Elara’s POV

I woke reaching for him.

My hand swept across the quilt, fingers searching for the warm curve of a small body. The soft curls. The steady rise and fall of a child’s breathing.

Nothing.

Just cool cotton and the faint scent of cedar.

My eyes flew open. Unfamiliar ceiling. Exposed wooden beams. Morning light spilling through lace curtains. The parlor. The Morrison farmhouse. 𝘧𝓇ℯℯ𝑤ℯ𝘣𝓃ℴ𝓋𝑒𝑙.𝑐𝘰𝑚

Not the palace.

Not Valerius’s bedroom, where I used to curl around him like a shield.

Reality crashed in—blunt and merciless. I was three hundred miles from my children. From the capital. From everything.

Because I had chosen to be.

My stomach twisted so violently I pressed both fists against it and curled onto my side. The quilt tangled around my legs. My breath came in short, shallow pulls.

Valerius woke up this morning and I wasn’t there.

Lyra reached for me and found empty air.

A sound escaped my throat. Small. Animal. I buried my face in the pillow and held it there until the worst of it passed.

The smell of coffee drifted in from the kitchen. Bacon. Something sweet—pancakes, maybe. Normal sounds followed. The clink of a spatula against cast iron. A chair scraping across floorboards. The rustle of newspaper pages turning.

I sat up. Pressed my palms over my eyes until the burning stopped. Then I folded the quilts with mechanical precision, stacked them at the end of the sofa, and walked toward the kitchen on bare feet.

Margaret stood at the stove, apron already dusted with flour. She turned at the sound of my footsteps and her face broke into a smile so warm it almost undid me.

"There she is. Sit down, sweetheart. Coffee’s fresh."

A mug appeared in front of me before I’d fully settled into the chair. Then a plate. Pancakes stacked three high, glistening with butter. Strips of bacon, perfectly crisped. Scrambled eggs, fluffy and golden.

"Margaret, you didn’t have to—"

"Hush. Eat."

Robert sat at the far end of the table, newspaper open, reading glasses perched on his nose. He glanced up long enough to nod. "Morning, Elara."

"Good morning, Robert."

I wrapped my hands around the mug. The ceramic was almost too hot. I held it anyway. The small pain was grounding. Real.

I forced myself to take a bite. The pancake was light, faintly sweet, with a hint of vanilla. My body wanted food even if my mind rejected it. I chewed. Swallowed. Took another bite because Margaret was watching from the corner of her eye, and I couldn’t bear to disappoint her.

The kitchen clock ticked. Steam curled from my mug.

I set down my fork.

"I’ve been thinking," I said carefully. "There’s a mortal city not far from here. I could find work there. Cleaning, maybe, or tutoring. I don’t want to impose on your family any longer than—"

"No." Margaret’s spatula hit the counter with a decisive clang.

Robert lowered his newspaper.

"Sweetheart, you are not going to a mortal city alone." Margaret turned from the stove, hands planted on her hips. "Not in your condition. Not without a plan. Not while I’m breathing."

"Margaret, I can manage. I’ve managed before. I just need to get settled somewhere and—"

"And what? Sleep in a doorway? Skip meals until you collapse?" Her voice wasn’t harsh. It was fierce. The fierceness of a woman who had raised children and buried grief and knew exactly what desperation looked like wearing a brave face. "You walked through my door looking like a ghost. I’m not sending you back into the cold."

"She’s right." Robert folded the newspaper and set it aside. His voice was low. Measured. Carrying the weight of a man who chose his words the way a carpenter chose nails—each one placed with intention. "Family doesn’t abandon family, Elara. That’s not how this house works."

Family doesn’t abandon family.

The words sank into my chest like a blade.

But I did. I abandoned mine.

I looked down at my plate. The eggs blurred. I blinked hard.

The back door opened and Finnian came in, boots leaving faint muddy prints on the stone floor. He smelled like iron and morning air. He’d already been at the forge—I could see the soot smudge on his forearm.

"Morning." He poured himself coffee, leaned against the counter, and looked at me over the rim of his mug. Those steady blue eyes missed nothing. "You look like someone who’s making plans to bolt."

I said nothing.

"Ela." He set the mug down. "I’ve got a proposal. Hear me out before you argue."

I waited.

"The forge keeps me busy. Too busy. Orders are backing up and I’m terrible with numbers. Always have been." He crossed his arms. "I need someone to handle the books. Appointments, invoices, inventory logs. It’s not glamorous, but it pays a meager salary. And you’d eat here. Sleep here. No rent."

"Finnian, I can’t just—"

"You can. You’re sharp with figures. I’ve seen your handwriting—it’s better than any clerk’s in the capital. And frankly, my ledger is a disaster. You’d be doing me a favor."

"I should disappear," I said quietly. The truth of it sat heavy in my mouth. "Go somewhere no one knows me. Start fresh where nobody can—"

"Yeah? How’d that work for me?"

I looked up.

Finnian pulled out the chair beside me and sat. He rested his forearms on the table, hands loosely clasped.

"When I was younger, I ran." His voice was steady. Matter-of-fact. No self-pity. "Packed a bag one night and took off for the capital. Told myself I needed distance. Told myself I’d figure everything out if I could just get far enough away from the people who knew me."

Margaret turned back to the stove. But her shoulders were tight. She remembered.

"I lasted six months," Finnian continued. "Worked odd jobs. Slept in a rented room above a tannery that smelled like death. Barely ate. And every single day, the thing I was running from followed me. Because it wasn’t a place I was running from. It was a feeling. And you can’t outrun a feeling, Ela. Believe me. I tried."

The kitchen was quiet.

"I came home eventually," he said. "Walked back through that door looking worse than when I left. And you know what my father said?"

Robert turned a page of his newspaper without looking up.

"He said, ’Took you long enough. Dinner’s getting cold.’"

The faintest smile crossed Robert’s face behind the newspaper.

My throat ached. I stared at the table, at the grain of the wood, at the small ring stain where someone had set a mug without a coaster.

"I can’t let anyone find me." My voice was barely audible. "If someone comes looking—if anyone asks—"

"Nobody will hear it from us." Finnian’s tone went serious. Firm. "Not a word. Not to anyone."

Robert lowered the paper fully. He met my eyes.

"You have my word, Elara. Whatever your reasons, your presence here stays within these walls. No one outside this family will know."

"On my life," Finnian added quietly. "No one finds you through us."

The tears came despite everything. Silent this time. They slid down my cheeks and dripped onto the table and I didn’t bother wiping them away because what was the point? Margaret’s chair scraped back and then her arms were around me, pulling my head against her shoulder, one hand smoothing my hair the way my mother never had.

"It’s all right, sweetheart. You’re safe here. You’re safe."

I pressed my face into the flour-dusted cotton of her apron and let myself crack, just a little. Just enough to breathe.

I took a breath. Then another.

"Okay," I heard myself say. "Okay. I’ll stay. At least, for a little while."