After a moment, she moves on. Her door closes with a soft click, and I'm alone again with my research and my futile hope and this persistent ache in my chest that has nothing to do with Daryn's illness.
I work until dawn, ink-staining my fingers and breaking my heart one failed remedy at a time. Somewhere in the house, Keira sleeps. Amisra dreams. Daryn fades.
And I pretend that medicine is the only thing keeping me here night after night, when the truth is so much more complicated than that.
3
KEIRA
Rain whispers against the windows, a gentle percussion that should be soothing but only emphasizes the quiet desperation filling this room. I rock Amisra carefully, mindful of how she whimpers even in fitful sleep, her small body radiating heat that has nothing to do with the afternoon light filtering through gray clouds.
She's been burning like this since dawn. Fever that came on sudden and vicious, turning her flushed and miserable before the sun fully rose. I've done everything I know—cool cloths on her forehead, tepid baths that made her cry, bitter fever-reducing tea she could barely swallow. Nothing touches it. The heat persists, relentless, and I'm left holding her while she suffers through dreams that make her moan.
My arms ache. Have been aching for hours. I don't care.
"Shh, sweetheart," I murmur against her damp hair, rocking in the chair by her bedroom window. The rhythm is automatic now, something my body does without thought while my mind spins uselessly. "You're alright. I've got you."
She shifts against my chest, whimpering. Her nightdress clings to her small frame, soaked through with sweat despitehow many times I've changed her. I press my lips to her forehead—still scorching—and swallow against the tightness in my throat.
Outside, rain patters steadily. Inside, a little girl burns.
I should call for one of the other servants. Send someone to fetch a proper healer, someone with actual medical knowledge instead of just desperate determination and a nanny's limited remedies. But the thought of moving, of disturbing her when she's finally sleeping instead of crying, keeps me frozen in this chair.
Besides. The healer will come regardless. He always does.
Don't think about him. Don't.
But I do. Can't help it anymore, no matter how often I remind myself of the rules. The walls I built so carefully when I first arrived, the distance I swore to maintain—they're crumbling. Three months of watching Valas arrive with medicines and worry etched into his elegant features. Three months of his politeness, his careful respect, the way he looks at Amisra like she's made of starlight and at Daryn like losing him would break something fundamental.
Three months of catching him watching me with those moon-violet eyes, and pretending I don't notice. Pretending it doesn't make my pulse stutter.
I've heard the whispers. The kitchen staff doesn't bother hiding their gossip when I'm around—they don't consider me worth the discretion. Lord Daryn is dying. Some magical sickness eating him from the inside. Valas comes every other day, sometimes more, trying everything to save him. Failing.
My heart aches for them both. For Daryn, who makes dry jokes even when he can barely stand. For Valas, who carries the weight of impossible hope on his shoulders. For Amisra, who will lose her father and doesn't even know it yet.
They're good people. Kind in ways I didn't think dark elves could be. And that terrifies me more than cruelty ever did, because kindness makes you want to trust. Makes you forget that you're property, not family. Makes you believe in fantasies that end with your heart shattered and your body sold when the household inevitably changes hands.
Don't get attached. Don't you dare get attached.
Too late. I'm drowning in it already.
Amisra whimpers again, her breath coming quick and shallow. I adjust my hold, start humming something my mother used to sing. No words—I can't remember them anymore—just the melody. Soft and low, matching the rain's rhythm. She settles slightly, her fevered face relaxing against my shoulder.
"That's it," I whisper. "Rest now, Ami. You're safe."
The door opens behind me. I don't need to turn to know who it is. My body recognizes his presence before my mind processes the quiet footsteps, the familiar rustle of his satchel, the way the air shifts when he enters a room.
Valas.
I pause mid-hum, my throat closing. Force myself to look up, to meet those crystalline eyes that always seem to see too much. Our gazes connect and something flips violently in my stomach—that same visceral reaction I get every time he's near. Like standing too close to a cliff edge. Like recognizing danger and wanting it anyway.
He's still wearing his healer attire from earlier, deep indigo fabric embroidered with silver protection runes. His hair has come partially loose from its binding, obsidian strands framing that sharp, beautiful face. He looks exhausted. Shadows beneath his eyes that weren't there this morning, tension in his jaw that speaks of long hours and longer worries.
He looks at Amisra first—always her first—and something cracks in his expression. Fear and tenderness so raw it hurts to witness.
Then his eyes return to mine and I forget how to breathe.
"How long has she been like this?" His voice is low, careful not to wake her. He moves closer, crossing the room with that predatory grace all dark elves possess. Not threatening. Never threatening with me, though he could be. Should be, maybe, instead of this terrible gentleness.
