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Marrowen nodded, barely hearing him. The knife quivered in her grip, the light on the blade jumping as she cut away the ruined shirt. The wound beneath was too deep, the flesh torn and ragged. Marrowen pressed a towel into it, but blood surged up around it. It ran down his side in slow, snaking rivulets, pooling on the floor beneath the table.

Marrowen was speaking now too, pointing at Wren with trembling, blood-streaked fingers, the dark smears reaching up to her wrists. Garin was in front of Wren before she even realized he’d moved, his broad form momentarily blocking her view—too close. His rough, blood-stained hand cupped her cheek, fingers pressing into her skin.

“Child. Get Lenora. Now.” His voice was jagged, like rocks tumbling down a ravine—each word a punch.

Wren’s hooves were clumsy, too heavy, the ground rooting her legs like trees. His words echoed in her skull. A breathless sob clawed up her throat. The earth clung to her steps, refusing to let go until he shoved her forward.

“Wren, go!”

She stumbled back a step, her mind struggling to catch up. Then she was out the gate, hooves beating against the packed earth, faster than the wind.

One. Two. Three houses blurred past.

Air scraped the back of her throat, raw as frost, as she screamed Lenora’s name. She vaulted over the low fence, her legs straining, muscles throbbing, but she didn’t stop. The door flew open, banging against the wall, and the older faun appeared, her eyes wide, dark, and startled.

“What happened to you? Are you hurt?” She reached for Wren, gripping her arm, trying to pull her closer. Wren jerked back, shaking her head.

“Not me. Pa. Come now.” The words tumbled out between panting breaths—bitter on her tongue. She couldn’t control the dread clawing up her throat. Lenora’s gaze lingered too long. Her hands moved slowly. Too slowly. A wild, irrational urge took over—to scream for her to move faster. Maybe she did scream.

The moment the older faun’s fingers closed around her healing pouch, Wren grabbed her arm and yanked her forward. They ran, but Wren was faster. She had to be. Pa needed her.

I should’ve stopped him this morning. Should’ve insisted on going with him. Should have done something.

She stumbled back into her house, her furry knee banging painfully against the doorframe, and skidded to a stop beside the table where her father lay. Her mother passed Garin a bowl of water. A red-stained towel hung half out of it, tendrils of blood curling into the water in slow, swirling clouds.

Lenora burst through the door shortly after her, froze for a single breath, then surged past them all. She cleared everyone away. Marrowen’s lips drew into a thin, bloodless line. The color drained from her cheeks. An eternity passed as Lenora unpacked her things on the table beside him.

“Hurry!” Wren shouted, her voice breaking. Marrowen moved to her side, hands trembling against her shoulder.

Lenora’s eyes began to glow—faint, unearthly blue, pulsing like light beneath frozen water. Clouds of mist curled around her hands, turning the blood to glassy crimson. Her brows knit together immediately.

Marrowen’s fingers dug into Wren’s shoulder, and she flinched. Her hand pulled back, eyes slipping shut, lips moving in a rapid, stumbling prayer. From the table, Pa let out a low, pained moan, his back arching beneath Lenora’s glowing hand.

Wren’s heart seized. “You’re hurting him!” she shouted, lunging forward.

But a heavy, steady hand caught her arm, holding her back. She looked up, eyes wide. Her breath caught at the sudden betrayal. But Garin only held her closer, his jaw set, his eyes fixed on the table, waiting.

Lenora’s face went white; her glowing eyes still fixed on the wound. With a pop, she uncorked a small vial at her belt, pouring a thin stream of liquid onto the torn flesh. The bleeding slowed, the flow thinning to a sluggish trickle, but Lenora’s expression never changed. Her face pinched, eyes shadowed with the weight of a choice she didn’t want to make.

Her mouth moved, but her words drowned beneath the pounding in Wren’s ears. Her father’s pale, clammy skin shone in the low light. His chest rose and fell, but so infrequently Wren found herself counting the seconds between them. The house dimmed until the only thing in focus was the pull of pain beneath his skin.

Lenora’s words finally cut through the haze. ”—done all I can. Gave him a little extra time, but not much.“ She shook her head, the strain around her eyes deepening. “I could push it, but it won’t heal properly. He’d be alive, but in constant pain.” Her voice dropped to a whisper, a ghost of wind through tall grass. “He’d suffer more if I tried.”

For a heartbeat, it was quiet. The words settled over Wren like the humidity of a Suncrest day, clinging and inescapable. Anger pressed against her, demanding release.

“Fix him!” she growled, her voice ragged. She turned fierce, desperate eyes to the Water Weaver.

“I’m sorry,” Leora whispered.

Her sympathetic frown angered Wren more.

“You said you could do it!” Her words came in short, angry bursts. “You don’t want to try. I’ll do it myself.”

Marrowen’s hand shot out, but Wren moved too quickly, her hooves striking the floorboards in a loud, frantic clatter. She stumbled to her father’s side. His brow was damp with sweat, his chest heaving. Each breath was a painful, stuttering gasp. She pressed her hands to the wound. The flesh beneath her palms was hot and sticky. His body pulsed with the faint, irregular beat of his failing heart.

She squeezed her eyes shut, shoving doubt to the back of her mind, and reached for her power. Her focus sank deeper. The sounds around her dimmed. She searched for the threads of life she knew were there. And they were there—but frayed, their edges burned and brittle, knotted together in a desperate hold that wouldn’t last.

She could do it—fill the gaps, tie the pieces back together—she’d done it before, with Auren. Pressed the healing too far. It had caused nothing but pain. They wouldn’t be his threads anymore, not really—only frayed lengths and borrowed binding. Alive, yes—but dragged forward by magic, not by will.