Page 24

Chapter 23

T he morning crept in gray and damp, the kind of light that settled heavy on the windows and made everything feel slower than it was. Mist clung to the edges of the cobblestones outside, and even the birdsong sounded half-hearted—like the city hadn’t quite decided if it was worth waking up yet.

I lit the lamps anyway. Dim amber halos pushed back the gloom inside the shop, casting long shadows over the shelves. The air smelled of wet stone, dried ink, and last night’s fire, long since gone cold.

Maeve was curled up on the cushion behind the front counter, swaddled in one of Kazrek’s old wool cloaks she’d claimed weeks ago. Her nose was red, and she’d barely touched the toast I gave her.

“Sore throat?” I asked, kneeling beside her.

She gave the smallest shrug, eyes fixed on the flickering lamp nearby. One hand clutched the small brass compass that had once belonged to Finn—the one Kazrek had repaired, the one Maeve had hardly let go of since.

“Stomach hurts?” Another shrug. More listless than usual, but not enough to panic. Her skin was warm but not fevered.

I touched the back of my fingers to her brow and tucked the cloak tighter around her. “You’ve had worse,” I murmured. “Just a fog-day in your bones, that’s all.”

She didn’t argue. Just leaned her head against my arm and closed her eyes. I sat with her like that for a minute longer than I should’ve, listening to the silence press in around us.

Kazrek hadn’t come.

He hadn’t stayed the night, either. After the Runery… after Sylwen’s warning, after the word sacrifice hung too long in the air… he’d gone quiet. Not distant. Not unkind. Just quiet.

I hadn’t asked him to stay. He hadn’t offered.

And maybe that was the part that stung the most—not the silence itself, but what it left room for.

I told myself he needed time. That I would’ve needed time, too.

But there’d been something in the way he looked at me—too still. Too steady. Like he’d seen the choice already forming in me… and decided not to fight it.

And now… nothing. Not even a knock on the door.

I stood slowly and moved behind the counter, pulling down the ledger I hadn’t opened in days. Dust clung to the edges. I ran my thumb along the spine, then set it aside and began restocking the shelf of powdered vermilions. Half the jars were mislabeled—my handwriting uneven from the last rush order.

You’re spiraling , Iris would’ve said, and she’d be right.

But better to spiral into shelves and glass jars than into thoughts I couldn’t do anything about.

"Can I have some tea?" Maeve asked, her voice smaller than usual.

"Of course." I moved to the small kettle I kept in the back room, grateful for the simple task. "With honey?"

She nodded, pulling the blanket tighter around her shoulders.

The water hadn't even started to boil, but I set out the cups anyway—one for Maeve, plain and chipped at the rim, and one for me, though I wasn’t sure I’d drink it. I added a curl of dried ginger to each, a habit I’d picked up from Iris for mornings like this. For sluggish days and sullen weather. For hearts that couldn’t quite beat steady.

My fingers worked without thought—honey, a pinch of mint, just enough to cut the edge. I liked the ritual of it. The quiet clink of the spoon against ceramic. The gentle steam rising from the kettle when it finally hissed and sighed.

I focused on those small, manageable things because they were the only ones I could manage.

The rune stone Sylwen had given us sat on the counter, wrapped in soft cloth. I still needed to find a way to keep it close to Maeve—maybe a small pouch she could wear around her neck. The stone had grown warm when I'd placed it near her while she slept, as if responding to something invisible to my eyes.

I poured the tea into our mugs. My gaze drifted to the larger mug on the shelf, the one Kazrek used the mornings he brought breakfast. It sat clean and empty, waiting for a hand that wasn't there.

He hadn't said goodbye. But no one ever did.

"Here you go," I said, handing Maeve the mug. "Careful, it's hot."

She took it with both hands, her small fingers wrapping around the warm ceramic. "Thank you," she murmured, blowing gently across the surface.

I watched her for a moment, this tiny person who had become my entire world, and felt the weight of what we'd learned pressing down on me like a physical thing. I should be doing something. Researching, warding, calling in favors—anything. But all I could manage was tea. Ginger and honey, like that would hold the darkness at bay.

Is this how it starts?

One foggy morning, a child goes quiet. Her warmth shifts, and you tell yourself she’s just tired. Just catching something. Just needs rest.

And then she stops glowing. Stops laughing. Stops coming back.

I tightened my grip on the mug, knuckles aching.

I hadn’t protected Finn. Hadn’t stopped her from getting tangled in things too big to escape.

And now… Maeve.

Was I going to fail her too?

The morning crawled by with agonizing slowness. Every time the light shifted outside, every creak of the old building settling, my eyes would dart to the door. Expecting it to open. Expecting him.

By midmorning, I'd rearranged the display shelf twice and started on a fresh batch of indigo ink that nobody had ordered. Maeve dozed fitfully in her nook, occasionally asking for more tea or another blanket, her usual vibrant presence dimmed like a lantern running low on oil.

When the bell above the door finally rang, my heart leapt traitorously in my chest—and then sank just as quickly when I saw who had entered.

Not Kazrek, but Uldrek. He wasn’t wearing his armor today—just a rough-spun shirt rolled to the elbows, a battered leather vest, and a grin that looked like it had survived a dozen brawls and hadn’t lost a tooth for it.

"Morning," he said with easy confidence.

I nodded and straightened, pushing a stray lock of hair behind my ear. "Can I help you?"

“Hope so,” he said, stepping inside without hesitation. “Vorgrim’s running low on a few things—charcoal, bloodroot powder, something that doesn’t smear when he sweats through his robes. Said your inks were worth the walk.”

I set down the pestle I wasn’t using and nodded toward the shelf by the far window. “Pigments are labeled. Custom blends are in the back.”

He glanced over at Maeve, who was watching him with wary curiosity from her blanket nest. "Hey, little warrior. Not feeling well today?"

Maeve shook her head. "M'waiting for Kazrek," she said. "He makes the best medicine."

Uldrek looked back at me. "Yeah, he's good at that. Always was."

He scanned the jars, lips moving silently as he read, before he plucked three from the shelf and turned back to me.

“We’re making a final supply run before the caravan starts moving again. Vorgrim wanted to get his hands on some proper ink before we’re in the foothills with nothing but boiled root and borrowed chalk.”

I nodded, already reaching for paper to tally the cost. “How soon are you leaving?”

“Week, maybe less,” he said casually. “Depends on weather, stragglers, politics. You know how it is.”

I didn’t, but I let it pass.

He leaned a forearm on the counter, watching me work. “Kaz hasn’t told you, has he?”

My pen hesitated. “Told me what?”

“That Vorgrim offered him a place with the guild. Official. Traveling medic. Rank, supplies, the whole bit.”

I kept writing. Slowly. Deliberately. “No. He didn’t mention it.”

“Huh.” Uldrek scratched his jaw, looking genuinely surprised. “Well. Suppose he’s not one to talk about himself much. Still… If he says yes, we’ll be glad to have him. Finally—a healer who doesn’t grumble his way through a fever bandage.”

He grinned like it was just another piece of harmless gossip.

Like he hadn’t just confirmed what I already feared.

I finished the tally. “Three jars,” I said, voice steady. “Six and two silver.”

Uldrek counted the coins into my hand and gave a little two-fingered salute. “Thanks. Maybe we’ll see you before we head out.”

“Maybe.” I smiled, tightly. “Goodbye, Uldrek.”

The door closed behind him with a soft chime. I stood still, the coins warm in my palm, the shop suddenly too quiet.

After he left, I stood motionless behind the counter, the coins still warm in my palm. The shop felt suddenly too quiet, too empty, as if all the air had been sucked out with his departure.

Of course Kazrek was leaving.

Maybe he thought stepping away was the kindest thing he could do. Maybe he thought I needed space. Or maybe he just didn’t want to watch it happen.

I wasn’t angry. Just… tired.

Tired of trying to hold on to people already walking toward the door. Tired of pretending it didn’t hollow me out when they didn’t fight to stay.

“Rowena?” Maeve’s voice was small. “Are you sad?”

I blinked. Looked at her. “No, sweetheart,” I said gently. “Just thinking.”

“About Kazrek?”

I hesitated. “About work,” I lied, moving toward her. “How’s your tea? Need more?”

The rest of the day passed in a blur of mundane tasks and repetitive motions. I reorganized the supply shelves twice, polished the counter until it gleamed, and relabeled a dozen jars that didn't need relabeling. Customers came and went. I smiled and wrapped purchases and made change, all while feeling like I was watching myself from a distance.

Auntie Brindle arrived in the afternoon, bringing a poultice for Maeve's chest and a sharp look for me.

"You're wound tighter than Faerwillow's corset strings," she observed after sending Maeve upstairs to rest. "What happened?"

"Nothing." I continued wiping down the already-clean counter.

"Nothing doesn't make your aura look like a storm cloud, girl." She planted herself in front of me, arms crossed. "Did Selwyn have bad news?"

"We know what it is now," I said, the words clipped. "He gave us something to slow it down."

Brindle sighed, suddenly looking every one of her many years. "And the healer? Where is he?"

"With his people," I said, turning away. "Where he belongs."

"Hmm. And is that what he said, or what you've decided?"

I slammed the cloth down. "Does it matter? They're leaving in a week. He'll go with them."

"Will he, now?" Brindle's voice was mild. "Interesting. When did he tell you that?"

"He didn't need to." My voice was brittle. "His friend did."

"I see." Brindle moved to the kettle, heating it with a casual flick of her fingers. "And of course, a friend would know his heart better than the woman in it."

"I'm not in his heart," I snapped. "I'm just—" What? A distraction? A responsibility? A burden he'd taken on because that's what he did—heal, protect, save? "—a complication."

"Oh, girl." Brindle shook her head. "For someone so smart, you can be remarkably dense."

I turned away, unable to bear the knowing look in her eyes. "I have work to do."

"Yes, you certainly do," she agreed cryptically, but didn't press further.

By evening, I was exhausted from the effort of pretending everything was fine. I made a simple dinner that neither Maeve nor I had much appetite for, then read her a story before bed. The words blurred on the page, my mind elsewhere as I recited the familiar tale of stars and wishes.

"You're reading it wrong," Maeve complained, pointing to the page. "That's not what the dragon says."

"Sorry." I blinked, forcing myself to focus. "Let me try again."

When I finally tucked her in, I lingered at her bedside longer than usual, watching the steady rise and fall of her small chest. She looked younger in sleep, impossibly fragile. The rune stone sat on her bedside table, wrapped in its protective cloth. I'd promised to fashion it into a necklace tomorrow, something she could wear without drawing attention.

Tomorrow. And the day after. And all the days that would follow, with or without Kazrek.

I traced a finger along her cheek, feeling the warmth of her skin. "I won't let anything happen to you," I whispered. "No matter what it takes."

Auntie Brindle sat nearby in the rocking chair, needles clicking softly in her lap as she worked a new strand of something blue and mossy. She didn’t look up, but I had the strange feeling she’d heard me anyway.

Back downstairs, I stood in the darkened shop, the faint moonlight filtering through the windows casting everything in shades of blue and silver. The silence pressed in around me, the absence of Kazrek's steady presence almost a physical ache.

I poured myself a cup of tea, but it grew cold as I stared at the closed shop door. What was I waiting for? He wasn't coming. Maybe he never would again.

The realization settled like a stone in my chest.

You don't get to keep people like him. You just get to watch them go.

I wrapped my cloak around my shoulders, decision made before I'd even fully formed the thought. I wasn’t going for answers—I already had those. I wasn’t going to beg him to stay—I had too much pride for that.

I just needed to feel something solid. Something warm. Something worth remembering when it was over.

The night air was cool against my skin as I walked through the quiet streets, my steps sure despite the uncertainty churning inside me. Few people were about at this hour—a handful of revelers stumbling home from taverns, a night guard nodding as I passed.

Kazrek's clinic was dark when I arrived, no lantern lit in the window. For a moment, I thought perhaps he wasn't there at all—perhaps he was already preparing to leave, already halfway gone.

I knocked once, the sound barely audible even to my own ears.

Long seconds passed. I was about to turn away when the door opened.

Kazrek stood in the doorway, surprise evident in his face. His shirt was rumpled, his hair loose around his shoulders. Candlelight spilled from behind him, casting his large frame in warm gold and deep shadow.

I said nothing. Just stepped over the threshold into the warmth of his space.

He didn't ask why I was there. I didn't explain.

I wasn’t ready to say I’d made my choice. I wasn’t there to change his mind. I just wanted one more moment.

One last breath before I stepped into the fire alone.