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I move to the shop door, sliding back the heavy wooden bolt and flipping the sign to "Open," just as I have every morning for years. But today feels different. Today marks the beginning of something new—a life where Araton Velrien has no place.
When he arrives next week, the door will stay locked. The shutters will remain closed. And whatever ridiculous attachment I've developed to our monthly arrangement will have to die, for the sake of the child I'm determined to protect.
Even from its own father.
I flip through my ledger, but the numbers blur together. Between the constant nausea and exhaustion, focusing oninventory has become nearly impossible. The bell above the door jingles, startling me from my daze.
"Morning, Miss Wynn." Mr. Orett, the village baker, steps in with his usual friendly nod. "Got any more of that dreelk powder? The wife's joints are acting up again with this damp weather."
I force a smile, moving toward the herb shelves. "Just restocked yesterday. How much do you need?"
My fingers brush against the glass jars lined neatly in rows, their contents ranging from common healing herbs to rarer imports. The dreelk powder—ground from dried leaves that grow only in the eastern valleys—sits in a small amber bottle. As I measure it into a paper packet, another wave of nausea hits me, and I grip the counter's edge.
"You alright there, Miss Wynn?" Mr. Orett's bushy eyebrows knit together in concern.
"Just fine. Didn't sleep well." The lie comes easily now after weeks of practice.
He doesn't look convinced but knows better than to pry. I've cultivated a certain reputation in this village—efficient, fair, and absolutely private. It's served me well until now.
After he leaves, I lean against the counter, taking deep breaths through my nose. The shop smells of dried herbs, leather, and the beeswax candles I make during quiet afternoons. Normally, the scent soothes me. Today, it makes my stomach churn.
The calendar on the wall catches my eye—marked with delivery schedules and payment due dates. But there's one unmarked day that looms larger than all the rest. Three days from now, when a certain xaphan courier will make his monthly appearance.
I press my palms against my eyes until I see stars. The absolute worst part is that some traitorous part of me still looks forward to seeing him. Even now, with everything at stake.
"Pathetic," I mutter to myself, straightening up and moving to sort through a new shipment of quillnash that arrived yesterday. The vibrant vegetable has become popular as both food and medicine, and I've built a steady trade supplying it to several households.
As I work, my mind wanders again to Araton. His knowing smirk when he steps through my door. The way his golden eyes darken when I give as good as I get in our verbal sparring. How those massive wings of his curl forward instinctively when we're together, like he's shielding us from the world.
The fragile quillnash stem snaps in my grip. I toss the broken pieces aside with more force than necessary.
This has to stop. I know what xaphan are like. I've heard the stories all my life—how they see humans as amusing diversions at best, possessions at worst. My own parents disappeared on a trading trip to New Solas, the xaphan stronghold. Just "disappeared." No explanations, no bodies returned.
And here I am, carrying a half-xaphan child.
The realization hits me like a physical blow. What if the baby has wings? What if it has powers? How would I explain that in a village where seeing a xaphan is rare enough to become the subject of gossip for weeks?
I finish my work in a daze, mechanically helping the few customers who wander in, counting their lummi into the lockbox, and finally closing up shop as the afternoon light begins to fade.
When I finally push open my door and climb the stairs to my quarters, I stand in the middle of the small room, seeing it as if for the first time. The narrow bed where Araton and I?—
I cut that thought off abruptly. The rickety wardrobe holding my few clothes. The small table where I eat my solitary meals.
This place has been my sanctuary. My haven. But now it feels like a trap.
I yank my travel bag from under the bed, the one I use for sourcing trips to neighboring villages. The leather is worn but sturdy, like me. Without allowing myself to think too much, I begin to pack.
"This is ridiculous," I say to the empty room, even as I carefully fold my sturdiest clothes and tuck them away. "You're running away like a coward."
But I'm not running from Araton—not really. I'm running from what will happen if he finds out. From the possibility of losing my child to a world that would never accept me as anything more than its mother.
I pack my small box of savings—nodals I've squirreled away over years of careful living. Not enough to start over in comfort, but enough to get me somewhere new. Somewhere Araton won't find me.
My hand hovers over the small wooden carving of a lunox he brought me from one of his trips. Its white body and blue-tipped face catch the last rays of sunlight streaming through my window.
"Sentimental fool," I whisper, but I pack it anyway.
I just keep packing up my entire life, trying to ignore the waves of emotion that it sends through me.