I snatched up the quill. The nib gleamed wetly as I dipped it, ink swirling. I pulled a fresh sheet of parchment toward me, the cream-coloured surface pristine.
To the Luminary Apothecarium—
A simple question.Who treated my familiar? Who carries that scent, that impossible gift?I would demand an answer. I would …
My hand seized. The cramp hit without warning, a violent contraction that locked every finger into a rigid claw. The quill twisted in my grip, scoring a dark slash across the page beforethe ink pooled and spread, bleeding outward. I tried to force my hand to move, to write even a single coherent word, but my fingers wouldn’t obey.
To the—
The letters blurred. I blinked, certain the dim lamplight was playing tricks, but the words on the page were moving. They squirmed like insects, rearranging themselves into meaningless shapes, into a language I couldn’t read. The ink spread further, consuming the parchment. Then the fog descended.
It dropped over my thoughts like a heavy curtain, muffling everything. The question I’d been holding:who touched the wyrmling, who carries that scent,dissolved. I grasped for it, desperate, but my mind slid away from the memory.
What was I...?
I stared at the ruined parchment. At the ink staining my cramped fingers. At the quill I didn’t remember dropping.
Something cold slithered through the base of my skull. A presence was batting my thoughts aside like a cat toying with wounded prey. I opened my mouth to speak the question aloud, but nothing came.
five
Lysa
The teacup slipped from my fingers for the second time that morning. I watched it tumble before shattering against the flagstones. Tea splashed across my boots. The ceramic shards scattered, and I stood there, staring at the mess, my treacherous hands still hovering where the cup had been.
Bloody hell.
“That’s the fourth cup this week.” Briony’s voice floated in from the doorway, deceptively light. “Should I start serving your tea in a bucket? Perhaps with a straw?”
“Hilarious.” I crouched to gather the shards, but my fingers refused to cooperate. They trembled against the flagstones, twitching like dying insects. When I tried to pinch a piece of broken handle, it skittered away from me. “Absolutely bloody hilarious.”
“I thought so.” She crossed the kitchen, her skirts swishing with that effortless grace I’d never managed to replicate. “Here, let me—“
“I can do it.”
“Clearly.” She crouched beside me anyway, sweeping the fragments into her palm. “Is this the tremors, or have you developed a vendetta against our dishware?”
The tremors. As if they were some minor inconvenience, like a head cold or a splinter. They’d started as a faint quiver I’d dismissed as exhaustion. By yesterday evening, I couldn’t thread a needle. By this morning, I could barely manage buttons. I flexed my fingers experimentally. The joints ached with a deep, bone-cold wrongness that made my teeth clench. Using the Quieting gift had always cost something: numbness, stiffness, the frost-burn sensation that lingered for hours. However, cold restraint had never been who I was. It was what I learned in order to endure, but this felt like debt accumulating faster than I could repay it. I needed rest, a lot of rest.
The wyrmling needed me every few hours, though. Each time I laid my hands on those midnight scales, each time I poured my power into his fractured magic, I felt something in my own body give way. The magic drew from somewhere.
Temporary, I told myself.It’s temporary.
But my hands kept shaking.
“Your hands, Lysa.” Briony’s teasing tone had evaporated. She was watching me now with those green eyes, her brow furrowed. “They’re getting worse.”
“It’s only fatigue.” I pushed myself upright. “I haven’t been sleeping well. The wyrmling wakes every few hours, and—“
“Don’t.” She set the collected shards on the counter, then turned to face me fully. “Don’t do that thing where you pretend everything’s fine while you’re falling apart. I hate that thing.”
“What thing? I don’t have a thing.”
“You absolutely have a thing. It’s your most annoying one.” She stepped closer, reaching for my wrist. I pulled back, but she was faster. Her fingers closed around my forearm, and she turned my hand palm-up.
The tremor was visible now. A constant, fine vibration that made my fingers dance without my permission. Against Briony’s steady grip, the contrast was damning.
“Lysa.”
