Morning light filtered soft through the hut's woven shutters, painting golden stripes across the moss-stuffed pallet. Akilliz woke to children laughing outside and the rich scent of baking bread drifting on the breeze.

  His hand flexed. The mark tingled, a reminder sewn into his skin.

  He sat up slow, rolling his shoulder. The arrow wound had closed to smooth pink skin, only a faint ache remaining. The salve worked.

  His salve.

  A sharp knock rattled the door.

  "Up, potion-maker. Daylight's wasting."

  The woman who filled the doorway had gray hair pulled back in a severe braid and eyes sharp as a hawk's. She looked him over once.

  "I'm Elira, known as the village alchemist. Eryndor says you're a potion-maker. Apparently even healed the fae's wing." Her tone suggested she'd believe it when she saw proof. "Come to my hut. Let us see what you are worth."

  She turned and walked without checking if he followed. Aura's mote darted after them.

  The village was waking in earnest. Smoke curled from morning cook fires. A group of half-elf women worked at a communal loom under a wide oak, laughter carrying on the breeze. Children chased each other between huts with the joy of those who'd never known war or hunger.

  Akilliz breathed it in. The peace of it. The warmth.

  Elira's hut sat near the village edge, larger than the others, smelling of dried herbs and old smoke. Shelves lined every wall, packed tight with jars and bundles, roots hanging from the rafters. A worn wooden table dominated the center, its surface scarred from years of grinding and mixing.

  She gestured to five clay pots arranged in a neat row.

  "Identify these. Tell me their uses. If you guess, I'll know."

  Akilliz stepped closer. This was familiar ground — Ma had tested him the same way before he was tall enough to reach the garden's back rows.

  The first was easy. Pale and delicate with distinctive veins. "Silverleaf. For infections and wound cleaning. Brew it weak or it burns."

  Elira's expression didn't change. "Next."

  Dark roots. He lifted one, sniffed. "Feverfew. Breaks fevers, eases headaches. Steep it long and low, never boil."

  "Next."

  Small yellow flowers, petals closed tight. He rubbed one between his fingers and the scent hit familiar, like summer evenings and Ma's bedtime teas. "Chamomile. Calms the body, helps sleep. Also binds other herbs together in complex brews."

  A flicker of approval crossed Elira's face. "Next."

  Purple berries he didn't recognize. He turned one over, studied the stem attachment, the skin's texture. Sniffed it careful.

  Nothing. No memory sparked.

  I shouldn't guess. Honesty's better than false confidence.

  "I don't know this one," he admitted, meeting her eyes. "Never seen it before."

  Elira's stern expression softened just a fraction. "Good. Truthful words are worth more than false claim. It prevents loss of unnecessary life." She plucked one from the pot and showed him the small white mark at its base. "Winterbane berry. Rare this far south. Stops bleeding fast, but too much and the blood won't clot at all. White mark — Winterbane. No mark — Nightshade. That one kills outright."

  He committed it to memory.

  "Last one."

  Thin dark leaves, oily, smelling of earth and metal. Ma had mentioned something like this once, in passing. Something about purging.

  The demon's voice slithered soft: Bloodroot. Causes vomiting to purge poison. Three leaves, no more.

  The knowledge arrived certain and complete.

  "Bloodroot," he said. "Purges poison from the stomach. Three leaves steeped, no more, or the cure's worse than the poison."

  Elira's eyebrows rose. "Where did you learn that? It's not common knowledge, even among trained healers."

  "My mother," he managed.

  She held his gaze another heartbeat, then nodded. "Five for five, counting the honest 'I don't know.' Better than most who've studied twice as long." She pulled down a small copper pot and a bundle of dried herbs. "Now brew me a Feverfew Kiss. Takes ten minutes if you know what you're doing."

  She stepped back and watched.

  His hands moved automatically, muscle memory from brews with Ma. Grinding the feverfew medium-coarse, the rhythmic scrape of pestle on stone a comfort. Water added to the pot, set over the small brazier with the flame adjusted carefully — too close and it would scorch, too far and it wouldn't steep proper.

  A tune rose unbidden from his throat as he worked, a morning melody Ma had taught him, the one that helped bind essence and intent. Hands moving counterclockwise as he stirred, three rotations, then a pause to add a pinch of chamomile — smoothing the bitterness, balancing the heat. The color shifted from pale yellow to soft gold, steam rising with the scent of summer fields.

  He let it steep exactly two minutes, then strained it carefully into a clay cup. No grounds, no sediment. Clear and pure.

  Elira took it without a word. Sipped once. Her eyes widened fractionally.

  She sipped again, slower, as if tasting memory itself.

  "This taste." She trailed off, staring at the cup. "That hum. The counterclockwise stir. The chamomile balance." Her gaze snapped to him, sudden and sharp. "Who did you say your mother was?"

  "Elowen. Elowen of Lumara."

  "Elowen..." Elira's brow furrowed. Then recognition dawned. "What did she look like?"

  "Golden hair, soft features. Kind smile." He paused, throat tightening. "Blue eyes. Like a stream catching sunlight. You always knew when she was looking at you."

  Color drained from Elira's face. The cup trembled in her hands.

  "You knew her," Akilliz breathed.

  "Aye." The word came out rough. "Seventeen winters past. Gods, has it been so long?"

  She set the cup down with care that bordered on reverence.

  "My daughter, my Sera, had a fever that wouldn't break. Three days of burning, delirious, seeing sprits that weren't there. We thought we'd lose her." Elira's voice cracked. "I'd tried everything. Every herb I knew, every technique, every prayer to Aurelia and the Nine. Nothing worked. The fever just climbed higher."

  She pressed a hand to her mouth, composing herself.

  "Then this stranger appeared at my door. Barely more than a girl herself. She couldn't have been older than twenty, but with hands that knew their craft. Those caring eyes looked at Sera and just... knew. Like she could see the sickness itself."

  Elira picked up the cup again and stared into it.

  "She brewed this exact potion. I watched her work and it was like watching the real kind of magic, not spells or runes, just perfect knowledge wed to perfect care." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "Sera drank it and the fever broke within the hour. By morning she was asking for breakfast."

  A tear traced down Elira's weathered cheek.

  "I offered Elowen everything. Coin, food, a place to stay as long as she wanted. She took nothing. Stayed one night, then vanished with the dawn mist before I could even say proper thanks."

  She looked at Akilliz differently now, something like wonder mixing with old gratitude.

  "She saved my daughter, and here you are, seventeen winters later, brewing with her hands."

  She reached across and gripped his shoulder. "Your mother was a master, boy. A true healer. The kind that comes once in a generation." She squeezed once, fierce. "You've got her gift. Raw and untrained, but it's there. Don't waste it. She'd want you to go further."

  "I'm trying," Akilliz managed. "That's why I went to Luminael."

  "And they cast you out." Disgust colored her tone. "Fools, the lot of them. Too busy polishing their purity to recognize real talent."

  She turned back to her shelves, but not before he caught her wiping at her eyes.

  Stepping outside into the bright morning sun, Akilliz felt the Aura settle warm on his shoulder.

  "You used me," the demon purred. "And it worked perfectly."

  "I didn't ask for your help," he muttered, and walked before it could answer.

  Soren found him minutes later, appearing around a corner at full sprint with Kaela close behind.

  "There you are! Come ON, Theron wants to meet you! He's the blacksmith and he made my Da's sword and he can make ANYTHING and—"

  Kaela tugged his sleeve, quieter. "Soren wouldn't stop talking about you all morning."

  "Did NOT!"

  "Did too. You said 'fairy friend' like a hundred times."

  "Only 'cause it's TRUE!" Soren grabbed Akilliz's hand and pulled. "Come ON!"

  Laughing, Akilliz let himself be dragged through the village. Past gardens bursting with growth. An old human man carving a walking stick waved as they passed. "That's the fairy friend, then? Welcome, lad."

  Finnian the hunter stood near a smoking rack of fish, arms crossed, eyes tracking Akilliz's path. Not hostile. Just watchful. Their eyes met and finnian nodded once, slow, then went back to his work.

  Theron's forge sat at the village's eastern edge, a larger structure of stone and timber with a chimney breathing lazy gray smoke. The ring of hammer on anvil echoed steady, a rhythm Akilliz knew bone-deep.

  Inside, heat rolled thickly. A half-elf man worked the bellows, dark brown hair tied back from a face lined with concentration. He looked up as they entered, eyes fixing immediately on the sword at Akilliz's hip.

  "Fine blade, young man. I saw it earlier." Theron said, setting his hammer down. "May I?"

  Akilliz offered it hilt-first. Theron took it with both hands, examining it with a craftsman's reverence.

  "The smith knew exactly who would carry this," he murmured. "Made it for your height, your reach, your strength." He held it up to the forge-light. "Who forged it, if I may ask?"

  "My father. Torin of Lumara. We made it together before I set out."

  Theron's eyebrows rose. "A masterwork. A somg of steel made by a father and his son." He shook his head slowly. "You're carrying more than a weapon. You know that, right?"

  Akilliz's throat tightened. He nodded.

  "Good lad." Theron handed it back with care. "Edge is dulled though, and there's a nick here that'll spread if not addressed. Let me sharpen it proper. A weapon this fine deserves maintenance."

  They talked while Theron worked, forge-craft and fathers and the particular satisfaction of making things that lasted. Soren and Kaela sat nearby, watching with the fascination children have for skilled hands.

  "I miss him," Akilliz said, at some point. "Makes me sad he's alone."

  Theron kept his eyes on the blade. "A man who'd forge something like this for his boy loves you fierce. He knows a son has to find his own path."

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  When the blade was sharp enough to split falling silk, Theron handed it back. "Keep it close. Good steel's rarer than gold, son."

  "Aura?" Akilliz said as they were leaving. "Want to say hello?"

  The mote popped into view, hovering between them. Soren and Kaela gasped in perfect unison.

  "She's so PRETTY!" Kaela breathed.

  "Can she do tricks? Can she make sparkles?"

  Aura darted in a playful loop, trailing purple light, and the children erupted in delighted chaos. Akilliz smiled and let them have their moment.

  "That means he's good," Kaela said solemnly, watching Aura spiral. "Fairies always know."

  The afternoon dissolved into honest labor. Bram the farmer needed help hauling water from the well to the gardens, and Akilliz joined the chain of villagers passing buckets, arms burning, sweat soaking his tunic.

  The rhythm felt good. No magic, no demon whispers. Just effort and the satisfaction of watching garden rows darken with moisture.

  Soren and Kaela had invented a game involving Aura that seemed to have no rules and infinite energy.

  When the last bucket was emptied, Bram clapped him on the shoulder with a hand like a bear's paw. "You work hard for an outsider. Almost makes me forget you're not one of us."

  "Almost?" Akilliz grinned.

  "Can't make it too easy. Where's the fun in that?" Bram's answering grin took any sting from the words. "You've got a good back and you don't complain. That's worth more than fancy magic here."

  Across the garden, Finnian stood checking his hunting snares, eyes tracking Akilliz for a moment before returning to his work.

  As the sun descended the village transformed, lanterns strung between huts, long tables carried out, food appearing from every direction until the whole clearing shimmered soft under captured starlight.

  Lira passed by with an armload of woven placemats. "You're starting to fit in around here. Even if your clothes look like rags."

  He glanced down at his tunic. "These are the nicest clothes I own."

  "That's... actually sad." She laughed. "We'll fix that."

  Eryndor stood at the head of the long tables and raised a clay cup.

  "To survival," he called. "To sanctuary. To those who find us in the mist and choose to stay."

  "Shal'ethar!" the crowd answered as one.

  The festival began.

  Akilliz found himself seated between Soren and Gavren, plate piled high with food he didn't remember accepting. Laughter rose around him like warmth from a fire.

  Soren peppered him with questions between enormous bites of honeycake. Aura investigated a piece on Soren's plate, took a tiny bite, and glowed brighter with apparent delight. The children at the table erupted.

  "What's her name?" Kaela asked quietly.

  "Aura."

  "That's the prettiest name I ever heard," she whispered, then went pink and looked at her plate.

  Music started somewhere down the table, a fiddle's bright cry joined by a flute and the steady heartbeat of a drum. Villagers rose from benches and moved between the tables, bodies following the music's joy.

  Lira appeared at his shoulder. "Come on. You can't sit all night."

  "I don't know how to dance," he protested.

  "Neither does anyone else. That's the whole point." She grabbed his hand and pulled him up before he could argue, her callused palm warm against his.

  The packed earth between tables swallowed them. She spun him into the rhythm, laughing when he stumbled, catching him when he nearly tripped over his own feet.

  "Just move!" she called over the music. "There's no wrong way!"

  And there wasn't. Around them, villagers spun and stomped and swayed with abandon, an elderly elf woman dancing with a human boy barely tall enough to reach her waist, Theron swinging Elira in wide circles despite her protests.

  Akilliz let the music carry him. Let himself forget Luminael's marble and the demon's whispers. He let himself be sixteen, alive and part of something warm.

  As the music wound into slower melodies, Elara the elderly elf tapped her walking stick three times against the ground and conversations quieted. Children rushed to sit cross-legged at her feet.

  Her eyes were milky with age but seemed to see past the present moment into somewhere distant.

  "Tell me, young children, do you know how you came by those pointed ears?"

  Soren's hand shot up. "We're elves!"

  "But why are we elves? That's the question." Elara's smile was mischievous. "Once, long ago, we were human. Just like young Akilliz here."

  Gasps rippled through the children. Several turned to stare at him.

  "No way!" Kaela breathed.

  "The humans lived here, in this very forest, blessed by Aurelia's light. They built villages, raised families, worshiped the Goddess who kept them safe." Her voice dropped with weight. "Then the mountain began to grow."

  She pointed with her walking stick toward where Frosthelm loomed beyond the canopy.

  "Frosthelm. Rising from the earth like a blade piercing the sky. And from it came dark things, creatures of shadow and hunger.” She paused as the children stared transfixed

  “Then, without word…they fell upon the villages like wolves on sheep!”

  The room gasped

  “They began killing without mercy, without reason."

  Soren had gone very still beside him.

  "The humans fought brave. With spears and arrows, with courage and determination. But mortal weapons couldn't stop them and mortal flesh wasn't strong enough."

  "Did they.. all die?" Kaela whispered.

  "They would have." Elara's voice softened. "But Aurelia loved them. Loved their bravery, their kindness to each other, their songs and laughter even in the face of darkness. So she blessed the bravest warriors and gave them long life, healing, strength beyond mortal measure to stand against the tide."

  "She turned them into elves!" a boy near the back called out.

  "Aye. Three days and three nights they fought at Frosthelm's foot, blood soaking the ground, screams echoing off the mountain. But slowly, slowly, the darkness was driven back." She paused, and the fire seemed to burn brighter in the silence. "When it was done, Aurelia herself walked among them, wept for those lost, and blessed those that remained. Helped the survivors build Luminael, a great city of light to stand eternal watch against the mountain's shadow."

  Eryndor's voice joined from across the fire. "And every year, the city celebrates the Festival of Light to remember that victory."

  "Yet they don't remember where they came from," Gavren muttered. Bitterness edged the words.

  Elara's blind eyes seemed to find him across the flames. "No. They don't. Pride grows in the cracks where gratitude should live."

  She smiled at the children. "Now off with you. To bed before your parents drag you there by your pointed ears."

  Groans rose, but the children dispersed chattering into the dark.

  Akilliz sat with Eryndor and Gavren, watching the fire burn to coals.

  "Do you think it's true?" Akilliz asked. "The story?"

  "True enough," Eryndor said. "The holy books in Luminael tell the same tale, though they leave out the part about being human first."

  "Convenient," Gavren muttered.

  "Power likes to forget it was ever powerless." Eryndor sipped his drink, and the conversation drifted to other things — harvest predictions, repairs before winter, whose turn it was to maintain the well. Comfortable, mundane things that made Akilliz's heart ache with how normal it all felt.

  The festival wound down slow, children carried to bed despite protests, adults finishing last drinks and drifting toward their huts with tired smiles.

  Finnian appeared at Akilliz's elbow without sound.

  "Enjoying yourself?"

  "Yeah. This is... it's really something."

  Finnian glanced at Akilliz's wrapped hand. "That injury healing up proper?"

  "Getting there."

  "Good." Finnian's eyes held his a moment too long. "Hate to see an infection spread. Especially the kind that gets into the blood. Hard to stop once it takes root."

  Then he was gone, melted back into the crowd before Akilliz could respond.

  He made his way back through the dark village, lanterns guttering low, everything peaceful and still. Almost to his door when a small figure darted from the shadows.

  A young human, couldn't have been more than twenty, wild hair and panicked eyes. She clutched a bundle to her chest that shifted and whimpered.

  "Please," she gasped. "You're the traveling healer, aren't you? The son of the one who saved Sera? My son, he's burning up and nothing works and Elira's asleep and I didn't want to wake her but he's getting worse and—"

  The bundle shifted. A child's face emerged, flushed dark with fever, eyes glassy and unfocused. Maybe five years old. The same rattling, desperate breathing Akilliz remembered from too many memories.

  His stomach dropped.

  "Bring him to Elira's hut," he said, already moving. "Immediately."

  Elira appeared at her door before he'd finished knocking, hair loose, sleep-rumpled but instantly alert the moment she saw the child.

  "How long?" she asked, taking the boy from his mother's arms.

  "Three days. Started as a cough, then the fever came. I gave him feverfew, chamomile, everything I know—" The mother's voice cracked. "Nothing helps. He just keeps burning hotter."

  Elira laid the child on her work table, felt his forehead, checked his pulse at throat and wrist. Her expression darkened.

  "Fetch water. Clean cloth." She looked at Akilliz. "You. Journal. Whatever your mother taught you about breaking fevers."

  He pulled the journal with shaking hands and flipped through Ma's careful sections by candlelight, fevers organized by severity and symptom.

  Burning fever with glassy eyes and shallow breath...

  There. The symptoms matched.

  Feverfew Kiss, doubled strength. If fever persists beyond two hours, add winterbane to attack the root. If fever climbs despite treatment, consider magical origin—

  Magical origin.

  "Let me try," Akilliz said. "Feverfew Kiss first. Strong as I can make it."

  Elira nodded and stepped back. The mother watched with desperate hope painted across her face.

  His hands moved fast but carefully — feverfew ground fine for stronger extraction, double the normal amount, water set over the brazier with the flame as high as it would go. The hum rose in his throat, counterclockwise stir, chamomile added at exactly the right moment. Everything he had been taught poured into this one brew.

  The color turned deep gold, almost amber.

  He strained it quick and held the cup to the child's lips. "Drink, little guy. Just a few sips."

  The boy managed three swallows before turning his head away.

  They waited.

  Ten minutes. Twenty. Thirty.

  The flush on his cheeks didn't fade. If anything it deepened.

  "It's not working," the mother whispered.

  He tried again with winterbane added, carefully measured to the exact amount the journal specified, the mixture turning pale green and astringent. The child drank more this time. Kept it down.

  Fifteen minutes. Thirty. Forty-five.

  The fever climbed.

  An hour passed, the longest since the night Ma died. The child's lips cracked and bled, each breath coming harder than the last.

  Elira met his eyes across the table, and he saw it there — the knowledge, the recognition of limits.

  "I don't know what else to do," she said quietly.

  The child's back arched suddenly. Seizure. Small body going rigid, eyes rolling back.

  "No!" The mother lunged forward but Elira held her back. "Let it pass. Don't restrain him or you'll hurt him worse—"

  Ten seconds. Felt like an eternity.

  When it ended the child went limp. Breathing so shallow Akilliz couldn't tell if his chest moved at all.

  The demon's voice came soft and kind.

  "I can help."

  "No."

  "You can't save him with herbs alone."

  The child's lips were grey now, each breath a desperate rattling gasp.

  "Mortal remedies can't reach it without a bridge, one you know how to provide."

  "What does that mean?" Akilliz breathed.

  "Bone dust. From something dying but not yet dead."

  "You want me to kill something?"

  "I want you to save the child. There's a bird in the rafters, wounded wing. One small life to save a larger one."

  Akilliz looked up without meaning to. In the dim corner, half-hidden in shadow, a small brown bird huddled on a rafter beam. One wing hung at a wrong angle, clearly broken. Even from here he could see the pain in how it held itself.

  The child stopped breathing.

  Complete stillness.

  Elira moved fast, pushing on his chest. Once. Twice.

  A gasping breath returned. Wet and weak.

  "Akilliz." Elira's voice was breaking.

  The mother's eyes found his, drowning. "Please. Please save my son.”

  His body moved before his mind fully decided. He grabbed a stool.

  "I need a moment," he said, voice hollow. "Just a moment."

  Climbing up, his hand closed around the small warm body. The bird didn't fight. Couldn't. It just looked at him with dark eyes that held no understanding of what was about to happen.

  It chirped once, soft. Almost trusting.

  I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.

  "I'll be right back," he said. "Don't let him stop breathing."

  Behind Elira's hut, hidden in shadow, Akilliz stood alone with death in his hands.

  The bird's heartbeat fluttered rapid against his palm, afraid now, sensing something wrong. It struggled weakly, the broken wing scraping against his fingers.

  "I'm sorry," he whispered, tears he didn't remember starting tracking hot down his face. "You were dying anyway. You were in pain. And he's just a child. He has his whole life—"

  The rationalizations tasted like ash even as he spoke them.

  His other hand wrapped around the small neck. The delicate bones beneath soft feathers. The fragile pulse of life.

  One quick twist and it's over.

  The heartbeat stopped.

  The small body went still and heavy in a way that living things never are.

  Something inside Akilliz cracked. Not broke, not yet. Just cracked. A fissure in who he'd thought he was. A line crossed that couldn't be uncrossed.

  "Well done," the demon purred. "Now finish it."

  He went back inside.

  He worked in the shadows, turning away from them, grinding the tiny bones to fine powder and trying not to hear that last soft chirp echoing in his memory.

  Akilliz mixed it with feverfew, winterbane, chamomile. The color turned sickly green. Tainted.

  He brought it to the table on trembling legs. "This should work. But I need you to trust me."

  "I trust you," the mother said immediately. "Save him."

  Elira said nothing. Just watched with eyes that had seen too much death to look away now.

  Akilliz held the cup to the child's lips. "Drink. Please. Just a little."

  The boy managed four swallows. The mixture smelled of copper, earth and something darker.

  They waited.

  Two minutes. The child's breathing steadied slightly.

  Five minutes. Color began returning to his cheeks — pink instead of the fever's crimson.

  Ten minutes. The fever was breaking. Sweat beaded on the small forehead, the body's heat finally releasing instead of building.

  Fifteen minutes. The child's eyes fluttered open, focused, and found his mother.

  "Mama?" Weak as spider silk but clear. Aware.

  The mother collapsed sobbing against the table, clutching her son to her chest, thanking Aurelia and the Nine and Akilliz in a stream of broken, incoherent gratitude.

  Elira pulled Akilliz into a fierce hug. "You saved him. However you did it."

  Relief and celebration filled the hut.

  Akilliz stood in the center of it feeling hollow.

  When they had gone, the child bundled warm against his mother's chest, already asking for water. Elira turned to face him.

  "What was in that brew?" Voice careful. Measured. "The binding agent. What was it?"

  He stared at the floor. "Something that worked."

  A long pause. The candles flickered.

  "That bird in my rafters," Elira said slowly. "The one with the broken wing. I noticed it's gone."

  His stomach dropped.

  "I don't know what you did out there," she continued, voice stripped of warmth. "And I'm not asking. Because that child lives. His mother gets to watch him grow." She paused, and when she spoke again she sounded tired. So tired. "Sometimes that has to be enough."

  "Does it?" The question escaped before he could stop it.

  "It has to be." She turned to her shelves. "Because the alternative is watching children die while we stay pure. And I'm tired of purity." She touched his shoulder once, brief and firm. "Remember the cost. Whatever it was. Don't let it become easy.” Then she was gathering her tools, cleaning her workspace.

  He stepped out into the night. The cold air hit sharp after the hut's warmth.

  Behind Elira's hut, in the dark where no one could see, he knelt in the dirt.

  He'd wrapped what remained in a scrap of cloth before grinding. Akilliz couldn't bring himself to use everything. He dug a hole with his bare hands, fingers scraping through earth and roots, placed the cloth-wrapped bundle inside, covered it with soil. Then he found a smooth river stone and set it on top.

  There was nothing to say that wouldn't taste like ash.

  He unwrapped his hand in the moonlight.

  The black veins had spread, threading outward from the dagger wound in a delicate poisonous lace like roots seeking deeper soil. He flexed his fingers. The mark didn't hurt. Somehow that was worse.

  Aura appeared at his shoulder, dimmer than before. She materialized fully and landed on the grave marker, looking at the mark on his hand, then at him. Her glow flickered uncertain. Afraid.

  "I saved him," Akilliz said, voice rough. "The child lives. His mother gets to keep him."

  Aura didn't answer. She settled on the small stone, light pulsing soft and slow, keeping watch over something that no one else would ever know was there.

  He wrapped his hand again and went inside.

  He sat on the pallet and stared at the wall. The festival felt like it had happened years ago instead of hours. All that joy already tainted by what came after.

  The demon's voice arrived soft and satisfied.

  "You did what she couldn't. You saved the child where she would have failed."

  "Don't," Akilliz said. "Don't talk about her like that."

  “She wasn't strong enough to do what was necessary."

  "Shut up."

  Silence.

  When sleep finally came, near dawn, he dreamed of birds. When they landed their wings were all broken, dragging in the dust. They looked at him with dark eyes that held no blame. Only questions.

  He tried to answer. No words came.

  He woke gasping, sweat-soaked, as pale morning light crept through the shutters. The mark pulsed faint beneath its wrapping, a second heartbeat that didn't quite match his own.

  Somewhere out there, a child was alive because of what he'd done.

  And somewhere behind Elira's hut, a small stone marked a grave that no one else would ever know existed.

  He sat up and wrapped his hand tighter.