Page 19

The waves were perfect that day—glass-smooth, sun-kissed, and just big enough to be thrilling without terrifying. Aimee skimmed over the water, surfboard steady beneath her feet.

She could hear her father’s voice, warm and encouraging, carrying over the crash of the waves.

“You’ve got this, Cori. Remember, keep your eyes on the horizon.”

Glancing back, Aimee saw him steadying her baby cousin’s board. Her little arms wobbled once before she found her balance, the grin on her face as bright as the sun beating down.

“Ready, here it comes!” In dreams, her father’s voice never lost its warmth, never faded into memory’s haze.

Then Cori caught her first wave. Her laughter rang out over the surf as she glided all the way to shore where Aiden whooped from the shallows, cheering her on.

A little way up the dune, her mother and aunt sat on a blanket, smiling as they watched with glasses of wine in hand.

Aimee sat upright on her board, water lapping gently at her waist. The horizon stretched wide behind her. She turned, catching her father’s gaze across the glimmering blue. He winked, and for a split second, everything was right with the world.

Aimee Bryer woke with tears in her eyes, her fingers curling against the sheets as if still gripping a board.

Sometimes, like on mornings when the ache in her chest was the first thing to greet her, she thought it would’ve been easier to have never been happy. Then the bitterness wouldn’t feel like an absence—just the way life was meant to be.

Dawn broke outside her window. Like she had every morning since the shades first attacked Ryme, she dragged herself out of bed and into the clothes she’d set out the night before. She tiptoed through the darkened house, quiet in that way that only existed when everyone was still sleeping.

By the kitchen door, a pair of waterproof striders—lightweight boots designed for outdoor sports—were still where she’d left them to dry the day before.

They weren’t hers. She could take no credit for the worn treads or scuffed toes.

They’d been in a box of Talya’s things, along with everything else she’d put on that morning: loose trousers, a plain tunic, and a thin coat with a hood that cinched around the face to block the rain.

It wasn’t exactly her best fashion moment, but Aimee could admit there was, perhaps, some utility to the little troll’s wardrobe that made up for the lack of taste.

Silk slippers didn’t do well in mud, and while skirts were fine for standing still, they tangled and tripped up your feet the second you needed any amount of speed.

Aimee’s breath fogged in the pre-dawn chill as she jogged down the long hill, leaving the townhouse behind her. The stiffness of sleep melted away as her heart and breath came awake.

She didn’t particularly like running. She liked it even less in the cold and wet, which Tempris always was. But she’d had an epiphany the day of the attacks.

Shades were fast—she’d figured that out crashing through the alleys, slipping in blood and filth.

She remembered the woman who shoved her forward.

The boy she tripped over.

The hands that had reached for her—begging, grabbing, gone.

She hadn’t looked back. She hadn’t had time. The only reason she was still breathing was because the shades had stopped to feed on the ones who’d been just a little bit slower.

If she couldn’t fight, she had to be faster. That’s what she’d learned that day.

The ragged rhythm of her breath filled her ears, each inhale a rasp, each exhale a desperate push against the chill morning air. Her heartbeat pounded alongside it. The wet slap of her shoes against the slick ground matched the beat—a syncopated symphony of breath, step, and splatter.

The street stretched wide and polished ahead of her.

This part of town was reserved for the nobility—and those with deep enough pockets to rub elbows with them.

It showed in every detail, from the grandeur of the homes rising behind lavishly designed wrought iron fences to the polished brass of the streetlamps to the upscale shops and cafes.

But the displays had changed. Once filled with rare teas, silverware, and perfumes, shop windows now showcased stockpiled firewood, sacks of flour, with ration charts pinned to the glass.

Luxury replaced by survival.

Sweat dripped down Aimee’s back. She hated the feeling of it. Hated the paradox of feeling warm now despite the chill. She wanted to tear off her coat, but the morning mist would soak her.

Thus, she endured.

She didn’t have a clear plan when she first started. Still didn’t. But she figured if every day she could run a little farther, even if it was just a step, then eventually she might be able to outrun a shade. Or at least stand a better chance of it.

Her stepfather wouldn’t like it if she got too muscular, but she figured—better to be alive for him to criticize than the alternative.

That was, of course, assuming she ever made it back to Picolo.

She turned a corner. The street narrowed, and rows of charming, albeit more modest homes replaced the towering facades of the noble enclave.

It still didn’t feel real. Home was gone. Rescue wasn’t coming. Not anytime soon, at least.

Each day made it feel more certain—she’d never see her stepfather’s disapproving frown or her mother’s carefully composed face again.

That familiar ache rose, tangled and sharp. She was free. She had everything she’d always wanted. And yet, with her mother still at the mercy of that monster, it felt more like she’d abandoned her than escaped.

What was happening now that no one was there to steady him? Aimee had learned how to temper him, how to pull him back when he edged too close to the line. Without her, without Aiden—

She pushed harder, faster, until her thoughts were lost to the rain and the ragged pull of her breath.

On either side of the street, the buildings seemed to lean inwards, their facades towering over her like silent sentinels. A hill rose ahead, long and uneven beneath the fog.

She slowed. She was nearing the end, and she knew better than to waste what little energy she had left trying to rush the final climb.

She gasped for air, each step hitting the ground harder than the one before. Cold rain needled her cheeks. The ache in her calves sharpened.

She was ready to crawl, and she wasn’t even halfway to the top.

The hill stretched endlessly before her—steep, unyielding, and absolutely necessary to conquer.

Aimee pushed forward. Her striders slapped the wet pavement—too tight, too small. They weren’t made for her, she knew that, but why were they so narrow? Why did they have to pinch? Why did Taly have such stupid, tiny, perfect feet—

With a weak cry of victory, Aimee reached the hill’s summit and immediately doubled over, gulping down breath after breath.

She’d made it.

For a moment, she stood there—panting and soaked to the bone, looking out over the city. From up here, everything seemed different. Softer in the hazy light of dawn.

This moment, this view—it almost made it worth it.

She still couldn’t outrun a shade. But she’d gone farther than yesterday.

And tomorrow, she would go farther still.

Looking down the block, she set her next finish line. Then she turned around and started walking back through the mist.

The camp sprawled across the once-lush park, a maze of desperation.

Tents in varying states of assembly were clustered haphazardly, creating narrow passageways that wound between them.

Eventually, a sense of makeshift order would emerge, but for now, Aiden Bryer did his best not to trip on the boxes of medical supplies, herbs, and crystals scattered everywhere.

The air carried a mixture of scents: the earthy aroma of damp soil, the tang of unwashed bodies, and the faintest hint of sickness that lingered despite their best efforts.

The city was under siege, and it was natural in those conditions (close quarters, decreased quality of hygiene, lack of access to resources) that diseases would spread more rapidly in susceptible populations.

The Fey fell prey to few diseases. Whereas humans could get infected with anything.

At least, it seemed that way sometimes. The hospital was already at capacity—Fey rarely required overnight treatment, so their medical facilities tended to be small and sparsely stocked.

But when humans got sick, which was often, they needed beds with menders to tend them, and that required space.

And menders, but that was a problem Aiden would deal with later.

Space he had in the form of the city park.

And tents—he had lots of tents. Ivain held enough in reserve for the market that set up outside the Aion Gate to build his own tent-city.

They’d started construction on the overflow camp two days ago.

Tents were still going up, supplies were still being moved in, and they were already a quarter full with new patients being admitted in a steady stream.

Slung over one shoulder, Aiden’s healer’s kit clinked softly with vials and herbs as he moved through the overflow camp, making his morning rounds. Coughs and murmurs filled the air.

He approached the first tent. A middle-aged human woman lay inside, her feverish eyes darting around the dim space. “Lord Healer?” she rasped, her voice weak.

“Aiden,” he corrected gently, setting down his kit. He wouldn’t earn that title until he was Seal V, and there were still only three lines on his wrist.

Her throat worked as she swallowed. Shudders wracked her body, rattling her teeth. “It’s spreading, isn’t it?”

He knelt beside her, offering a reassuring smile. “We’re doing everything we can to contain it.”