Brandon woke to silence.

  That wasn’t right.

  For the past few days, Annemarie’s fever had kept her restless- her body shifting under the covers, her breath uneven, sharp gasps and murmurs slipping out as she drifted in and out of consciousness. Even in sleep, she had been there, present in the room, alive in a way that reassured him despite everything.

  But now?

  Now, she was still.

  Brandon sat up sharply, the bed creaking beneath him, the rough wool blanket pooling at his waist. The early morning light filtering through the warped glass of the window cast the room in pale, watery hues, painting long shadows across the uneven wooden floor. The air was thick with the lingering scent of damp cloth, fever sweat, and the faint traces of last night’s smoldering fire.

  “Anne?” His voice was hoarse, cracked from sleep, but it cut through the silence like a blade.

  She didn’t stir. His stomach clenched.

  Throwing off his blanket, he moved quickly. His fingers ghosted over her face, hovering for a moment before pressing against her cheek, then her forehead.

  Too warm.

  Not the sharp, blazing heat of a fever on the rise, but something deeper— something that felt like it had settled beneath her skin, curling into her bones. A heat that didn’t burn outward but instead drew inward, sinking, pulling.

  “Annemarie,” he tried again, firmer this time. He shook her gently, then harder.

  Nothing.

  Her lashes fluttered, but she didn’t wake. Her lips were parted slightly, her breath so faint he had to lean in to hear it. His pulse roared in his ears as his mind raced ahead of him, shoving possibilities in front of him faster than he could grasp them.

  Then— movement.

  Her lips moved, murmuring something under her breath, so soft it was almost lost beneath the quiet. Relief surged for a half-second before the sound fully registered.

  It wasn’t English.

  Brandon froze. The words dripped from her tongue like water, fluid and strange, syllables falling into place with unnatural precision, like she was reciting something from memory. But there was something sharp to them, too— something rhythmic, as if following a pattern only she could hear.

  The hair on his arms stood on end. This wasn’t just fevered mumbling.

  His gut twisted. “Shit.” No time to think. No time to second-guess. Brandon shoved his feet into his boots, barely bothering to lace them, his fingers clumsy in his rush. He needed help. Now.

  He cast one last look at Annemarie, her face pale against the blankets, the strange words still spilling from her lips in an endless, quiet chant.

  Then he ran.

  Beryon and Gwri arrived within minutes. Brandon barely let them inside before dragging them to Annemarie’s bedside, his pulse pounding in his ears. The room felt smaller than it had before, the weight of his panic pressing against the walls, making it harder to breathe.

  Gwri leaned in first, their fingers pressing lightly against Annemarie’s forehead, then over the delicate pulse point at her throat. Their brow furrowed, lips pressed into a thin line.

  Beryon stood back, arms crossed over his broad chest, watching carefully. “ She’s alive.”

  Brandon snapped his gaze up, his frustration boiling over. “Yeah, but look at her!” He gestured sharply at Annemarie’s limp form. “She won’t wake up, she’s speaking— something, and she won’t stop.”

  Gwri tilted their head, listening to the low, whispered words slipping past Annemarie’s lips. Their fingers twitched slightly, and for the first time since they arrived, their carefully measured expression cracked. “That’s not a fever dream,” they murmured. “That’s magic.”

  Brandon’s stomach dropped like a stone. “What kind of magic?”

  Gwri exhaled through their nose, shaking their head. “I don’t know.”

  That was the wrong answer.

  Brandon ran a hand through his hair, his fingers tangling in the unkempt mess. Frustration clawed at his chest, burning hotter with every second. “You’re a healer, aren’t you? How do you not know?”

  “Because she isn’t sick,” Beryon said simply.

  Brandon turned on him, incredulous. “Excuse me?”

  Beryon gestured to Annemarie’s still form, his gaze unwavering. “Her body is fine. No infection, no internal damage. Her heartbeat is steady. Whatever is happening to her? It’s not physical.”

  Brandon’s jaw tightened, something cold creeping up his spine. “That’s worse!”

  Gwri frowned, arms crossing as they stepped back from the bed. “It means I can’t heal it. If it were just an illness, I’d be able to do something. This? This is beyond me.”

  Brandon felt sick. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, useless, powerless. The words Annemarie whispered— words he couldn’t understand, words she had no reason to know— felt heavier now, curling in the air like a presence all their own.

  The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  “So what, we just do nothing?”

  Beryon was silent for a long moment. Then, finally— “We contact Kiernen.”

  Brandon blinked. “What?”

  Beryon’s gaze was sharp, unwavering. “She has contacts. People who specialize in magical abnormalities like this. If we don’t know what’s happening, we find someone who does.”

  Gwri nodded slowly, their eyes flickering with understanding. “Melissa and Julia should be in Atriane by now. It would make sense for them to come back.”

  Brandon swallowed hard, his mind racing. Every instinct screamed at him to act now, to fix this himself, but there was nothing he could do. Not alone.

  “How long would it take?” His voice was quiet, low.

  Beryon sighed, running a hand over his jaw. “Depends on how fast the carrier pigeon flies.”

  Brandon turned back to Annemarie, his chest aching with something too raw to name. The candlelight flickered against her damp skin, her lips still forming those strange, unknowable words. She wasn’t here, not really. She was slipping further away with every moment, deeper into something he didn’t understand.

  He couldn’t let her go.

  “Send the message,” he said quietly.

  The ferry ride from Di’raz to Daraden was slow but steady, the wooden hull gliding smoothly across the calm waters. The storms had long since passed, but their remnants lingered in the heavy gray clouds rolling across the horizon, casting long shadows over the river. The air was thick with the scent of muck and something sharper— fish, the damp wood of the ship that had absorbed years of algae and river water.

  Melissa leaned against the railing, frowning at the waves below. “Why does everything smell like fish?”

  Julia, seated nearby with her arms crossed, didn’t bother looking up. “Because we’re on a boat, Melissa.” Gorgoloth, wearing a pair of Melissa’s sunglasses, chittered.

  Melissa wrinkled her nose. “Yeah, well, I don’t like it.”

  “Noted.”

  As they neared the dock, Daraden came into view— a town smaller than Di’raz had been but larger than Ismay’s Landing, more of a suburb than a city but alive with movement. Low, sturdy buildings lined the waterfront, their stone-and-timber construction built to withstand heavy seasonal rains. Smoke curled from chimneys, and the streets bustled with people going about their business. It should have been a scene of normalcy.

  But something was wrong.

  Even before they stepped off the ferry, they could hear it— the low murmur of uneasy voices, the way people clustered together in tight groups, their heads bent close in hurried conversation.

  And at the center of it all—

  A fruit seller stood atop a wooden crate in the main square, his arms spread wide as he bellowed over the gathering crowd. “I am telling you! There is nothing to worry about! I have seen the Saints and they have spoken— Lolinglas is safe! There is no cause for concern!” A woman and two children were distributing fruit to the crowd, wrinkled apples and tiny woven baskets of berries.

  Julia and Melissa exchanged glances.

  “There’s a man trying really hard to convince himself,” Julia muttered.

  Melissa sighed, already exhausted by whatever this was. “Let’s ask around.”

  They moved to the edge of the crowd, catching snippets of hushed conversations as they passed.

  “—saying the Ionian military is mobilizing—”

  “—heard there were soldiers spotted near the western border—”

  “—Kiernen would never let it happen, but if Lashaar is behind this—”

  “—people have been conscripted—”

  Melissa exhaled sharply through her nose, already done with the whole situation. Without hesitation, she pushed forward. “Hey!” Her voice cut through the noise of the square, sharp and commanding.”

  The fruit seller faltered mid-sentence, his eyes widening as she strode forward, hands on her hips, exuding all the patience of someone about to eviscerate a customer service representative.

  “Look,” she said, tilting her head. “If there’s really nothing to worry about, then why are you standing here yelling about it?”

  The crowd stirred.

  “I—” The fruit seller blinked, clearly caught off guard. “People are spreading rumors, and I am simply reassuring them!”

  Melissa raised an unimpressed eyebrow. “Right. Because shouting at them is definitely making them feel less concerned.”

  A few murmurs rippled through the gathered people.

  “She’s got a point,” someone muttered.

  “Lolinglas wouldn’t just lie down for Iona,” another person added. “Kiernen would fight back.”

  Melissa turned, addressing the crowd now. “Look, I get it. You’re scared. And that’s fair. But there’s a difference between being careful and being paranoid— between staying informed and sticking your head in the sand.”

  The crowd was listening now.

  “So instead of standing here listening to this guy scream about how ‘there’s nothing to worry about’, maybe try actually thinking for yourselves. Talk to the authorities. Get real information. But don’t let people like this convince you that ignoring a problem will make it go away.”

  Silence.

  Then, slowly, the tension began to unravel as people started dispersing, muttering among themselves, conversations shifting from fear to something closer to action.

  The fruit seller scowled. “Who do you think you are?”

  Melissa smirked. “Someone with more sense than you.”

  Julia sighed, rubbing her temple. “You just had to start something, didn’t you?”

  “It’s a gift,” Melissa said smugly.

  Before Julia could retort, the heavy clank of armored boots echoed across the square.

  The murmur of the dispersing crowd faded as heads turned, wary eyes flickering toward the approaching soldiers. The group moved with practiced precision, cutting through the remaining civilians like a blade through cloth. Their dark blue cloaks, fastened with silver clasps, marked them as royal guards— Kiernen’s own. Their armor gleamed, well-maintained despite the scuffs and scratches of use, and each carried a sheathed sword at their hip.

  The lead soldier— a woman with sharp eyes, her blond hair braided tightly against her skull— stepped forward. Her stance was rigid, her expression unreadable, the sort of person who took their orders as absolute.

  “Melissa Ramirez and Julia Meier?”

  Julia tensed immediately, her pulse kicking up a notch. Her first instinct was to bolt, but she forced herself to stand her ground, fingers twitching at her sides. She met the woman’s gaze evenly. “Who’s asking?”

  The guard didn’t so much as blink. “By order of Her Majesty Queen Kiernen, we’ve been instructed to find you. She wishes to speak.”

  A silence settled between them, thick and expectant. The guards made no immediate move to grab them, but their presence alone sent an unspoken message: this wasn’t a request.

  Julia’s mind raced through the possibilities. Kiernen knew they were here. How? And why? Had the queen been expecting them? Had someone sent word ahead? Had they already drawn too much attention?

  Melissa, completely unfazed, let out a low whistle. “Well,” she muttered, tilting her head toward Julia. “That was fast.”

  Julia clenched her jaw. Too fast. And she wasn’t sure she liked that.