise me, Val."
The words feel like shackles and freedom all at once. A burden I'll carry for the rest of my life, and the greatest honor he could give me.
"I promise." My voice sounds wrecked even to my own ears. "I'll protect them. Love them. Keep them safe."
"Good." He sags back against the pillows, relief washing over his face. "Good. Now stop looking so tragic and tell me she's not just something you are working out of your system. Tell me it was life-changing."
A laugh punches out of me, half-sob. "You're dying and you want to discuss?—"
"I'm dying, which means I can ask whatever I want." That grin again, weaker but still there. "Besides, I've been living vicariously through you for months. Least you can do is throw me some details."
