Chapter 1 

Ilyra

"Illy! Come down for dinner!"

Father's voice carries up the narrow stairs, warm with the promise of shared evening conversation. I scrub the last traces of mortar dust from my hands in the washbasin, watching brown water swirl away down the drain.

The kitchen holds the lingering scent of barley stew and fresh bread. Father sits at the head of our modest wooden table, his shoulders relaxed after the day's labor. Vaelra arranges serving bowls with practiced precision while Mariselle examines her fingernails.

I reach for the clay plates stacked on the shelf, setting them around the table in quick succession.

"The rim faces left, dear." Vaelra's correction arrives with a smile bright as polished silver. "It helps the gravy flow properly."

Father glances up from cutting bread. Vaelra's expression transforms into maternal warmth, as if she's been nothing but helpful.

"Of course." I adjust each plate, though the difference seems negligible.

Mariselle's laugh tinkles like breaking glass. "At least the dress matches the dishware—both showing their age beautifully."

The worn blue fabric of my work dress suddenly feels threadbare under her gaze. Her own gown, pale green with delicate embroidered flowers, makes mine look like a servant's castoff.

"Mari." Father's voice carries a warning edge.

"Oh, I'm only teasing!" Mariselle waves her hand dismissively. "Sisters can joke, can't we, Ilyra? Though perhaps a little more effort wouldn't go amiss."

Her smile never wavers, but her gray eyes glitter with something sharper than humor.

Father frowns but returns to serving portions. "The mines had three cave-ins this week. Small ones, but it's making the foremen nervous."

"More inspections?" I ask, settling into my chair.

"Worse. Word is the dark elf overseers want tighter control of the trade routes. They're talking about quotas, new restrictions on what materials we can sell independently." He shakes his head. "As if we don't have enough—"

His hand jerks suddenly, sending his spoon clattering against the bowl. The tremor spreads up his arm before he doubles forward, coughing with violent force into his sleeve. Each hack tears through him like something clawing its way out.

Vaelra reaches toward him. "Edric?"

The coughing continues, harsh and wet, his broad shoulders shaking with each spasm.

I'm on my feet before the next cough tears through him, chair scraping against stone as I rush to the water pitcher. My hands shake as I pour, droplets spattering the table.

"Father." I press the cup into his trembling fingers and steady his shoulders with my other hand. The tremors run deeper than I expected, vibrating through muscle and bone like something fundamental has come loose.

"Ilyra, really." Vaelra's voice carries that particular tone reserved for overenthusiastic children. "He's perfectly capable of managing a cough."

Father takes a careful sip, his breathing still ragged. The water seems to help—the violent spasms ease into smaller, controlled exhales.

"Again?"

Vaelra's sharp gaze flicks between Father and me. Mariselle continues examining her nails as if illness were merely another tedious household chore.

"It's nothing serious." Father waves his free hand dismissively, though his voice comes out rough as grinding stone. "Just the dust from the quarry. Gets in your lungs after a while."

"Edric, you should rest." Vaelra moves around the table with practiced grace, her hand finding his elbow. "The evening air will do you good upstairs."

"I haven't finished—"

"The stew will keep." She guides him toward his feet with gentle insistence. "You've been working too hard lately."

Father rises slowly, each movement deliberate and careful. The broad shoulders that once seemed capable of holding up the world now curve inward, as if protecting something fragile within.

"Don't fuss over me, Illy." His smile holds traces of the warmth I remember from childhood, but exhaustion shadows the edges. "I'll be fine by morning."

He moves toward the narrow staircase leading to their bedroom. Each step requires conscious effort—his right hand grips the wooden railing with white knuckles while his left braces against the wall. The man who used to bound up these stairs two at a time now pauses halfway, breathing heavily.

When did his shoulders become so narrow? The work clothes that once stretched taut across his frame now hang loose, fabric pooling where muscle used to fill the space. His beard, more silver than brown now, can't hide the sharp angles of cheekbones that weren't there six months ago.

"Sweet dreams, darling." Vaelra's voice drifts up from below, honey-smooth.

The bedroom door closes with a soft click.