The treehouse had never felt so small.
Ed remained kneeling beside the bed.
One hand wrapped around Tia's, the other resting lightly on her forehead.
Her skin was too warm—feverish.
Beneath the thin blanket, her chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven waves.
Each breath sounded fragile, like paper tearing slowly.
Moonlight fell through the unshuttered window in pale silver bars, striping her face and the spreading black marks that now reached from wrist to collarbone.
The patterns looked almost beautiful in the dim light—swirling, vine-like—but Ed knew better.
They were death blooming under her skin.
He pressed two fingers gently to the pulse at her throat.
Steady, but too slow. Too weak.
"Stay with me," he whispered.
"Just stay with me a little longer."
Tia's eyelids fluttered but didn't open.
A faint sound escaped her—half sigh, half whimper.
Ed closed his eyes for a moment, forcing his own breathing to steady.
Panic wouldn't help her.
Panic had never helped anyone.
He opened his eyes again and spoke softly into the quiet room.
"Akashic's Compass. Activate."
Golden light bloomed once more in his free palm—dimmer than before, almost hesitant.
The outer ring spun lazily; the inner disc remained blank for several long seconds.
"What I seek," Ed said, voice low and deliberate,
"is any way to stop or reverse the damage caused by the elven secret art Lunaria Tia used tonight."
The compass needle jerked.
Then spun wildly.
Visions flickered across the center—too fast at first to parse:
Ancient elven tomes with cracked leather covers.
Glowing runes carved into living wood.
A circle of white-robed figures chanting beneath a blood-red moon.
A single silver leaf falling slowly into dark water.
Then the images slowed.
A clear scene crystallized:
An elderly elf woman—hair the color of winter frost—kneeling in a grove identical to this one.
She pressed both palms to the trunk of an elder tree and whispered words Ed couldn't hear.
Thin threads of green light flowed upward from the roots, into her arms, into her chest.
The black marks on her own skin—similar to Tia's—faded, retreating like shadows before dawn.
The vision held for three heartbeats, then dissolved.
The compass needle settled—pointing not outward, but downward.
Toward the floorboards.
Toward the roots of the tree itself.
Ed stared at the motionless needle.
"The tree," he breathed.
"The treehouse draws ambient mana… but it can do more. It can give."
He looked at Tia—still unconscious, still breathing, still slipping.
He stood.
Carefully—reverently—he lifted her into his arms again.
Blanket and all.
Her head lolled against his shoulder; one braid fell across his chest like spilled sunlight.
"I'm taking you downstairs," he murmured against her hair.
"We're going to fix this."
He carried her down the narrow staircase, step by careful step.
The treehouse creaked softly around them—as though the elder itself were listening.
At the bottom he paused only long enough to kick the rug aside, revealing a trapdoor set flush into the floorboards.
He'd noticed it earlier—small, unremarkable—but now it felt like fate.
He shifted Tia's weight to one arm, knelt, and lifted the trapdoor with his free hand.
A narrow wooden ladder descended into darkness.
Cool air rose—scented with earth, moss, and something older, greener.
Faint silver light pulsed at the bottom, steady as a heartbeat.
Ed descended.
The ladder ended in a small, circular chamber carved directly into the living heartwood.
Roots arched overhead like cathedral beams.
In the center stood a shallow stone basin—smooth, worn by centuries—filled with faintly glowing water.
Thin threads of green light drifted upward from the liquid, curling lazily toward the ceiling.
The tree's mana reservoir.
Ed knelt beside the basin and lowered Tia gently onto a bed of soft moss that grew along the chamber wall.
She stirred faintly—eyelids fluttering—but didn't wake.
He dipped both hands into the glowing water.
It was warm, tingling, alive.
Power flowed up his arms—not forceful, but generous.
Welcoming.
He lifted dripping hands and pressed them to Tia's chest—over her heart.
"Please," he said—to the tree, to the mana, to whatever force still listened.
"Give it back to her. Whatever she spent tonight. Whatever she's been spending for ten years. Take it from me if you have to."
The water in the basin rippled.
Green light surged upward—brighter now—wrapping around his wrists, climbing his forearms, flowing into Tia.
The black marks on her skin shuddered.
Retreated.
Inch by slow inch they pulled back—down her throat, down her arms—until only faint gray shadows remained at her wrists.
Tia drew a deeper breath.
Then another.
Her eyes opened—cloudy at first, then clearing.
"Ed…?"
He exhaled—shaky, relieved—and lowered his forehead to hers.
"I'm here."
She lifted a trembling hand to his cheek.
"You… you shouldn't have—"
"I did." His voice was rough.
"And I'd do it again."
Tia's gaze drifted to the fading marks on her arms.
Tears welled, spilled silently.
"I thought I was ready to go," she whispered.
"I thought… if I could just see you one more time…"
"You're not going anywhere," Ed said fiercely.
"Not tonight. Not ever, if I can help it."
She laughed—weak, wet, but real.
"You always were terrible at letting people go."
He smiled against her hair.
"Guilty."
Above them, the treehouse creaked softly—almost fondly—as though the elder itself were satisfied.
For the first time in ten years, Tia closed her eyes and let herself rest.
And for the first time in a hundred, Ed let himself believe that maybe—just maybe—he could stay.