The house was too quiet.
Not the peaceful quiet of early morning, when dew clung to windows and birds sang in the trees. No. This silence was thick. Hollow.
Elira stirred the hearth absently, but her eyes kept flicking toward the corner where Nivi lay bundled in blankets. The child hadn't moved much all morning. No humming. No questions. No complaints about chores or porridge.
Just stillness.
"Nivi?" she said softly, setting down the ladle.
No response.
She walked over and knelt beside her daughter, brushing the hair from her brow. The skin beneath her fingertips was too warm. Damp. She pressed her palm to Nivi's cheek, then to her neck.
Too hot!
"Nivi," she said again, sharper now.
The girl stirred, eyes fluttering half-open, unfocused. "Mama?"
"I'm here," Elira whispered. "You're okay. Just rest."
But panic had already begun to rise in her throat. Not just because of the fever, but because she knew—in her bones, in her breath—that this wasn't a cold or fatigue.
It had found them.
She rushed to the shelf, fumbling with jars—peppermint for the head, willowbark for the heat—but her hands trembled. She spilled powder across the floor. Her heart beat too fast.
Eon entered the room, carrying a bucket of fresh water, and froze at the sight of her.
"What's wrong?"
Elira didn't look at him right away. She just stood there, still and pale. Then she turned, eyes sharp with dread.
"She's burning up," she said. "It's not the weather. It's not the wind. It's here."
He crossed the room in an instant and dropped to his knees beside Nivi. Her breathing was shallow. Her small hand reached weakly toward his, and he took it, barely able to speak.
"I can't fix this," he whispered.
Elira closed her eyes, trying to steady herself—but her voice cracked anyway.
"I don't care if you fell from the sky or the sea. If there's anything—anything—you remember that could help her, you tell me now!!"
Eon said nothing.
Because there wasn't.
The god had become a man.
And the man could only watch.