His name has become a prayer, a curse, a constant whisper beneath my thoughts. Every stolen moment in darkened hallways, every lingering touch when we pass Amisra between us, every heated glance across the dinner table. We haven't crossed that final threshold—haven't taken what we both desperately want—but gods, the wanting itself has become its own exquisite torment.
This morning he'd caught me in the hallway, backed me against cool stone, and kissed me until my knees went weak. His hands had stayed frustratingly respectful—one cupping my jaw, the other braced against the wall—but his mouth had made promises that left me aching.
"Tonight," he'd murmured against my lips. "After Amisra's asleep. Come to me."
I'd nodded, breathless, already counting the hours.
Now I'm heading toward the kitchen to check on lunch, my mind still replaying that kiss, when the sounds hit me wrong. Too much noise. Too much urgency.
Footsteps pounding. Voices rising in sharp bursts. The clatter of something—a tray maybe—hitting the floor.
I round the corner into the kitchen and freeze.
Chaos. Pure, frantic chaos.
The cook is wringing her hands, face pale. Two serving girls huddle near the hearth, whispering frantically. One of the footmen is yanking on his coat with shaking fingers.
"—need to contact a Priestess immediately?—"
"—what will happen to the house?—"
"—always knew this day would come but?—"
My heart drops straight through my stomach. "What's happened?"
They all turn to stare at me. The cook's eyes are wet.
"The master," she says, voice cracking. "He's collapsed. In his study. We sent for Healer Morthen but?—"
I don't wait to hear the rest.
My feet carry me through hallways that suddenly feel too long, too narrow. My pulse hammers in my ears. Not yet. Please, not yet. Amisra isn't ready. Valas isn't ready. Even I'm not?—
The study door stands open.
Daryn lies sprawled across the floor, papers scattered around him like fallen leaves. His silver hair spreads across dark wood, and even from here I can see the unnatural angle of his body, the way his limbs refuse to cooperate.
"Daryn." His name tears from my throat. I've never called him that before, but he can't just be left here alone. Valas isn't evenhere.
This can't be happening.
I drop to my knees beside him, hands hovering uselessly. Touch him? Don't touch him? What if I make it worse?
His eyes find mine—those beautiful silver-blue eyes now clouded with pain and something that looks almost like relief. His mouth moves but no sound comes out.
"Don't." I press my hand to his chest, feeling the erratic thunder of his heart. "Don't try to talk. Just—just hang on. Valas is coming. He'll fix this. He always fixes things."
But even as I say it, I know it's a lie.
This isn't something that can be fixed.
Daryn's hand lifts, trembling violently, and catches mine. His grip is weak—so much weaker than it should be. His lips move again, forcing words through obvious agony.
"Keira." Barely a whisper. "I need... you to understand."
"Save your strength." Tears blur my vision. "Please, Daryn. Just?—"
"Listen." The word cracks. His whole body spasms, back arching off the floor, and I cry out, trying to hold him steady. Trying to do something, anything.
