Weaves of Ashes-Chapter 224 - 219: The Truthspeaker’s Questions

Location: Thornhaven Village

Date/Time: 11-12 Ashwhisper, 9938 AZI

Realm: Mid Realm

The pain began behind Lyria’s eyes and worked its way down.

Not the sharp, sudden agony she’d braced for—Vaelith had warned her the first session would be uncomfortable, and Lyria had prepared herself for something violent, some wrenching recalibration of flesh and bone. Instead, the healer’s essence moved through her like roots seeking water, patient and relentless, and everywhere it touched, it found damage.

Old damage. The kind that had become so familiar, Lyria had stopped noticing it.

"Breathe," Vaelith murmured. Her luminous hands rested on Lyria’s shoulders, the vine markings along her fingers pulsing with a soft green-gold rhythm. "Your body has been compensating for weeks. It built walls around the damage to protect you—crude walls, emergency measures. I need to take them down before I can repair what’s underneath."

Lyria breathed. Or tried to. Each inhale felt like pulling air through wet cloth.

"The walls are part of me now," she managed. "Aren’t they?"

"They were never part of you." Vaelith’s voice carried that particular blend of gentleness and precision that Lyria was beginning to recognize as her default. Warm enough to trust. Sharp enough to cut. "They’re scar tissue your gift built while panicking. Imagine tearing strips from a dress to bandage a wound—functional, but you’ve ruined the dress, and the bandage is filthy."

"That’s... a terrible metaphor."

"I’m a healer, not a poet." The faintest curve at the corner of Vaelith’s mouth. "Now hold still. This next part will feel like I’m pulling thorns out of your lungs."

It felt exactly like that.

Lyria gripped the edges of the wooden chair, locked her jaw, and did not scream. Tears leaked from the corners of her eyes—not grief, not fear, just the body’s involuntary response to having its emergency architecture dismantled one crude wall at a time. Each removal opened channels that had been pinched shut, and essence flooded back into spaces that had been starving. The relief was almost worse than the pain. Like blood rushing back into a limb that had gone numb—pins and needles multiplied a thousandfold, lighting up nerve pathways she’d forgotten she had.

Voresh stood by the cottage window, arms folded, his copper eyes tracking every flinch. He hadn’t spoken since the session began. Hadn’t moved. But Lyria could feel him through that odd thread of awareness she’d developed since the ritual words—taut as a bowstring, vibrating with the effort of staying still while she hurt. It was more than a guardian’s concern. She was sure of it. The way his jaw tightened with each sound she made, the way his hands gripped his own arms hard enough to press white crescents into bronze skin—that wasn’t duty. That was something else. Something he wouldn’t name, and she hadn’t yet learned to ask about.

Vaelith paused. Withdrew her hands. The vine markings on her skin dimmed from active green-gold to their resting silver-green.

"Enough for today."

Lyria sagged. "That’s it?"

"That’s two hours." Vaelith produced a cloth from somewhere within her emerald robes and pressed it gently to Lyria’s forehead, blotting sweat Lyria hadn’t realized was there. "I’ve cleared the worst of the emergency scarring in your upper channels. Tomorrow, we work on the lower ones. The day after, your organs."

"How many sessions total?"

"Seven. Perhaps eight." Vaelith studied her with clinical focus, those green-gold eyes cataloguing things beneath the surface that Lyria couldn’t see. "Your body is remarkably resilient. The damage was severe, but your healing response..." She trailed off. Considered. "It’s unusually strong for someone of your heritage."

Something flickered behind those words. Lyria felt it through her empathy—a question Vaelith was choosing not to ask. Not yet.

"Rest now. Eat something with protein—meat, eggs, nuts. Your body needs material to rebuild with." Vaelith rose, emerald robes settling around her like water finding its level. "And no visions. Not even small ones. Your channels are raw."

"I’ll keep them closed."

"You’ll try." Vaelith’s expression softened. "The gift doesn’t always listen. If a vision comes unbidden, don’t fight it—let it pass through you. Fighting costs more than yielding."

She touched Lyria’s cheek once, briefly, and the warmth of it lingered long after her luminous hand withdrew.

***

The Truthspeaker, as Thornhaven had taken to calling her, was becoming a problem.

Not a dangerous problem. Not even an unpleasant one, exactly. But the effect Vaelith had on the village—the involuntary honesty that seemed to radiate from her presence like heat from a forge—was escalating from amusing to alarming.

It had started small. Garrick and the horseshoe prices. Old Sera and the bread. Scattered confessions that had produced more laughter than scandal, the kind of petty truths every village accumulated like dust in corners.

But by the second day, the confessions had grown teeth.

Lyria was crossing the village square after her morning session when she heard shouting from the tanner’s workshop. Brennan—stocky, red-faced, famously tight-lipped about everything—had his wife Ilsa by the hands and was speaking at a volume that carried across three buildings.

"—been writing poems about you for fifteen years! Terrible ones! I hide them in the rafters because they’re embarrassing and I don’t want anyone to know I have feelings, but I DO, Ilsa, I have SO MANY FEELINGS—"

Ilsa stared at her husband as though he’d grown a second head. "You write poems?"

"AWFUL ones! They don’t even rhyme properly!"

Lyria pressed her hand over her mouth. Behind her, she heard Zharek—or possibly Tharek, she still couldn’t always tell the twins apart at a distance—make a strangled sound that might have been a laugh converted to a cough at the last possible moment.

By midday, Elder Torvald himself had cornered Aldris near the well to confess that he’d been watering down the communal ale supply for six years. "The good stuff costs too much," he said, with the haunted expression of a man watching his own mouth betray him. "I thought no one noticed."

"Everyone noticed," Aldris said mildly.

"I know! I know everyone noticed! That’s what makes it worse!"

But beneath the laughter, something else was spreading. Lyria felt it through her empathy—a ripple of unease threading through the amusement like cold water through warm. People had begun avoiding certain routes through the village. Conversations paused mid-sentence when someone spotted emerald robes. A cluster of women near the washing stones whispered urgently and then scattered when Vaelith’s cottage door opened, even though the healer was nowhere in sight.

Old Maren, who sat on her porch most days mending nets, put it plainest. "The old stories talk about demon Truthspeakers," she said to anyone who’d listen, her weathered hands working the thread without pause. "My grandmother said they could walk into a town and crack it open like an egg. Every secret, every lie, every hidden thing—dragged into the light whether you wanted it or not." She squinted toward the cottage. "I thought those were just stories."

"They’re not stories," Lyria said quietly.

Old Maren’s hands stilled. "No," she agreed. "I suppose they’re not."

It was Vaelith herself who addressed it. That evening, after Lyria’s second session, the healer emerged from the cottage and stood in the doorway—veiled, hooded, only her luminous hands visible—and spoke to the small crowd that had gathered. Not to confess things, for once, but to listen.

"I owe you an apology," Vaelith said. Her melodic voice carried clearly, though she didn’t raise it. "Among my people, what I am is called a Truthspeaker. Some demon females carry the gift. Not all—but those who do have always served a specific role in our society."

The crowd shifted. Uncertain. Wary.

"In the demon realm, we share a common path—a connection between all souls. Bloodkin share even deeper bonds. We feel each other. Know each other. There is very little room for deception when your brother can sense the shape of your thoughts." She paused, and something almost rueful entered her tone. "Because of this, demon society does not lie. We have no need for it. And Truthspeakers have no reason to shield their gift—among our own kind, truth is simply... the air we breathe."

She raised one luminous hand, palm out. "But I am not among my own kind. I am in your village, among your people, and my gift is affecting you in ways I did not anticipate. Before our realm closed its borders, Truthspeakers who traveled learned to build barriers—to contain the effect so it didn’t spill into every conversation within a hundred paces. Those techniques exist. I know them." A beat of silence, weighted with honesty of a different kind. "But I haven’t practiced them in a very long time. Our females haven’t left the demon realm in thousands of years. There has been no need."

She bowed her head. The gesture was small but unmistakable. "I will work on rebuilding those barriers. In the meantime, I am sorry for the discomfort I’ve caused. Your secrets are your own. I take no pleasure in stripping them away."

Silence. Then Brennan—still red-faced from the morning’s poetic episode—cleared his throat.

"Well," he said gruffly. "Ilsa liked the poems. So maybe it’s not all bad."

Scattered laughter. Not much. But enough.

Lyria caught the faintest tremor in Vaelith’s shoulders as she turned back inside. And through her empathy, she felt something she hadn’t expected—a pulse of warmth from outside. From Vorketh, standing his eternal vigil by the door, sending something through the bond he shared with his mate. Not words, exactly. More like the feeling of a hand on a shoulder. A steady voice saying: This is not your fault. You are who you are. That is enough.

Vaelith’s step steadied. She disappeared inside.

Vorketh remained. Bronze. Immovable. His tarnished copper eyes sweeping the crowd once—not threatening, not warning, just seeing—before he resumed his watch on the tree line.

Voresh appeared beside Lyria as the crowd dispersed. They sat on the cottage steps after her session, Lyria wrapped in a blanket despite the relative mildness of the Ashwhisper afternoon. Late winter in no-man’s-land meant grey skies and damp air, but the cold had softened since Voidmarch.

"Brennan recited three poems to Ilsa in the middle of the square," Lyria said. "One of them was about her elbows."

Voresh’s expression didn’t change, but something around his copper eyes tightened in a way she was beginning to recognize as suppressed amusement. "Elbows?"

"Apparently, he finds them very compelling."

"I... see."

"And Widow Hendricks told Old Garrett she’s been stealing his eggs since spring. He was standing right there." Lyria’s throat tightened. "And then he said he already knew—he’d been leaving extra eggs out for her since her husband died. He didn’t want her to feel like charity."

Voresh was quiet for a moment. "Truth isn’t always cruel."

"No." Lyria pulled the blanket tighter. "It isn’t."

She was looking at him when she said it. The late afternoon light caught the copper-brown of his hair, the streaks of black and white that traced through it like roads on a map of somewhere ancient. His skin—bronze-tinted, weathered by thirty thousand years—held shadows and planes she could have studied for hours. The tarnished copper of his eyes held so much behind them. So many years of feeling nothing, and now feeling too much, and trying to hold steady through both.

He was beautiful.

The thought arrived without permission, clear and undeniable, and before Lyria could clamp down on it—before she could shove it back into whatever corner of her mind it had escaped from—her mouth opened.

"You’re beautiful."

The silence that followed was extraordinary.

Voresh went completely still. Not the watchful stillness of a warrior on guard—the frozen, wide-eyed stillness of a man who had been hit in the chest with something he had no defense against. His copper eyes locked on hers. For a heartbeat—one beat, two—something raw and blazing moved behind them, and Lyria felt the thread between them pulse so hard she gasped.

Then his expression shuttered. Not closed—controlled. With the visible effort of a man who had spent millennia learning discipline and was deploying every second of that training right now.

"Val’thara Vaelith’s influence," he said. His voice was perfectly steady. Absolutely, completely, carefully steady. "The Shan’keth effect. You should be aware it can—"

"That’s not—" Lyria’s face was on fire. Her wings had flared involuntarily, gossamer membranes catching the light, and she couldn’t make them fold back down. "I mean—yes. Obviously. The Truthspeaker effect. That’s why I said—it’s not that I was thinking—I mean, I was thinking it, clearly, but I wouldn’t have said—"

From inside the cottage, very faintly, came a sound.

They both turned.

Vaelith stood in the doorway, veiled once more, emerald hood drawn deep. She inclined her head slightly and retreated back inside. But not before Lyria caught the unmistakable tremor in her shoulders.

She was laughing.

"I’m going to die," Lyria said flatly. "I’m going to die of embarrassment, and all your protection will have been for nothing."

Voresh cleared his throat. "You should rest."

"Right. Yes. Rest." Lyria stood, wrapped the blanket tighter, and fled into the cottage with as much dignity as a mortified fourteen-year-old in a nineteen-year-old’s body could manage.

Which was none.

Behind her, Voresh remained on the steps. He didn’t move for a long time.

On his neck, beneath his leather tunic, the single remaining leaf of his vor’kesh vine held its color. And beside it—faint, almost invisible, new as dawn—a small bud had appeared on the ancient wood.

He didn’t notice. He was too busy not smiling.

***

The private audience happened on the second evening, after Lyria’s third healing session.

Vaelith had requested it through Voresh, who had relayed the request to Aldris, who had spent the better part of an hour negotiating with his wife. Lyria heard the muffled shape of that conversation through the cottage walls—Kaela’s voice rising sharp, Aldris’s falling soft, the push and pull of a marriage straining under the weight of things neither partner was prepared to face.

In the end, Kaela agreed. Not gracefully. Not willingly. But she agreed.

With one condition.

"Not in front of Lyria."

The words carried through the thin walls with painful clarity. Lyria stood in the hallway, hand raised to knock, and felt them land like a door slamming shut.

"Mama—"

Kaela appeared in the doorway. Her pale blue eyes were bright with something fierce and fragile—the look of a woman who’d drawn a line she intended to die on. "This is between me and the healer. You’re not part of it."

"It’s about me, isn’t it? Whatever she found during the healing—"

"Lyria." Aldris’s voice came from behind Kaela, gentle but firm. "Your mother has agreed to speak with Vaelith. That’s a significant step. Please don’t make it harder."

The unfairness of it burned. Three weeks of visions and sacrifices and aging and demons and her entire life rearranging itself around prophecies she’d never asked for, and now the adults were closing ranks. Shutting her out of her own story.

She wanted to argue. To push. To plant her feet and refuse to move until someone told her the truth about whatever shadows she kept catching at the edges of her mother’s fear.

Instead, she looked at Kaela’s face—the rigid set of her jaw, the white-knuckled grip on the doorframe, the wings pressed so flat against her back they might have been painted on—and recognized something she’d seen in her own mirror after that first vision.

Terror. Raw, marrow-deep terror of something you couldn’t run from because it lived inside you.

"Fine," Lyria said. "I’ll go."

She went to the village square and sat on the well’s stone rim and tried not to feel like a child sent to her room while the adults discussed things too important for small ears. Voresh materialized beside her within minutes—silent, steady, his copper presence a warm constant at the edge of her awareness.

"She won’t tell me anything," Lyria said, not looking at him.

"She’s afraid." 𝗳𝗿𝐞𝕖𝘄𝗲𝕓𝗻𝚘𝚟𝕖𝐥.𝚌𝕠𝕞

"Of what? Of demons? Of Vaelith? Of me?"

Voresh was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice held the particular care of someone choosing words the way a surgeon chose instruments. "Sometimes the things we hide from the people we love are the things we believe would hurt them most."

"That’s not an answer."

"No," he agreed. "It isn’t."

They sat in silence. The evening sounds of Thornhaven settled around them—children being called inside, shutters closing against the Ashwhisper chill, the distant murmur of Kael’vor humming something in a language Lyria didn’t know while he checked the perimeter wards. Somewhere in the cottage behind them, her mother was speaking to an eighteen-thousand-year-old demon healer about secrets Lyria wasn’t allowed to hear.

Through the walls, faintly, she heard a sound. A single sharp cry—smothered almost instantly, but unmistakable.

Her mother. Crying.

Lyria stood. Voresh’s hand found her arm—not restraining, just present. A question without words.

She sat back down.

Whatever was happening in that cottage, her mother had asked for privacy. Had looked at Lyria with those terrified pale eyes and drawn the one boundary she had left. And Lyria—who had thrown herself into visions that aged her five years, who had faced death futures and demon warriors and the complete upheaval of everything she’d known—could respect a closed door.

Even when it hurt.

Even when the crying didn’t stop for a very long time.

***

Inside the cottage, the air had gone still.

Vaelith sat across from Kaela at the rough wooden table, her luminous hands folded in her lap, her veil drawn back just enough to reveal the lower half of her face. She had offered to keep it on. Kaela had said she didn’t care. Which wasn’t true—the Shan’keth effect made sure of that—but Vaelith had let the lie pass. Some courtesies were worth preserving, even for a Truthspeaker.

For a long time, no one spoke. Vaelith let the silence do its work. She was old enough to know that the hardest truths didn’t need to be dragged out—they rose on their own, given stillness and time, like bodies from deep water.

"You found something," Kaela said at last. Her voice was flat. Controlled. The voice of a woman who had rehearsed this conversation in her nightmares. "During the healing. You found something in my daughter."

"Yes."

"What."

Vaelith held the woman’s gaze. Pale blue eyes, brittle as winter ice, daring the healer to say it. Begging her not to.

"Your daughter carries demon blood," Vaelith said. Gently. Without accusation. The way she might have said your daughter has a fever—a fact to be addressed, not a judgment to be levied. "Strong demon blood. Someone has gone to great lengths to hide it. An artifact, I think—worn close to the body. It’s been masking her essence signature since she was very young."

The sound Kaela made was not a word. It was something older than words—a crack running through stone that had held for decades. Her hand flew to her throat, fingers closing around something beneath her collar, and the gesture was so instinctive, so desperate, that it told Vaelith everything the woman’s mouth refused to say.

"How." Kaela’s voice shattered on the word. "How can you possibly—she’s been tested. Healers have examined her. No one has ever—"

"I am not your village healers." No arrogance in it. Just truth. "I am Val’thara. What I sense in essence channels, most practitioners cannot detect in a lifetime of study. And your artifact is extraordinary work—I want you to know that. Whoever crafted it understood demon biology at a level that suggests..." She paused. Chose precision over speculation. "That suggests intimate knowledge."

Kaela was shaking. The tremors ran through her like fault lines, visible in the white of her knuckles, the rigid set of her wings, the way her fingers dug into the wooden table as though she could hold herself together through force alone.

"Who masked it?" Vaelith asked. "And why do you hate my kind so deeply, when your own child carries our blood?"

The question hung in the air between them. Vaelith felt the Shan’keth pressing against it, felt Kaela’s desperate walls straining under the weight of truths that wanted out. But she held her gift in check. This wasn’t a confession to be compelled. It was a door to be opened willingly, or not at all.

"You don’t understand," Kaela whispered. "You don’t know what they—what happened to—"

She stopped. Pressed her fist against her mouth. A sound escaped anyway—that sharp, smothered cry that carried through thin walls to where a girl sat on a well’s rim, wondering what was being kept from her.

"It involved a demon," Kaela said, her voice muffled behind her fist. "What happened to my family. My grandmother’s family. It was—" Another crack. Another tremor. "It was terrible. And I swore—I swore it would never touch Lyria. I swore she would never know."

"Know what?"

But Kaela shook her head. The walls rebuilt—cruder, higher, mortared with fresh grief. "I can’t. Not yet. I can’t."

Vaelith studied her for a long moment. The vine markings along her hands pulsed once—slow, sad.

"I won’t press further tonight," she said. "But I need you to understand something, Kaela. Whatever that artifact is hiding—it’s interfering with my ability to heal your daughter. I’m working around channels I can barely see, treating damage in systems I can’t fully map. Every session is half as effective as it should be because I’m healing blind."

Kaela’s eyes closed. The pain in them, before they shut, was staggering.

"I’m not asking you to trust me," Vaelith said. "I’m asking you to trust that I want your daughter well. That is all I want. Whatever secrets surround her blood—they are yours to keep or share as you choose. But the artifact..." She leaned forward, just slightly. "I need to see it. Not to take it. Not to destroy it. Only to understand what I’m working with, so I can heal her properly."

Silence. Long, ragged silence, broken only by Kaela’s breathing and the distant sound of children laughing somewhere down the lane.

"I’ll think about it," Kaela said. Which meant no. Which meant not yet. Which meant I’m terrified, and I need time, and please stop asking me to dismantle the only protection I’ve ever been able to give my daughter.

Vaelith heard all of it. She rose, drew her veil back into place, and inclined her head.

"That is enough for tonight."

***

Vaelith emerged from the cottage an hour later. Her hood was up, her vine markings dim with exhaustion, and she moved with the careful deliberateness of someone carrying something heavy and fragile.

She didn’t stop to speak to Lyria. Only paused, briefly, and rested one luminous hand on the top of Lyria’s head. The touch was warm. Sad. Full of things Lyria couldn’t read and Vaelith wasn’t saying.

Then she was past, Vorketh falling into step beside her, and they disappeared into the darkness beyond the village perimeter.

Lyria went inside.

Her mother sat at the table, alone. Aldris had taken the children somewhere—Lyria could hear the twins’ laughter from Elder Torvald’s house down the lane. The cottage was quiet in the way empty rooms were quiet after storms. Everything still. Everything bruised.

"Mama?"

Kaela didn’t look up. Her wings were wrapped around herself, pale gossamer cocoon, and her hands lay flat on the table as though she needed to feel something solid beneath them.

"Go to bed, Lyria."

"Are you—"

"I’m fine. Go to bed."

She wasn’t fine. Lyria’s empathy screamed it—grief and fear and a terrible, corrosive shame radiating from her mother like heat from banked coals. But Kaela’s walls were up. Rebuilt. Higher than before, cruder, and Lyria could feel the desperate effort it took to hold them in place.

Lyria went.

She lay in the dark of her small room and pressed the feather—grey to silver to gold, Voresh’s gift—against her chest. Through the wall, she heard her mother crying again. Quiet, smothered sounds. The kind made by someone who’d had a lifetime of practice hiding her pain.

Through her empathy, she felt Voresh outside the cottage. Steady. Warm. Patient in the way of mountains, of deep rivers, of things that had learned to wait for what mattered. And underneath his calm, something else—a tension she couldn’t name, a question he seemed to be holding like a blade he hadn’t yet decided whether to draw.

He knew something. Whatever Vaelith had found, whatever had broken her mother open and sealed her shut again—Voresh knew.

And he wasn’t telling her either.

She didn’t sleep for a long time.

***

In the darkness beyond the village perimeter, Vaelith found Voresh waiting among the trees. Vorketh stood three paces behind her, a shadow made solid, his copper eyes scanning the forest canopy by habit rather than necessity. The hundred Kael’thoren surrounding Thornhaven ensured nothing threatening would get within a mile of this conversation.

"Well?" Voresh’s voice was carefully neutral. The copper of his eyes caught the starlight, dull and tarnished but steady.

Vaelith drew back her hood. The Shan’keth markings were dimmer now—tired, after a long day of healing and the emotional weight of the confrontation. But her green-gold gaze was sharp as ever.

"There’s more to this family than we knew," she said. "The mother is hiding something significant. Something old. Something she’s carried her entire life."

Voresh waited. Patient. Still.

Vaelith met his eyes. "The girl carries demon blood, Voresh."

The silence that followed was absolute.

Voresh stared at her. For a moment—just a moment—the careful discipline that had governed his expressions for thirty thousand years slipped, and something raw crossed his face. Shock. Then something deeper, something that moved through him like a tremor through bedrock.

"Demon blood," he repeated. Not a question. The words landing like stones dropped into still water, sending ripples he was still trying to track.

"Strong demon blood." Vaelith’s vine markings pulsed once—a slow, thoughtful rhythm. "Someone went to extraordinary lengths to hide it. An artifact of some kind, worn close to the body—the mother reached for her throat when I pressed. Whatever it is, it’s been suppressing Lyria’s demon essence since infancy."

Through the common path, she felt the controlled storm building in him—shock giving way to a dozen questions, each one tangling with the next. The ache of a bond whose mystery had just deepened rather than resolved. She felt him reaching back through memory, re-examining every moment since he’d first felt that impossible thread of connection to a winged girl in a frontier village, trying to understand how this piece fit into a puzzle he hadn’t known existed.

"And the hatred?" he asked, his voice rougher than before. "Her mother’s hatred of us—if the girl is part demon—"

"Rooted in genuine trauma. Whatever happened to her family—it involved a demon. And it was terrible enough to calcify into hatred passed down through generations." Vaelith paused. Chose her next words with the precision of a healer selecting an instrument. "But there’s something else. Something that doesn’t add up."

"What?"

"The blood is stronger than it should be." Vaelith met his eyes steadily. "Much stronger. Whatever the source—however many generations have passed since it entered her line—dilution should have reduced it to traces. Faint signatures. Background noise." She shook her head slowly. "What I found in Lyria’s channels is not background noise. It’s structural. Integrated. Woven into the foundation of her essence system as though it belongs there."

"What does that mean?"

"It means either the original source was extraordinarily potent, or something has been preserving the bloodline’s strength across generations. Preventing the natural dilution." Her vine markings pulsed once—thoughtful, slow. "I don’t know which. Not yet. But whichever it is, it changes what we’re dealing with. This isn’t a girl with a trace of demon heritage. This is something else entirely."

Voresh stared at her. The tarnished copper of his eyes had gone very still. She could feel him through the common path—the pieces rearranging behind those ancient eyes. The bond. The thread. The way his vor’kesh had responded to a girl who should have been nothing more than a charge to protect. All of it refracting through this new truth like light through a cracked prism.

"I need to see that artifact," Vaelith said. "Whatever is hiding Lyria’s true nature—I need to examine it. The masking is so thorough it’s affecting my ability to heal her properly. I’m working around demon-blood channels I can barely see, using techniques designed for heritage I can’t fully identify."

"Kaela will never agree."

"No. Not yet." The healer’s lips curved—not a smile, exactly, but the expression of someone who had spent eighteen thousand years waiting for people to come around in their own time. "But she will. The alternative is watching her daughter suffer through healing sessions that are half as effective as they should be."

Vorketh spoke for the first time. His gravel-deep voice carried from the darkness behind Vaelith, low enough that even the trees seemed to lean in to hear.

"She’ll choose her daughter."

Vaelith reached back without looking. His massive hand found hers—copper and luminous jade meeting in the dark.

"She always does," Vaelith agreed. "Mothers always do."

Above them, the stars of late Ashwhisper burned cold and clear. Inside the cottage, Kaela wept into her husband’s chest, holding a secret that was cracking under the weight of truths she’d spent a lifetime trying to bury. And in a small bedroom, a girl with storm-grey eyes and gossamer wings pressed a feather to her heart and wondered what was being kept from her.

The answer was getting closer.

Every day. Every healing session. Every involuntary truth pulled from the air like a thread from a loom.

Getting closer.