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Prologue

Spring arrived in Tokavaig like a whispered promise. Blue skies stretched wide and endless above the village, and the earth answered in color. Fresh green pushed through dark soil, and wildflowers dotted the fields with soft purples and golds. To Camden, it meant more than the turning of the season. It meant Eara. Long walks beneath the warming sun, laughter carried on the breeze, and hidden corners in a world that they had claimed as their own. Where time seemed to pause just for them.

He rose from his bedchamber with the scent of herbs already clinging to him. The familiar comfort of the apothecary filling the air. The quiet sounds of night faded into birdsong and the gentle stir of the village waking. Doors opening, voices drifting, life unfolding and beginning again.

There was much to do, and for once, it didn’t feel like a burden. He welcomed the list of villagers who needed him, knowing each visit carried him closer to the moment he could finally go to her.

Eara was constantly in his thoughts, an obsession perhaps, but he didn’t care. Even when he wasn’t with her, she walked beside him in memory and anticipation.

Camden opened the wooden chest that held the tools of his trade. Sunlight spilled across glass vials and small cloth sacks, catching on the shimmer of tinctures and the dull gleam of needles and blades. He moved with practiced care, selecting what he’d need, adding a few extra bandages, a pinch more herbs, best to be prepared for whatever would be required that day.

He stepped outside and let the warmth of the sun wash over him. The aroma of freshly baked bread made his stomach grumble. Next door, at the bakery his aunt would insist on feeding him, and cousin, Beitris, would tease him for working too hard and smiling too much as of late.

Ten years in Tokavaig had given him more than a place to live; it had given him a home. Even the ache of old wounds—his mother’s passing and distance from his father—felt softer here. Gentled by routine, by kindness, and by love.

Later that morning, after doing all he could, Camden paused just outside the door of a quiet house, save for the muffled sobs of a family preparing to say goodbye. One of the man’s sons gave him a grateful look. “Thank ye for seeing about Da’s last moments.”

The young man hurried off to fetch the village vicar to perform the man’s last rites.

Camden looked across the road where a team of oxen pulled a plow through dark waiting earth. The rich soil was turned in long deep lines, ready to receive seed and promised a harvest yet unseen. Somewhere nearby, a bird burst into song, bright and cheerful.

Behind him, a life was fading. In front of him, the world was being made new.

Camden drew in a slow breath, holding both truths in his chest at once. Sorrow and beauty. Endings and beginnings. He squared his shoulders and started down the path to his next visit, a woman heavy with child, a new life preparing to enter the world.

And as he walked, his heart lifted, light and full, already reaching toward the moment he would see Eara again. Life went on.

The sun was already sinking low when Camden guided his steed from the village toward the small farm on the edge of the fields. His body ached with the long day’s work, but as tired as he was the familiar pull of Eara’s smile, her laugh, the way her eyes lit up when she saw him, those thoughts carried him forward when his muscles begged him to stop.

He imagined her waiting by the fence, pretending not to watch the road while watching it all the same. But when the farmhouse came into view, something inside him went cold.

The air felt wrong. Heavy. As if the land itself had drawn a breath and was holding it. His stomach knotted, not with anticipation, but with a sudden, unwelcome dread. Camden urged his horse into a quicker pace, the thud of hooves loud in the stillness.

He dismounted before the horse had fully stopped.

A curtain shifted in one of the windows. Just a flicker. Whoever stood there turned away instead of looking out.

That alone struck him like a blow. Eara’s brothers usually came running the moment they saw him, eager for talk and laughter and anything that broke the long hours of farm work.

This time, the door creaked open and only Quinlen, Eara’s father, appeared.

Eara’s father stood broad and solid in the doorway, his thick arms folded across his chest, his usual easy grin nowhere to be found. He lifted a hand in greeting, but the motion was stiff, uncertain. Then he gestured toward the bench beside the door.

Camden didn’t move, remained standing.

“What’s happened?” he demanded, his voice already tight. “Is Eara hurt?”

“Nae.” Quinlen shook his head, but the answer brought no relief. His eyes were dull, shadowed. “No one is hurt.”

That tone, flat and strained, set Camden’s nerves on edge.

“I must speak to ye,” the man said, his voice flat.

Camden exhaled sharply, his gaze darting past the man, to the dark doorway behind him. Why wasn’t she there? Why wasn’t Eara pushing past her father, calling his name, smiling as if he were the best part of her day?

Quinlen swallowed, then forced the words out as if they burned his tongue.

“Eara is gone.”