178

The chamber was quiet.

Candles flickered gently along the walls, their flames low and steady. The air carried a subtle hum, not sound exactly, but a pressure, a vibration, like the heartbeat of something ancient listening in the dark.

Avynna hadn’t stirred in days. Her breath came light and slow, as if afraid to fully return.

The chief healer sat beside her, unmoving, eyes closed, her palm hovering inches above Avynna’s sternum. The other healers had long since dozed off in the corners of the room, exhausted by fruitless efforts and prayers left unanswered. But she remained.

Avynna had been a strong shield for her, even though she didn't know it. She respected her so much, and she didn't mind sitting here all day and night just to make sure she was okay.

At that moment , the least expected happened. Avynna shuddered, barely perceptible, like a ripple across still water.

Avynna’s fingers twitched.

The healer's eyes snapped open. “Now…” she breathed, and immediately sent a pulse of aura through the room. Healers woke, scrambled, rushed to her side.

Avynna’s chest rose suddenly—a gasp, sharp and ragged, like someone returning from drowning. Her eyes flew open, wide, unfocused, glowing faintly silver.

“She’s awake!” one of the healers gasped.

Sallie, the healer raised a hand. “Wait.”

Avynna’s gaze didn’t settle on any of them. Her eyes darted, as though she was seeing something far beyond the chamber. Her lips parted.

“She walks…” Her voice was hoarse, paper-thin, but still carried something otherworldly. “...the edge… of dawn… and shadow.”

Then, just as suddenly, her body tensed—a soft seizing in her limbs—and her eyes fluttered shut again. The breath left her in a quiet exhale. She stilled.

“No…” Sallie caught her wrist, feeling the pulse still steady. “She’s not gone. Just… pulled back.”

The room was deathly still.

Moments later, the door burst open. Baron stood in the doorway, panting, hair disheveled, as though he’d run through the night to reach her. “I felt her…” he rasped. “I felt something.”

He was at her side in three strides, sinking to his knees beside the bed. His hands gripped hers tightly, his voice trembling. “Avynna. I’m here. Come back. Please.”

His forehead pressed to the edge of the bed as his shoulders shook with silent grief and hope twisted together. His lips moved, whispering her name again and again like a prayer.

Sallie hesitated , then laid a hand on his shoulder. “She’s not lost, Alpha. Her spirit stirred, but something still holds her beyond the veil.”

Baron’s voice was a rough whisper. “She spoke…”

“Yes,” Sallie said softly. “I think she saw something, or someone.”

Baron heaved painfully. “Avynna, please wake up. Please…”

By dawn the next morning, word had reached Bavanda. Having barely slept the night before, she was almost like a walking dead. She reached the infirmary, but didn't go in. It was almost like she was terribly scared of what she'd see in there. Her eyes were fixed on the door, as if willing it to open with good news.

The door creaked behind her.

She turned swiftly—heart in her throat—and saw the chief healer stepping out, her expression unreadable.

“Is she…?” Bavanda didn’t finish the sentence. Her voice wavered on the edge of hope and dread.

Sallie walked closer, her steps deliberate, measured. “She stirred,” she said. “For a moment.”

Bavanda’s breath caught. “What do you mean, stirred?”

“She gasped, opened her eyes, and spoke.”

Bavanda’s lips parted in a whisper. “She spoke?”

Sallie nodded slowly. “Just one sentence. Then… she slipped back.”

Bavanda stepped closer, desperate now. “What did she say?”

Sallie met her gaze. “She said… ‘She walks the edge of dawn and shadow.’”

Bavanda stared. The words settled over her like a weight.

“What does that mean?” she asked, voice cracking. “What edge? Is she talking about herself? Or…?”

Sallie’s tone was calm but solemn. “I don't know, Princess. That was all she said. I think it was a vision. One foot in the light, the other teetering toward darkness. She might be trying to say she's at a crossroad. I really don't know, Princess.”

Bavanda took a step back. Her arms folded across her chest as her mind turned over the sentence again and again. Dawn and shadow. Dawn and shadow.

Baron emerged from the infirmary behind them. He looked exhausted, his eyes red. But there was something steadier in him now—a fragile hope that hadn’t been there before.

Bavanda’s throat tightened. She couldn’t find her voice.

Baron reached out, squeezing her shoulder. “She’s still fighting. Just like you are.”

Bavanda’s gaze drifted toward the trees beyond the courtyard. A storm of questions brewed beneath her silence. Her mother had seen something she didn’t understand, something that made her heart twist.

Somehow, she felt that whatever lay ahead… she was walking straight toward it.

***

Baron stood alone, his arms crossed tightly over his chest, jaw clenched as he stared up at the sky. His eyes didn’t track anything in particular, just the vague horizon, as though trying to force the sun to rise faster. His usually imposing figure looked smaller somehow, weighed down.

Bavanda approached quietly, her footsteps barely audible. She paused a few feet behind him, uncertain. Then, softly, she called, “Father?”

He didn’t turn. A breath left him—heavy and uneven. She stepped closer, until she stood beside him. Still, he said nothing.

Then, after a long moment, his voice came out, rough, and frayed.

“What if she doesn’t wake up?” He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbling. “What if that was her goodbye?”

Bavanda’s throat tightened. The wind stirred her hair as silence fell between them again, full of everything neither knew how to say.

“I…” Her voice cracked. “I don’t know how to survive that. Not again.”

She swallowed hard. “I thought I lost you too. When everyone turned on me, you kept your distance. I understood. I did, but I still needed you.”

Baron’s shoulders dropped, shame flickering across his face. He finally turned to her, and what Bavanda saw there—guilt, grief, and fear—nearly broke her.

She stepped into his arms.

“I can’t lose another part of me,” she whispered against his chest. “I can’t.”

His arms wrapped around her tightly. They held each other in silence, broken only by the soft rustling of leaves and the distant cries of waking birds.

After a while, he spoke again, voice quieter now, full of something fragile.

“You remind me of her when she was young. Stubborn and brave. So full of fire… it scared me.”

Bavanda let out a short, watery laugh. “She’d say the same about you.”

Baron smiled faintly, the expression trembling. They stood like that as the sun began to rise—father and daughter, bound by love, loss, and the fire they both carried. A fire that refused to be extinguished.

A while later, Bavanda was trotting almost lifelessly through the packhouse. Her eyes were empty, yet filled with a dulled pain.

The door creaked open and Bavanda stepped inside, her steps heavy. Loco was already there, he’d sensed her approach before she knocked. One look at her face, and he stood.

She didn’t say anything. Just walked straight to him, her arms wrapping around his waist as if her world might fall apart if she let go.

Loco held her without a word, arms tight around her back, chin resting gently on her head. Her body trembled slightly against his, and he realized she was holding back tears.

“She woke up,” she whispered hoarsely.

Loco stiffened a little. “Your mother?”

She nodded against his chest. “Only for a moment,” she continued, her voice barely there. “She said something… strange. Then she slipped away again. Like it was nothing. Like she didn’t even know I was there.”

He felt her fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt. “I thought it meant she was coming back. I thought… I thought maybe…”

Her voice broke.

Loco didn’t try to fix it. He didn’t offer platitudes. He simply moved backward slowly, bringing her with him, and sat down on the edge of the bed, pulling her onto his lap like she weighed nothing.

“You don’t have to be strong right now,” he said softly. “You don’t have to carry it alone.”

Her hands trembled as they pressed to his chest, and finally, the tears came. Silent, hot, and steady.

He kissed the top of her head. “She’s still fighting. That means something.”

Bavanda shook her head, words tangled in grief. “What if she’s just… stuck? What if she wants to go but can’t? What if I didn’t tell her enough… what if I never told her how much she means to me?”

Loco pulled back just enough to cup her face. “She knows,” he said firmly. “Bavanda… she knows.”

She closed her eyes, leaning into his touch. “I’m so tired, Loco.”

“I know.”

“And scared.”

“I’ve got you,” he murmured, his forehead pressing to hers. “Even if the world burns again, I’ve got you.”

Bavanda took a breath that rattled in her chest. Then another. Slowly, her pulse eased. And for a little while, in the warmth of his arms, the storm quieted.