Page 5

RONNIE

M orning light filters through the cracks in my shutters, stabbing directly into my eyes like some kind of divine punishment.

I groan and roll away from it, only for my stomach to immediately clench in protest. Not again.

I barely make it to the washbasin before emptying what little remains in my stomach from last night's dinner.

"Fuck," I whisper, pressing my forehead against the cool wooden edge of the basin.

After several deep breaths, I splash water on my face and rinse my mouth, avoiding my own reflection in the small mirror hanging above. I already know what I'll see—the pallor that's taken up residence beneath my freckles, the shadows under my eyes that speak of restless nights.

I press a hand to my still-flat abdomen, trying to wrap my mind around the reality. There's a life growing inside me. Half-human, half-xaphan. The thought sends another wave of nausea through me that has nothing to do with morning sickness.

"Get it together, Ronnie," I mutter to myself, pushing away from the basin to dress for the day.

My shop won't open itself, and the new shipment of dried herbs from the southern villages needs cataloging. Life doesn't stop just because yours has fundamentally changed overnight.

I tug a loose cotton shirt over my head, cinch it with a belt at my waist, and step into my most comfortable work trousers. The familiarity of the routine steadies me, even as my thoughts race in chaotic circles.

A baby. Araton's baby.

My hand trembles as I braid my auburn hair, twisting it into a low knot at the nape of my neck. Wayward strands already escape to frame my face, but I don't bother fixing them. It's not like I have anyone to impress in this village.

Except for one insufferably handsome xaphan who appears on my doorstep every month like some kind of twisted clockwork, with his golden eyes and that goddamn dimple that only appears when he's genuinely amused and not just playing charming.

I yank my boots on with more force than necessary. Araton can't know. Not ever. The second he finds out, he'll swoop in with his wings and his smooth words, trying to take over. I can already hear him—"This changes things, fierce one."

The nickname makes me wince even in my imagination. Especially as I remember the day we met.

I shake off the memory and grab my apron from its peg by the door, securing it around my waist as I descend the narrow stairs that connect my living quarters to the shop below.

The morning sunlight paints golden rectangles across the wooden floor.

Dust motes dance in the beams, highlighting shelves stocked with everything from practical necessities to exotic imports.

It's not much, but it's mine—built from nothing after Aunt Mae passed and left me with little more than the clothes on my back and a lifetime of indifferent care.

I run my fingers along the countertop, the wood smooth from years of use. My shop has been my salvation, my independence, my entire life for the past five years.

And now all of it—every scrap of security I've carved out for myself—feels threatened by the life growing inside me.

"We'll be fine," I tell my still-flat stomach, surprised by the fierceness in my voice. "Just you and me."

But what if Araton finds out? What if he decides he wants this child?

Xaphan are possessive by nature, especially over their offspring.

Would he try to take the baby away? Or worse, insist that I come with him to his world of crystal spires and gossamer wings, where humans are barely better than well-treated pets?

My hands clench into fists, nails biting into my palms. "Not happening," I whisper to the empty shop.

This is it—the push I've needed for months now.

Every time Araton leaves, I swear it's the last time.

No more opening my door, no more falling into bed with him, no more watching the sky for a glimpse of dusky gray wings flecked with silver.

And yet, when he returns, all my resolve crumbles beneath the weight of whatever this thing is between us.

Not this time. This time, I have something more important than my own weakness to consider.

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 on inventory 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.