Don't trust him,I remind myself.Don't trust any of them.
But when Amisra laughs at something he says, pure and bright, and he smiles down at her with such obvious affection—I feel the walls I've built starting to crack despite my best efforts.
2
VALAS
Three months. Thirteen weeks of watching Daryn's silver-bright vitality drain away like water through cupped hands. Thirteen weeks of exhausting every remedy I know and inventing new ones when the old ones fail. Thirteen weeks of arriving at this house with my satchel full of medicines and my heart full of dread.
I've become permanent furniture in Daryn's estate. His servants no longer question my presence—they simply nod and step aside when I arrive, sometimes before dawn, always after dark. I've claimed the study as my workspace, covering Daryn's elegant desk with my research scrolls and ingredient vials and desperate scribbled notes. Half my wardrobe now resides in the guest room because there's no point returning to my own apartment anymore. Not when Daryn might need me. Not when every hour counts.
The sickness is unlike anything I've encountered in sixteen years of healing work. It doesn't respond to purification spells. Restorative draughts slow it for days, maybe a week, before it surges back with renewed hunger. I've consulted with colleagues across three cities, pored over texts so ancient the pages crumbleat my touch, even—in a moment of profound desperation—reached out to a necromancer who specializes in life-force manipulation.
Nothing. Every lead dissolves like smoke.
Daryn grows thinner. The hollows beneath his eyes deepen. Some mornings he can't leave his bed, and I sit beside him mixing potions while he makes dark jokes about already being a ghost. Other days he rallies with stubborn determination, insisting on playing with Amisra in the garden even though the effort leaves him trembling.
He doesn't want her to know. Made me swear I wouldn't tell her, wouldn't let her see him at his weakest. "She's four, Val. She shouldn't have to watch her father rot from the inside out."
So I bring distractions instead. Toys that dance and sing, confections from the market that taste like crystallized starlight, storybooks with moving illustrations that capture her attention for hours. Twice a week minimum, sometimes more if I can manage it. Anything to keep that bright little soul from noticing how the shadows gather in her father's face.
Tonight I've brought candied brimbark stalks and a small puzzle box that reveals different enchantments depending on how you turn it. Expensive, but worth every nodal when Amisra squeals with delight.
"Uncle Val!" She barrels into my legs the moment I step through the door, nearly knocking me backwards. Her hair catches the lamplight, silver-white and wild because she's been playing outside. Grass stains on her dress. Dirt under her fingernails. Perfect. "Did you bring me something? You always bring me something!"
"And what makes you think I brought you anything this time?" I ask, keeping the satchel deliberately out of reach.
She bounces on her toes, grinning. "Because you love me and you're the best uncle in the whole world."
"Manipulative child." But I'm already pulling out the puzzle box, watching her eyes go wide with wonder. "Your father mentioned you've been practicing your spatial reasoning. This should help."
She snatches it from my hands with zero decorum and immediately starts turning it, watching the symbols shift and glow. I ruffle her hair, then glance up to find Keira standing in the doorway to the solarium, watching us with that careful neutral expression she wears like armor.
My chest tightens. It always does when she's near.
"I'll bring tea," she says, not quite meeting my eyes.
"Thank you." The words come out rougher than I intend. She nods once and disappears toward the kitchen, moving with that quiet efficiency I've come to recognize. Grace under pressure. Competence wrapped in caution.
I want to follow her. Want to ask about her day, hear her laugh the way she does with Amisra, see that guarded expression crack just once when she looks at me. Instead, I let her go and turn my attention to the small girl currently attempting to solve a puzzle designed for adults twice her age.
"Where's your papa?"
"In his room." Amisra doesn't look up, too focused on the box. "He said he was tired after lunch. Keira made him soup and he only ate half. Is Papa sick?"
The question lands like a blade between my ribs. "Why do you ask, little bird?"
"He's tired a lot now. And sometimes..." She pauses, brow furrowed in concentration that has nothing to do with the puzzle. "Sometimes he looks at me like he's sad. But I'm right here. He shouldn't be sad."
Blessed Thirteen, she's too perceptive. Too bright for her own good.
"Your papa loves you very much," I say carefully, crouching down to her level. "If he seems sad, it's not because of anything you did. Sometimes grown-ups just have heavy thoughts."
"About what?"
"Boring adult things. Nothing for you to worry about." I tap the puzzle box, redirecting her attention. "Now, have you noticed these symbols match the ones in your astronomy book?"
It works. She lights up, already chattering about star patterns and constellation names, her concerns temporarily forgotten. I settle on the floor beside her and half-listen while she works through the puzzle's early stages, my mind elsewhere.
