On an island where we all walk hand in hand with death, there’s little respect for those who stand at its door.
I rifle through the drawers for floral tonic, splashing it on my neck and arms. With snow falling heavily now, I’ll have to wait to bathe until tomorrow. Even the strongest humans struggle during winters like this, and wet hair won’t help. While the Fae have thewarmth of magic stirring in their veins, humans have little to protect us against the freezing storms.
Father says Alyssium wasn’t always this cold. Before the realms of Lyrichia and Vaelier collided three hundred years ago, there was warmth in the sea and air. So while Alyssium never had magic of its own, it was nourished by the realm.
That changed after the Collision.
When the realms crashed into each other, a Well formed where they now connect. It slowly drains magic from the land and warmth from the sea.
Father still has hope that King Malachi will save us before Lyrichia perishes. He thinks the king will find a way to heal our realm of the damage done by the Well. Of the damage done by the war with Vaelier.
I beg the gods for him to be right because there is nowhere else for us humans to go unless the Arch to the Mortal Realm can somehow be reopened. Maybe then we could escape.
Maybe then we could go home.
I finish the final tie on the front of my sleep dress, securing it around my throat. The mirror is cracked and foggy, but my reflection is clear enough to see what I’m doing as I wrangle my messy hair. My braid is loose in some places, and when I untie the ribbon, the strands fall free.
Snow-white strands darken to winter blue at the ends, running rivers down my back.
On my twenty-fourth birthday, I cut the blue off. But just like every other time I’ve done it, my hair regrew longer. The blue reappeared more vibrant than ever.
By the time I leave the bedroom, the fish are on the fire. Father flips them over in a pan, and they sizzle. My stomach rumbles with the savory smell of something other than grains roasting.
I grab two plates, piling them half full of rice in preparation.I’d like to eat only fish tonight, skipping the grains altogether, but I don’t know how long it will be until we can get more.
“You take the bigger piece.” I switch plates when Father slides the larger portion onto my plate.
“You’ve been out all day in the cold. You need the energy.”
“I’ll be fine,” I assure him. “You need the nourishment.”
I can tell he wants to argue, so I slide my fork into the fish and take a bite before he can say another word. It practically melts on my tongue, confirming this isn’t from any shore in Alyssium. Callum definitely brought it back from the Ley Court for us.
The fish is soft and flaky. It reminds me of butter, which I’ve only had the pleasure of tasting once when the Crown spoiled the village with special gifts at the end of an unusually unforgiving winter.
Butter. Turkeys. Apples.
So many things that can’t grow or survive in Alyssium, but we got a taste of them all.
Just once.
Closing my eyes, I imagine the fish is coated in the warm, melted butter. I savor the flavor of anything more than plain, tasteless grain. Father warns me that an imagination only leads to dangerous disappointment, but often it’s the only way I survive the long, cold winter nights.
“Hopefully the storm breaks before dawn.” I push my plain rice around. “The market is tomorrow. The Guard is desperate for new weapons, and we almost have enough coin to buy new shingles.”
Father glances out the snow-covered window. “The snow settled early, so the storm should pass by morning. If not, I’ll sell the blades at the market next week to make up the difference.”
Before I was born, Father was a guard at the prison. But after losing my mother, he chose something less dangerous for my sake. He had already been training with Pier, the town’sbladesmith, and after Pier died, he took over his post. Now, Father is the only one in the village with the skills to craft swords, daggers, and arrows so durable that even the Guard is desperate to get their hands on them.
Between the coin I make tending to the dead, and the coin from selling Father’s blades, we are able to maintain our small home without suffering the pinch of starvation during especially long winter months. And when there is extra, we help those struggling most around us.
I clear the plates, my gaze drifting to the sword that hangs on our mantel. Father crafted it as a wedding gift for my mother. He said she’d often watch him work. That she fell in love with his talent for shaping weapons long before she fell for him. He said that the day she died, a single vein ripped down the middle. It cracked like the spirit of the island did from losing her.
Since I never knew her, the sword hangs as a memorial to her over the fireplace. Long gone but resilient.
The fire dulls to a slow crackle as night settles. Father’s cough sends him to bed early, so I sit by the window and watch the pyre still burning bright in the distance. A plume of black smoke twists with falling snow.
On the breeze, I swear I hear Alyssium exhale, releasing the souls we’ve lost over this past turn of the moon. I close my eyes and send a well-wish to the gods for their spirits. For no more starvation. No more cold.
