“Malana,” I interrupt gently, reaching out to touch her arm. “It’s Amara. Just Amara. We used to chase chickens through the village together, remember? We made poor Elder Varin faint once.”
She laughs awkwardly, but fondly. “I remember.”
I open my arms. “Then let me try.”
Relief floods her face as she steps forward, carefully placing the baby into my waiting arms. I cradle the child close, breathing in that soft, powdery scent that belongs only to new life. I pull back the blanket to see her face. Warm brown skin, dark curls, a tiny, perfect mouth. A little girl. So small, so beautiful.
She grips my finger with both her hands, giggling, a sound so pure it cuts straight through me. It’s comforting. It’s familiar. It’stoofamiliar.
The world tilts.
A memory flares.
A baby in a crib, small mouth at my breast, tiny feet kicking against my palm. Black curls brushing her brow. Eyes the color of a gathering storm.
A girl.
My girl.
The haze in my mind fractures. My throat tightens, breath catching as a tremor racks me. My arms go slack, and the baby slips. Malana screams, but I clutch the child back to my chest, heart racing.
The baby wails now, startled by my shaking. Malana quickly takes her, whispering comfort, her eyes wide with concern.
“Amara? What’s wrong?”
I can’t answer. The ache blooming in my chest is a chasm. It devours my breath, my strength, my calm.
I rise unsteadily, legs trembling. “Daed,” I call, my voice cracking like glass.
He turns immediately, eyes wide, alert.
My breath trembles as the truth claws its way out of me, raw and desperate.
“Where,” I whisper, then louder, “Where is our daughter?”
I don’t want his hand on my shoulder, comforting me.
I don’t want to walk beside him, to leave the village, to be led somewhere quiet so he can explain.
I want the truth. Now.
But still, I go.
Daed’s hand wraps around mine, his grip so tight I can feel the thrum of his pulse. It matches my own.
We walk in silence until the sound of the river reaches us, the steady rush of water tripping over stone.
He leads me to the bank, the ground soft and cool beneath my bare feet. I sink down, and he crouches beside me, his hand still locked in mine as though letting go might shatter us both. His face, once carved from battle and rage, looks different now, frayed at the edges, vulnerable in ways I’ve never seen.
“First,” he begins, voice low, “know that I love you, Amara. Because everything that follows breaks me to speak.”
And so he tells me.
He tells me of my sacrifice. My bravery. My death and how even that was not enough.
He tells me that when I thought I had saved our daughter, she was taken anyway, dragged into An’kel, into the hands of Gygarth.
The words tear through me. My knees give out and I fall against him, my body shaking as though the ground has opened beneath me. His arms wrap around me, but they bring no warmth, nothing could. The pain steals everything.
