The night deepened, shadows stretching long across the griefstone walls. Outside, Ivy leaned against the trees, her cloak trailing in the damp grass. The bark pressed rough against her back, grounding her as the bond hummed faintly with Tieran's warmth. She had stayed there for hours, trying to quiet the storm of blush and memory, but the forest only seemed to echo her thoughts back at her.
Inside, Tieran had finished the leftover work she had abandoned. His hands moved with steady rhythm—stacking bowls, wiping the table, sweeping the floor. He did not complain, did not sigh. His seal pulsed steadily, as though each small task was a way to anchor himself against the echo of Ivy's turmoil.
Orie sat at the long table, her braid slipping forward as she tapped her fingers against the wood. Her eyes narrowed, her seal pulsed faintly.
"She'll need a cast," she murmured, half to herself.
"Something simple, something strong. If Ivy is to control the Mystic Mellow, she must learn to weave its energy before it consumes her." Her voice was low, edged with determination, already rehearsing the lesson she would one day teach.
Nia sat apart, the heavy book of Jaspher—her husband—resting on her lap. Its cover was stubborn, its seals faint but unyielding. She pressed her fingers against it, tried to pry it open, but the pages resisted. For a moment, memories surged—her brother's laughter, Jaspher's voice, the ache of old days—but she steadied herself, jaw tightening.
"Not now," she whispered, her voice sharp but controlled.
"I will not drown in the past." Her seal glowed faintly, her eyes sharp, her grief contained.
Aldi stood nearby, watching them all. Her braid swayed, her lips pressed faintly, her seal pulsed softly. She sighed, uncertain of what role to play.
"Guess I'll take a nap then," she muttered, her voice edged with resignation. With that, she slipped into one of the rooms, cloak trailing, leaving the others to their thoughts.
Ivy's foot caught on something small and bright half-buried in the moss. The twinkle rock lay flat like a coin of moonlight, its surface winking up at her. She stumbled forward, arms flailing, and hit the ground face-first. The impact was dull and immediate; the world narrowed to the rough press of earth against her cheek and the sudden, spreading numbness that stole the sound from her ears.
Her body went rigid for a breath—limbs refusing to obey, a cold paralysis that pinned her to the grass. Her head buzzed, thoughts thinning into a single, bright point. For a moment she could not tell whether the numbness was real or the first ripple of something else the Mystic Mellow had stirred.
Then the shard came—sharp, bright, and impossible to ignore. It cut through the fog like a sliver of sunlight through a crack in a shutter.
She was three again.
A man knelt in front of her, tall and broad-shouldered, the kind of hands that could lift a child without effort. His face was handsome in the soft, forgiving way memory makes faces—familiar lines softened by time, eyes warm and quick with laughter. He scooped her up as she hiccupped through tears, cradling her against his chest.
"Dad," the small voice—her voice—wobbled.
"That twinkle rock hurt me."
The man's laugh was gentle, a low rumble that smelled faintly of smoke and herbs. He pressed his forehead to hers, voice a hush of mock indignation and comfort at once.
"There, there, my child," he said, smiling.
"Let's punish that evil rock."
The memory was not long, but it was dense: the scrape of her knee, the metallic tang of fear, the warmth of his cloak around her shoulders, the way his thumb wiped the tear from her cheek. It arrived with the clarity of a bell struck close—every small detail ringing true.
The shard left her reeling. Joy and ache braided together—joy at the sudden return of a face she had loved, ache at the questions it raised.
Her breath came shallow and fast. The numbness in her limbs eased in small waves, but her hands trembled. She pressed them to her chest as if to hold the memory from slipping away, from fracturing into something less kind.
Across the hall, Tieran felt the change before he saw her. The bond flared—an abrupt, bright spike that cut through the steady hum of their connection. It was not the soft, embarrassed warmth he had been tracing earlier; this was a different color of feeling: sharp, startled, threaded with something like grief and a child's small, fierce comfort.
His hands stilled on the broom. The rhythm of his work broke. He closed his eyes and let the pulse of her memory wash through him—her small voice, the echo of a man's laugh, the tenderness that clung to the image. It landed in him like a stone dropped into still water, sending concentric ripples of concern outward.
Tieran's smirk vanished. Where there had been amusement, there was now a taut, immediate protectiveness.
He moved before thought finished forming—boots whispering on stone as he crossed the hall, cloak forgotten at his shoulders. The bond thrummed under his skin, guiding him toward the place where Ivy had been, pulling him with the certainty of someone who had felt another's fracture and would not leave it unattended.
He reached the doorway and paused, listening to the house breathe. Through the thin wall of wood and stone he felt the last tremor of the memory settle in her—soft, stubborn, like embers cooling. He did not know the whole story; he only knew the shape of her pain and the sudden, fragile thing she now carried.
Outside, Ivy lay very still, the twinkle rock glinting at her shoulder. Inside, Tieran's jaw set. The bond hummed between them—memory and worry braided into the same thread—and he stepped out into the night, moving toward her with the quiet, unarguable intent of someone who would gather a shard of light before it cut deeper.
A strange hum filled the night. Ivy lay against the grass, her body slack, her lips moving faintly. "Dad… Dad… Dad…"
She was not awake, not asleep, not conscious—caught in a state between worlds. From her seal, a weird energy leaked, shimmering like smoke and light, curling upward in jagged pulses. The air around her warped, heavy, pressing against the griefstone walls.
Tieran froze when he saw her. Panic surged through him, his smirk gone, his chest tight. He dropped to his knees, gathering her into his arms. Her body was limp, her breath shallow, the word "Dad" spilling endlessly from her lips.
"Ivy," he whispered, voice breaking. "Stay with me."
He rose, cloak trailing, and tried to carry her back to the attic—to Orie, to Nia, to Aldi, to anyone who could help. But the moment he stepped forward, the air thickened.
Pressure slammed against him, invisible but crushing, as though the house itself resisted. Each step was steep, like walking into thorns. His muscles strained, his seal pulsed erratically, sweat beading at his brow.
Something was pulling him back. Something did not want him to move her.
But Tieran's determination did not falter. He gritted his teeth, his arms tightening around Ivy's fragile form. Her energy burned against his chest, leaking into him, making his own seal flicker wildly.
Halfway across the road, his knees buckled. He coughed, blood staining his lips, the taste sharp and metallic. His vision blurred, the weight pressing harder, threatening to crush him.
Still, he looked down at Ivy—her face pale, her lips still whispering "Dad."
And he went on.
Step by step, the pressure increased, each movement heavier, each breath sharper. His cloak dragged like lead, his body screamed in protest. Yet his arms never loosened.
The bond flared, wild and erratic, Ivy's leaking energy tangling with his own. The road itself seemed to tremble faintly, stones pulsing as though alive.
Tieran staggered forward, blood on his lips, eyes burning with resolve.
And then—
The pressure surged, a final crushing wave. The air split with a sound like stone cracking. Ivy's seal flared blindingly, her voice rising in a broken whisper: "Dad…"
The night froze.
Tieran's body screamed with every step, but he forced himself onward. The pressure clawed at his chest, his vision blurred, blood spilling from his mouth in sharp coughs. Still, he clutched Ivy tighter, her limp form whispering "Dad… Dad…" in endless rhythm.
The attic door loomed ahead. His knees buckled, but with a final surge of desperation he kicked it open. The wood splintered, the door crashing against the wall with a thunderous crack.
Inside, Thimble and Illan slept as if nothing had happened, their breaths steady, oblivious to the storm. But the noise jolted Aldi, Nia, and Orie awake. Cloaks trailing, seals pulsing, they rushed out of their rooms, eyes wide.
They froze at the sight.
Ivy lay pale in Tieran's arms, her lips moving faintly, muttering "Dad" over and over. Tieran staggered, his face ashen, blood dripping from his mouth, his seal flickering wildly as though it might extinguish at any moment.
Orie's braid slipped forward, her eyes narrowing in alarm. "Tieran—what happened?!" she cried, rushing toward him. "Her seal—look at it, it's leaking!"
Nia's jaw tightened, her grief sharp as she saw Ivy's lips form the word "Dad." Her hand trembled against the book she still carried. "Jaspher…" she whispered, voice breaking. Then louder, steadier: "Put her down, Tieran. The energy is too strong—you'll kill yourself!"
Aldi pressed her hand to her mouth, her seal pulsing faintly with panic. "She's so pale… she's not breathing right. Tieran, you're bleeding—oh gods, you're bleeding!"
Tieran staggered forward another step, his knees threatening to give way. His voice was hoarse, broken, but unyielding. "I… won't… let her go."
Blood spilled from his lips again, staining his cloak. His arms tightened around Ivy, his determination burning even as his body faltered.
Orie reached for him, her seal glowing fiercely. "Fool boy! You'll die before you reach the table. Give her to me—now!"
But Tieran shook his head, his eyes blazing with resolve even through the haze of pain. "She… needs me."
The attic trembled faintly, the griefstone walls humming with the strange energy leaking from Ivy's seal. Her voice rose again, broken and childlike: "Dad… Dad…"
The three women exchanged frantic glances—fear, grief, and determination colliding in the dim attic light.
And Tieran, pale and bleeding, stood at the center of it all, refusing to let go.
The attic shook faintly, griefstone walls humming with the strange energy leaking from Ivy's seal. Tieran collapsed to his knees, clutching her tighter, blood dripping from his mouth. Ivy's pale lips kept moving, whispering "Dad… Dad…" in a rhythm that chilled the air.
Orie rushed forward, her braid swinging, her seal blazing with determination. "Hold her steady!" she barked, dropping to the floor beside them. Her hands hovered over Ivy's chest, weaving faint sigils in the air. "I'll try a stabilizing cast—if I can anchor the leak, she might stop muttering."
Her voice trembled despite her command. She pressed her palms down, light spilling from her seal, threads of energy wrapping around Ivy's body like a net. The air hissed, resisting, but Orie gritted her teeth. "Come on, Ivy… don't fight me."
Nia stood frozen at first, Jaspher's book clutched tight against her chest. Her eyes burned as she heard Ivy's broken whisper of "Dad." She pressed her forehead to the cover, as if the sealed pages might answer. "Jaspher… what did you leave us? What did you leave her?" Her voice cracked, grief spilling through. Then louder, steadier: "There has to be something in here. Something to explain this."
She tried again to pry the book open, her seal glowing faintly, but the pages resisted. The hum from Ivy's body seemed to mock her, as if the answers were locked just beyond reach.
Aldi stumbled back, panic in her eyes. "She's freezing—her skin's like ice!" she cried, rushing toward the shelves. She grabbed blankets, water, anything she could carry, her hands shaking. "We can't just stand here! Tieran's bleeding out, Ivy's fading—oh gods, oh gods…"
She dropped the blankets over Ivy, pressed water into Tieran's trembling hands, though he barely noticed. His eyes were locked on Ivy, his breath ragged, blood staining his lips. "I… won't… let her go," he rasped, voice breaking.
Orie's cast flared brighter, threads of light tightening around Ivy's seal. The attic filled with the sound of cracking energy, like glass under strain. Nia pressed harder against Jaspher's book, whispering prayers and curses in equal measure. Aldi knelt beside them, clutching Ivy's hand, tears streaking her cheeks.
The three women's voices rose together—panic, grief, determination—while Tieran's body shook under the weight of his resolve.
And Ivy, pale and trembling, whispered again into the storm: "Dad…"
The attic shuddered. The cast flickered. The book pulsed faintly.
Something was about to break.
Orie's hands trembled as the stabilizing cast strained against Ivy's leaking seal. Threads of light wrapped around her chest, flickering, hissing, fighting to hold. For a heartbeat it seemed to work—her muttering slowed, her breath steadied.
Then the energy surged.
The cast snapped with a sound like glass shattering, shards of light scattering across the attic. Orie recoiled, her braid whipping forward, her eyes wide. "This… this isn't just a leak," she whispered, horror in her voice. "It's something deeper. Something breaking loose."
Aldi dropped the blankets she had gathered, her face pale, her seal pulsing erratically. "Oh gods," she stammered, voice shaking. "It's what I think it is…"
The attic fell silent, save for Ivy's broken whisper: "Dad… Dad…"
Tieran knelt, blood spilling from his mouth, his arms tightening around Ivy though his strength was nearly gone. His eyes burned with helplessness, his jaw clenched against the weight pressing down.
Nia clutched Jaspher's book to her chest, her grief sharp and unyielding. She knew, as Tieran did, as Orie and Aldi now realized—there was no stopping this.
They understood one thing, shared in the bond of silence and dread: A catastrophe was about to happen.
The attic trembled.
The griefstone walls groaned. Ivy's seal flared blindingly, her voice rising one last time: "Dad…"
And the chapter ended in frozen light.