Page 8

6

DAEVA

I hold my breath as I guide our small party deeper into the forest’s shadows, one careful step at a time. Each footfall lands on soft soil or a bed of needles, muffling our presence. Overhead, looming pines and skeletal oaks twist together, swallowing most of the moonlight. The air is thick with an earthy, primal scent—a blend of old leaves, damp moss, and something faintly metallic that sets my nerves on edge.

We’ve traveled this route for hours, perhaps longer, shifting away from the calmer river valley where we camped last night. Now, the terrain transforms into a maze of thorny undergrowth and bizarrely shaped boulders that jut like beasts’ spines. The mortals behind me—Calla, Silas, Cole, Ryn, and the still-wounded Jenna—keep close, their breathing ragged with fatigue. Jenna’s fever has waned, but she’s frail and leaning against Ryn for support. There’s no sign of orcs or elf patrols at the moment, yet every instinct I possess warns me that something else prowls these depths.

I pause at a small clearing where the grass stands tall enough to brush my thighs. The wind here carries a strange odor: decay and something sweet, as though flowers have been crushed under a rotting carcass. My stomach tightens in distaste. I remember whispers from old memories—faint recollections of creatures that dwell in remote corners, monstrous beings avoided even by the dark elves. Perhaps we’ve stumbled into their domain.

“Let’s rest,” Calla says softly behind me. Her voice, though quiet, resonates in the hush. “At least for a moment.”

I glance at her. Her hair clings to her cheeks, slick with sweat from the oppressive humidity. She tries to keep her expression calm, but I see the tension in her eyes. That same tension pulses through me whenever I look at her—an acute awareness that we share secrets neither of us fully comprehends yet. My chest twinges as I recall the moment by the river, where I nearly lost my composure seeing her in the moonlit water. A demon has no business longing for closeness. But once, I was human…

I exhale, shoving the memory aside. “Just for a moment,” I agree, voice low. “We shouldn’t linger here. The trees… feel wrong.”

Silas moves closer to Calla, crossbow in hand. He’s protective of her; that’s always been clear. He notices how my gaze lingers and sets his jaw, displeased. But we have no time for petty conflict. Right now, survival trumps everything else.

Cole and Ryn find a spot to settle Jenna against a trunk, carefully lowering her to the ground. She sighs with relief. They begin rummaging for a canteen. We have precious little water left—no streams in sight since morning. The dryness of my own throat reminds me we’ll need to find another source soon.

I crouch near a mossy log, scanning the perimeter. The forest is silent—no birds, no insects, just the slow hiss of wind through branches. Then I feel it, a faint tremor in the air, like a heartbeat. It’s reminiscent of magic, but primal, raw. A memory stirs, whispering of flesh-eaters known as waira. I’d heard scattered rumors in ages past. They were said to lurk in remote mountains, feeding on anything unfortunate enough to cross their path. Grotesque, cunning, territorial. The dark elves avoided them out of fear—or so the stories claimed.

A creeping dread threads through my veins. If we’ve entered waira territory, we need to leave. Swiftly. My eyes dart toward Jenna. She’s barely upright. Speed will be a problem.

“Daeva?” Calla’s voice is soft, almost apologetic. “You sense something, don’t you?”

I stand, scanning the gloom. “We’re not alone,” I say quietly. “We need to move, find a safer place to make camp.”

The others don’t question me. We gather our meager supplies and press forward. The tension among us deepens with each step, like a chord pulled ever tighter. Calla keeps near my elbow, occasionally brushing my arm—a brief contact that forces me to swallow hard and refocus. I can’t let her distract me. Not now, not with that ominous smell thickening the air.

We push through a bramble-choked path and emerge into a small hollow of twisted trees. My heart jolts at the sight looming there: a tall, skeletal figure perched amid the roots of a gnarled oak. The shape has an elongated animal skull—perhaps deer-like, with two jagged horns—and a body that’s both humanoid and hideously malformed. Ribs protrude like pale bars, partially covered by patches of matted fur. Between the gaps in its chest, a glow pulses a sickly green. Its eyes—mere pinpoints of red light—track our movements with unnerving stillness.

I hear Silas inhale sharply. Cole mutters a curse. Ryn clutches Jenna protectively. The waira cocks its head, a low growl vibrating through the clearing. One of its clawed hands digs into the soil, stirring rotted leaves and stirring that nauseating sweet-rot stench.

Beside it stands a figure I nearly mistake for a child at first. But no—she’s a woman, a human, shorter than Calla, wrapped in a ragged cloak. Her hair is braided in a loose, practical style, and her eyes are keen, flickering to us with tension. She’s touching the waira’s arm as if calming it.

I clench my fists. The presence of a human with this… monstrosity is inconceivable at first glance. How could she survive among them? Yet she stands unafraid. The waira, though it bristles, doesn’t strike.

“Ssstay away,” the waira rasps, its voice like stone scraping stone. Its body stiffens, revealing rows of fangs behind the skeletal muzzle. “This is Dirroth’s territory. You. Do. Not. Belong.”

The woman puts a hand on Dirroth’s bony forearm. “They look exhausted,” she murmurs, her tone far calmer than the situation warrants. “Let me speak to them.”

Dirroth huffs, glowing essence flickering a shade of green tinged with ominous orange. Territorial anger. The woman steps forward carefully, arms raised to show she’s unarmed. Despite her caution, she radiates a certain confidence.

“My name’s Amalia,” she says, voice pitched to carry across the tense silence. “You’ve wandered into Dirroth’s domain. He doesn’t like trespassers. Especially not so many.”

I step between my group and the waira, holding up a hand. “We mean no trouble,” I reply evenly. “We’re only passing through—looking for safety.”

At my side, Calla extends a trembling hand in a show of peace. “Please,” she adds, her voice less steady than mine but still earnest. “We have an injured companion. We just want to?—”

Dirroth’s growl intensifies, cutting her off. His massive claws scrape the dirt. “All intruders say that,” he snarls, voice deep and guttural. “They come to steal my territory… my hunts… or they come for me.”

Amalia touches Dirroth’s chest, right over the place where the glowing aura churns. “Calm,” she tells him softly. “They’ve not threatened us.” Then she looks at me, her gaze lingering on the markings along my arms. “You… you’re different. I feel magic in you, but it’s twisted. Demonic.”

I stiffen. She’s perceptive. That shouldn’t surprise me—anyone who can live among waira must have sharp instincts. “Yes,” I say simply. “But that doesn’t mean we wish you harm.”

Dirroth’s lip curls, exposing uneven fangs. “Humans. Demons. Elves. All the same. They come, they hunt, they kill. Dirroth kills first.”

I brace for an attack, dark power coiling in my fingertips. My entire body tenses. If it comes to a fight, I’m not sure we’ll survive. Fighting a waira is no simple feat, especially not in its home territory—and we have an injured woman to protect. Even if I muster my magic, I’m hardly at full capacity.

Amalia steps between us, raising her arms. “Wait,” she insists, looking up at Dirroth. “They’re in trouble, obviously. Someone is wounded.” Her eyes flick to Jenna’s pallid face. “And that man—” She points at me, “—he’s carrying around a demon’s aura. Perhaps we can learn something.”

Dirroth exhales a long, rattling breath. His eyes remain fixed on me, and the glow in his torso pulses, shifting from green to a flicker of orange and back again. A silent standoff grips the clearing.

Slowly, I lower my guard, though I remain ready to unleash force if needed. “Let us pass,” I say. “We can move on.”

Dirroth’s claw drags a furrow in the ground, red eyes narrowing. “You found your way to my domain. I have questions. You will answer.”

Amalia’s expression is apologetic. “We don’t often get visitors.” She glances back at Calla and the others, her gaze softening at Jenna’s obvious pain. “Look, Dirroth isn’t going to let you cross unless he’s sure you mean no harm. And… I can’t let him kill you.” Her voice tightens with quiet resolve. “If we offer you a place to rest for the night, will you talk? Then we’ll see about letting you move on.”

Calla casts me a worried look. Silas tightens his grip on the crossbow, uncertain. But we have little choice. We’re too spent, especially with Jenna’s condition. Engaging a waira on its turf would be suicidal. The only path that might grant survival is cooperation.

I nod once. “We’ll talk.”

Dirroth scowls, but Amalia’s hand upon his arm soothes him marginally. His essence glows a steady greenish hue, still territorial, but no longer raging. He gestures with a bony claw, beckoning us to follow. My group hesitates, exchanging apprehensive glances, but in the end, we trail after the waira and his human mate into the deeper forest.

The lair Dirroth leads us to is a shallow cave carved into a hillside. The entrance is partially concealed by a tumble of rocks and dense underbrush. Inside, the space is surprisingly neat—if you ignore the faint coppery smell and the scattered bones near the rear. A small fire pit rests in the center, ringed by stones. Animal furs are piled along one wall, forming a sort of bed or lounge area. The flickering light from a single torch reveals more details of Dirroth’s physiology: elongated limbs, fur clinging to parts of his torso, the rest an unsettling mix of sinew and bone.

Amalia lights the fire with practiced ease, using a piece of flint. Her posture is relaxed, as if she does this every day. Dirroth stays near the entrance, glaring at us from the gloom. The flicker of his aura—still that mix of green and a faint swirl of yellow—suggests curiosity, though I doubt he’d admit it.

“Sit,” Amalia invites. “I can’t say we have the best accommodations, but you’ll be sheltered from the elements.” Her voice is steady as she looks over Jenna’s weakened form. “Let me see if I can help with that wound.”

Cole helps Jenna to the edge of the fire pit, gently lowering her. She looks uneasy, clutching Ryn’s hand, but she nods at Amalia in thanks. Amalia produces a pouch of herbs from somewhere and begins examining the bandage. Despite the tension, the human woman’s presence is oddly comforting—she exudes a confidence that none of us expected in such a macabre environment.

Silas remains standing, crossbow half raised, as though ready to defend himself at any second. Calla tries to calm him with a hand on his arm. I approach Dirroth carefully, wanting to gauge him. The waira shifts, eyeing me with suspicion.

“You are demon,” he rasps. “Yet not… fully. I smell something human in your blood.”

My gut clenches. “Your nose is sharp,” I say, my tone guarded.

Dirroth’s reply is a rough snort. “If you’re lying about your intentions, I will devour you all.” He drags a claw along the stone in a warning scrape. “Amalia says I must be patient, but Dirroth does not like being patient.”

I arch a brow. “I’m not lying. We just want safety.” Glancing back at Calla, I note how she kneels by the fire, tension etched in her features. “We’ve been pursued by dark elves, orcs… We stumbled here by accident.”

He tilts his head, horns scraping the low ceiling. “Dark elves, yes. Tasty prey.” A crimson flicker dances in his chest, perhaps reminiscent of old hunts. “Orcs, savage. They threaten my forests too. But demon? That is new.” He leans closer, rancid breath washing over me. “You reek of old power.”

My stomach twists. I sense Calla’s gaze on me, but I keep my focus on Dirroth. “Then you know I’m not powerless.”

He huffs, amused or annoyed. “I’ll judge your power if the time comes.”

I step back, tension unspooling. We’ve reached a standoff of sorts—he won’t kill us outright, so long as we abide by some unwritten code. Maybe that’s enough for tonight.

Amalia finishes binding Jenna’s shoulder with fresh herbs and cloth. “She’ll need rest,” she tells Calla softly, wiping her hands on her cloak. “At least a night or two, if Dirroth allows.”

Dirroth lets out a grumbling sigh. “Amalia, you always want to help,” he accuses, though there’s a begrudging warmth in his tone, as if he’s incapable of denying her entirely.

Amalia quirks a smile at him, then beckons me closer. I comply, noticing the shift in her eyes as she studies me. “You hide something else,” she says quietly, glancing at my arms and the faint glow of black markings. “That demon magic weighs on your soul. You haven’t told your companions about the price, have you?”

I stiffen, uncertain how to respond. She saw something in me with just a glance? The others, busy trying not to anger Dirroth, might not overhear, but I feel Calla’s attention drifting our way.

“You’ve read me quickly,” I admit.

She nods. “Dirroth is territorial and fierce, but even he can sense your aura. There’s something unspoken—some contract you made?”

My mind races back to the catacombs beneath House Vaerathis, where Calla freed me. A deal was struck, hastily, in the throes of desperation. I told her every power demands a price. But in the chaos of escaping, we never revisited that bargain. It’s a law of my demonic existence, one I cannot escape. Payment always comes.

Amalia’s gaze slides toward Calla, who’s now standing, tension marking her face. “You should tell her,” Amalia murmurs, voice kind but firm. “It’s cruel to keep them in the dark.”

My heart twists. I never intended cruelty. Fear of losing them—fear of losing her—made me delay that conversation. Admitting the truth might drive them away. Or worse, it might lead them to some tragic end, because the price for demonic assistance is rarely small or simple.

Before I can respond, Dirroth’s growl fills the cave. We all jerk, expecting violence, but instead he’s gazing into the darkness beyond our makeshift shelter, bones shifting in agitation. A second later, I feel it too—something prowls outside. Another waira, or some other forest predator?

Amalia’s expression tightens. “Dirroth, is it…?”

He nods, aura flaring a deep red, the color of impending battle. “Another waira. Not from my territory. An intruder.” His stance turns predatory, claws flexing in anticipation.

Fear surges through Calla. She glances at me, then at Silas. “We can’t handle another fight,” she whispers. Jenna’s condition is precarious, and none of us are well-rested.

Amalia looks at Dirroth. “Maybe it’ll move on?”

Dirroth snorts. “If it found our scent, it might be hungry. Waira do not share territory lightly.” His gaze falls on me, and there’s an unspoken question— Will you fight by my side if it attacks?

I meet his look with grim understanding. We might not have the luxury of neutrality. If a hostile waira arrives, it could see us all as prey, ignoring Dirroth’s claim. Even Dirroth might be forced to defend us if we’re in his lair, because the other waira will view all of us as potential kills. Ironically, we’ve become Dirroth’s responsibility, as bizarre as that seems.

A tense moment stretches. Cole’s knuckles whiten around a scavenged dagger. Ryn edges protectively nearer to Jenna, her breathing shallow but steady. Silas shifts in place, crossbow trembling in his hands. Calla stands behind me, her presence a steady warmth against my back.

I close my eyes, summoning what remains of my power. “If it comes to a fight,” I say softly, “we’ll help. But we can’t hold out for long. Our group is weakened.”

Dirroth releases a low, rumbling growl, which I interpret as acceptance. He lopes toward the mouth of the cave, the flicker of red in his chest intensifying. Amalia glances at me once more, worry etched in her features. “Stay with them. Protect them if things go wrong.”

With that, she hurries after Dirroth, stepping into the twilight. I exchange a glance with Calla, who’s pale but resolute. “Stay alert,” I whisper.

Time drags. The hush outside is deafening, broken only by faint scuffles of movement. My nerves coil like a spring. The mortals huddle near the fire, eyes flicking between the cave entrance and me. My mind echoes with Amalia’s words about the price. The guilt churns. But we can’t confront that now.

A sudden thunder of snarls reverberates from outside. The torchlight trembles with the vibration of massive bodies colliding. Silas curses under his breath, and Calla edges closer. I step forward, intending to see what’s happening, but a monstrous shriek rips through the gloom—a waira’s cry of rage. The intruder has arrived.

Dirroth’s silhouette flashes against the faint moonlight. He’s locked in a brutal struggle with another waira, this one sporting a skull reminiscent of a wolf, elongated jaws snapping. Their claws scrape the rocky ground, sending sparks. Amalia ducks back, eyes wide, searching for an opening to help her mate.

I dash out, ignoring the risk, black power crackling around my fingertips. If Dirroth falls, the intruder will turn on us. But the moment I step beyond the threshold, a hideous stench of decay floods my senses. The second waira’s aura glows a furious crimson, edges tinged in black. Fear and anger combined. Its jaws snap inches from Dirroth’s shoulder, tearing fur and sinew.

Dirroth roars, raking his claws down the intruder’s side, exposing pale bone beneath. They crash into a tree with enough force to splinter branches. I shift to the side, summoning a wave of demonic energy. The swirling shadows around my hands intensify. If I can land a decisive blow, maybe we can drive it off.

“Move!” Amalia yells to me, just as the intruder waira’s tail lashes out, a bony whip of spine and matted fur. I dodge, slamming my palm into its flank. My power surges, momentarily halting the creature’s lunge. It staggers, aura flickering dark. Dirroth seizes the opening and plunges his claws into the intruder’s chest cavity, twisting with brutal efficiency.

A wet shriek echoes in the night. The second waira thrashes, then slumps, spine cracking under Dirroth’s relentless grip. For an instant, I see the hatred in its eyes before the glow in its torso dims to nothing. The body collapses, half-limp, and Dirroth steps back, panting. His own essence burns an even deeper red, signaling rage. He grabs the intruder’s skull and wrenches with a sickening pop. The fight ends in savage finality.

Amalia rushes forward to place a hand on Dirroth’s side, murmuring soothing words. My own heart thunders, adrenaline leaving me shaky. Claws, fangs, blood—it’s a stark reminder that waira are not mere curiosities. They are apex predators.

Calla and Silas emerge from the cave, eyes wide at the carnage. Cole and Ryn remain inside, likely shielding Jenna’s gaze. Dirroth stands over the corpse, chest heaving, muzzle smeared with gore. Slowly, he glances at me. A nod, curt but unmistakable: an acknowledgment that I helped, though he wouldn’t call it gratitude.

I incline my head in return, keeping my distance from the remains. The stench is overwhelming. “Is it dead?” Calla asks softly, stepping around me to get a better look.

Dirroth snorts. “Dead enough,” he growls, tossing the severed skull aside. “I will burn it later. For now, we rest.” His aura fades from deep red to something closer to a dull green, the color of guarded territorial calm. “You fought well, half-demon.”

Despite the tension, I allow a wry smile. “Likewise.”

Amalia tears her gaze from the bloody scene. “Let’s go back inside,” she suggests, voice subdued. “We’ll have to be quiet in case others lurk nearby.”

We slip into the cave once more, Dirroth following after a final glance at his kill. He radiates a primal satisfaction, but I also see weariness in the sag of his massive shoulders. That was no easy fight, even for him.

Inside, Cole exhales in relief, while Jenna musters a faint question—“What happened?”—which Ryn answers quietly. Silas stands next to Calla, his face betraying conflicting emotions: horror at the brutality, grudging acceptance that we needed Dirroth’s help, and a flicker of guilt at not having done more.

Amalia steadies Dirroth as he sinks down near the fire. Then she turns to me, her eyes firm. “You see now how dangerous these lands are,” she says. “Dirroth protects his territory, and occasionally helps travelers if I ask him. But he demands respect for it. That waira came to challenge him, or maybe to feed on you.”

Dirroth rumbles, resting his clawed hands on his knees. “No more interruptions tonight, I hope.” He eyes the mouth of the cave warily.

I kneel by the embers, letting the heat chase the chill from my bones. Calla joins me, wrapping her arms around herself. Her gaze flicks between Dirroth and me. She opens her mouth as if to speak but hesitates. I realize she’s picking up on the tension—Amalia’s pointed words about paying a price, the secrets I carry.

Amalia gently places a fur cloak around Dirroth’s shoulders, half-stained with old blood. Then she looks at me, her eyes sharp as steel. “So,” she says quietly, “about that price you owe… or rather, that price your companions owe you for your demonic help. I hope you realize the weight of it.”

My throat tightens. Calla’s gaze snaps to me, confusion apparent. Silas frowns, hearing enough to sense trouble. The firelight casts flickering shadows across the cave walls, an ominous backdrop for this conversation.

I swallow, aware that I can no longer keep them ignorant. The vow I made in the catacombs, the contract of demonic power exchanged for our escape, cannot be left in the dark. “I told you,” I say softly, eyes meeting Calla’s, “that every gift from a demon demands a price. We never… clarified what it was.”

Her face pales, breath catching. “I remember,” she whispers. “You said I’d have to pay eventually. But with everything happening, I… forgot. Or maybe I hoped it wasn’t real.”

Silas bristles. “What do you mean? Some kind of blood pact?”

Amalia’s expression is somber. “A demon’s law. Life for life. Soul for soul. Some variation. It’s how these contracts are enforced in realms beyond mortal laws.” She glances between Calla and me. “If the demon doesn’t collect, the magic itself punishes him. If the mortal tries to avoid payment, the consequences can be dire.”

I feel the weight of Calla’s stare. My chest constricts, guilt mingling with an odd pang of regret. She rescued me from that accursed mirror. Without her, I might still be trapped in oblivion. Yet, in that moment, I bound us with a promise. One I can’t simply discard.

Her voice trembles. “What… what do I have to sacrifice?”

My throat constricts. I can’t lie to her, but I can’t deliver that blow easily either. Dirroth and Amalia watch from the sidelines, impassive as though this is a drama that often plagues lesser beings. Silas curses under his breath, stepping closer to Calla protectively.

I force the words out, each one like a shard of glass. “Typically, a demon’s power demands an equal exchange. For freeing me, for the power I used to help you… I require a life. Or a soul. It’s not something I choose arbitrarily; it’s the nature of the old magic that made me what I am.”

Fear and betrayal flash across Calla’s face. Silas hisses, half-raising his crossbow, though he doesn’t fully aim it at me. Cole and Ryn exchange alarmed looks, while Jenna simply closes her eyes, too exhausted to fully react. The cave’s silence throbs.

I wish I could conjure comforting words, but the truth is stark: the bargain stands. “I haven’t demanded payment yet,” I say, hating how hollow the reassurance sounds. “And if there’s another way?—”

Calla’s eyes glisten, shoulders trembling. “So, if I don’t… if I don’t give you a life, you’ll die? Or we all pay the price?”

I hesitate. In my centuries of existence, the specifics of demonic compacts vary. Often, the demon withers or goes mad if the contract remains incomplete. But another route may exist—some hidden loophole or vow beyond my knowledge. I want to believe that, for her sake, though my certainty wavers.

Amalia sighs, kneeling by Dirroth. “It’s not an easy truth. But in my travels, I’ve seen similar pacts. Usually, the mortal offers a proxy life: the life of an enemy, or a sacrifice who agrees to it. Or they forfeit themselves. Or the demon itself dies if the contract remains unfulfilled. None of the options are pleasant.”

Calla’s trembling intensifies, the color draining from her cheeks. Silas curses again. “This is insane,” he mutters. “We’re not killing anyone to feed some arcane law.”

Dirroth’s aura flickers green, then orange, showing mild discomfort at the tension. “Don’t tear my cave apart over your demon nonsense,” he growls. “Not my concern. But don’t forget where you are.”

A miserable silence settles. My stomach churns, guilt threatening to choke me. I never wanted this. Yet the contract is older than I am, an unbreakable chain forged by the dark powers that twisted my humanity. I glance at Calla, hating the fear in her eyes.

She steels herself, lifting her chin. “We’ll… discuss it,” she murmurs, voice thick with emotion. “But not tonight. Not like this.”

I nod, feeling relief and regret swirl together. “Agreed.”

Amalia gives us a sad smile. “For what it’s worth, demon, I can see that glimmer of humanity still alive inside you. And you, Calla—you have a fierce spirit. Perhaps you’ll find a better path.” She stands, returning to Dirroth’s side. “But be careful. These bargains aren’t easily defied.”

No one says more. The fire crackles softly, painting the cave walls in wavering orange light. Exhaustion weighs heavily on us all after the fight with the intruder waira, but the new revelation eclipses any relief we might have felt.

We gather ourselves, forming a tense circle near the flames. Jenna rests against Cole’s shoulder, drifting in and out of fevered sleep. Ryn rubs his arms, eyes darting between me and Calla. Silas stands vigil, brow furrowed in anger and uncertainty. Calla keeps her eyes on the fire, knuckles white as she clasps her hands in her lap.

I watch her, heart aching at the burden I’ve forced upon her. The memory of her bare skin glistening in the moonlit river flares in my mind—an image of fragile beauty and unexpected hope. That spark of tenderness we shared is drowned now by the ugly truth of demonic law. A price must be paid.

In the flickering shadows, I vow silently to find another way. I don’t know how, but I refuse to let her life or another innocent’s be the coin of my freedom. Even if it costs me the last remnants of my power, or my own existence. Yet I can’t speak such promises without proof. Words alone mean nothing in the face of ancient magic.

Outside, the forest hushes after the kill, as if acknowledging Dirroth’s victory. We remain still, lost in our own turmoil, hearts pounding with dread. Tomorrow, we’ll face the next step—whether it’s forging alliances with these monstrous neighbors or forging our own path deeper into Protheka’s wildlands. But tonight, in the glow of the dying fire, the weight of the unspoken threat hangs like a blade over all our heads.

I let my senses drift, aware of Calla’s presence near me. She doesn’t look at me, but I feel her trembling. I wonder if she’s thinking of the same question swirling in my mind: If we must trade a soul for our salvation, whose life stands in the balance?

No matter what happens next, I can’t escape the bitter truth: I have bound us all to a fate we didn’t foresee. And a rarity in the centuries I’ve lived, fear coils in my gut at the thought that I might lose the one person who made me remember my human heart.