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The question hits me like a physical blow. I stare at her, my denial dying on my lips as she raises an eyebrow.
"I've seen morning sickness before," she says, her voice gentle now. "Though yours seems... intense."
"About three months. Maybe a little more," I hear myself say, the admission slipping out before I can stop it. "But I'm fine. I just need to rest and then I'll be on my way."
Harmony studies me, her gaze far too perceptive. "I can help," she says simply. "If you'll let me."
Something in her voice—the absence of judgment, perhaps, or the quiet certainty—breaks through the walls I've carefully constructed. My shoulders slump, exhaustion suddenly weighing on me like a physical thing.
"Why would you help me?" I ask, voice barely audible. "You don't even know me."
She shrugs, a simple gesture that somehow conveys volumes. "Because someone once helped me when I needed it most."
I stare at her for a long moment, the silence stretching between us, filled with the sounds of the village—distant conversation, the sound of work, the rhythmic clang of the smith's hammer.
Finally, I nod, a jerky movement that feels like surrender and salvation all at once.
7
ARATON
Iarrive at Ronnie's house as dusk settles over the village, excitement humming beneath my skin like a physical force. The small wooden building sits exactly where I left it a month ago, though the summer wildflowers have climbed higher along the stone foundation, little rebellious bursts of color against weathered gray.
The gift box weighs practically nothing in my pocket, but I'm acutely aware of its presence as I approach her door. The bracelet inside cost more than a month's worth of courier fees—an extravagance I can't entirely justify to myself, except that the moment I saw it, I thought of her. The way sunlight catches in her auburn hair when she doesn't think I'm looking. The defiant lift of her chin just before she tells me to get the fuck out of her bed.
Anticipation quickens my steps. Our pattern is always the same—I arrive, she pretends to hate it, we fall into bed together, repeat. But this time feels different. I've caught myself thinking about her at the strangest moments over the past weeks—during formal dinners at Lord Ithuriel's estate, in the middleof negotiations with New Solas merchants, while flying over the Ridge Mountains.
I knock on Ronnie's door, the familiar three-tap rhythm that's become our unspoken signal.
Nothing.
I try again, louder this time, wings shifting restlessly behind me. The house remains silent – no footsteps, no caustic greeting, no reluctant slide of the bolt.
"Ronnie?" I call out, pressing my ear to the rough-hewn wood.
The absence of sound unnerves me more than any hostile reception. Ronnie's always here when I arrive—it's part of our unspoken arrangement. I come on the same day each month, and she pretends she hasn't been counting down the days.
I step back, scanning the small building. The shutters are drawn tight, unusual for early evening. No lamp glow seeps through the cracks. The small garden patch looks neglected, weeds sprouting between rows of drooping dreelk.
"Where are you, fierce one?" I mutter, my wings flaring with unexpected tension.
The shop. Of course. She must be working late, probably lost track of time tallying inventory or haggling with some merchant over prices. The thought settles me. That's exactly like Ronnie—practical to her bones, putting business before pleasure.
I walk around to the front of the building, where I don't often go anymore. She's told me not to, to avoid the stares of the other humans, but today, I will have to break that request.
But as I come up to the front, I see it too is closed. But it's not just that. The shop has clearly been closed for days—the windows carry a fine layer of dust, and a small pile of undelivered packages sits abandoned by the door.
"Looking for Rosalind?" a voice calls from across the street.
I turn to see the male—Tomas—that always seemed to be around her watching me. I bite down on my anger, hoping he has answers I need.
"Yes," I say, forcing charm into my voice, into the air between us. "Do you know where she is?"
His jaw works. "She's not there."
He doesn't look like he's going to be helpful. I can see she's not there.
"Did she mention taking a trip? Visiting someone?" I press, closing the distance between us.