She flinches.
The movement is small but unmistakable. She pulls away from my touch, burrows deeper into Keira's side, and keeps her face turned away from me.
The rejection slices through whatever thin composure I'd managed to gather. I withdraw my hand, tuck it against my side, and try not to let the hurt show on my face.
"She's exhausted," Keira murmurs. "She'll feel better after she sleeps."
I nod. Don't trust my voice not to crack if I try to speak.
We sit there in silence as Amisra's breathing gradually evens out. As the tension drains from her small body and sleep finally claims her. Even in sleep she doesn't look peaceful—her face is pinched, her fingers clutching Keira's tunic like a lifeline.
Keira carefully extricates herself, tucks the blankets more securely around Amisra, and gestures toward the door. We slip out together, leaving the door cracked so we can hear if she wakes.
The hallway feels impossibly long. Impossibly quiet.
"How are you doing?"
Keira's question is soft. Careful. Like I'm something fragile that might shatter at the wrong word.
Maybe I am.
"I don't know," I admit. "Hard. This is... it's hard."
She steps closer, and then she's in my arms—or I'm pulling her into my arms, I'm not sure which. Either way, she's there, solid and warm and alive, and I bury my face in her hair and just breathe.
"I'm so sorry," she whispers against my chest. "I know he was—I know how much?—"
"He was my brother." The words come out rough, scraped raw. "Not by blood, but in every way that mattered. And I couldn't save him."
"You gave him time. You gave him months."
"It wasn't enough." I tighten my hold on her, needing her warmth, her presence, needing something to anchor me beforeI drown in this grief. "I should have done more. Should have found something, anything?—"
"You did everything you could." Her hands fist in the back of my shirt. "He knew that. He was so grateful for the time you gave him."
I want to believe her. Want to accept that I did my best, that some things are beyond even magic's reach.
But the failure still tastes like ash in my mouth.
We stand there, holding each other in the dim hallway, and I let myself take whatever comfort she's offering. Let myself be weak for just a moment. Let myself?—
Footsteps on the stairs. Quick and purposeful.
We pull apart just as one of the servants appears—Maella, the older woman who handles most of the household correspondence. Her face is apologetic but determined.
"Healer Morthen." She dips into a shallow bow. "I'm terribly sorry to intrude, but there's a k'sheng here. Says he's been appointed to handle Master Daryn's will and settle his affairs. He's requesting to speak with you immediately."
Of course. Because death doesn't pause the machinery of society. Doesn't halt the administrative necessities of transferring property and settling debts.
I close my eyes, summon whatever composure I can scrape together. "Where is he?"
"The study, sir."
The study where Daryn died just earlier. Perfect.
I glance at Keira. She looks as wrung-out as I feel, shadows beneath her eyes, grief written in every line of her body. "You should rest. I'll handle this."
"No." She straightens, lifts her chin. "I'm coming with you."
