Hairpin

The house felt different without his parents’ presence—lighter somehow; and sleep came quickly. The next morning, though, he was up with the sun, after dreaming about fire all night.

He dressed quickly and headed to the inn, eager to see Sara and the girls. The morning air carried the scent of fresh bread and flowering trees, reminding him of simpler days. He found them in the dining room, Beth already halfway through a bowl of porridge.

“Join us?” Sara gestured to the empty chair.

“Actually,” Estaria said, “I was hoping you’d all come to breakfast at my house. It’s too quiet there this morning.”

Beth’s face lit up. “Can we, Aunt Sara?”

Sara studied Estaria for a moment before nodding. “That would be lovely.”

They walked back together, Beth skipping ahead while Clara stayed close to Sara. Estaria prepared a simple breakfast of eggs, toast, and the last of his mother’s preserved peaches. The kitchen filled with comfortable chatter as they ate.

“Everyone’s being so nice,” Beth said between bites. “Mrs. Miller gave us another pie yesterday.”

Clara rolled her eyes. “If I never see another pie, it’ll be too soon.” A ghost of her old spark flickered in her voice.

“The whole town’s been very generous,” Sara agreed, running her fingers through Clara’s hair. “Which makes what I need to tell you a bit easier, Estaria.” She set down her fork. “All the paperwork is finished. I’ve decided to take the girls back to Convergence with me.”

Estaria’s piece of toast stopped halfway to his mouth.

“Clara’s giving up her rights to the land,” Sara continued, her hand still gentle on Clara’s head. “We discussed it yesterday.”

“I don’t want to be in Appledale anymore,” Clara said quietly, staring at her plate. “Too many memories.”

Sara reached across the table to touch Estaria’s hand. “You’re welcome to visit us anytime, of course. The girls would love that, wouldn’t you?”

Beth nodded enthusiastically, but Estaria barely noticed. His mind reeled. He’d been so focused on uncovering his parents’ secrets, on understanding what had happened, that he hadn’t considered the girls might leave. The timing felt wrong—too neat, too convenient. Just when his parents left town, Sara announced she was taking the girls away.

“When?” The word came out rougher than he intended.

“End of the week,” Sara said. “We’ve already started packing.”

He watched Beth steal the last peach from Clara’s plate, saw Clara’s halfhearted swat at her sister’s hand, and felt something inside him crack. These girls were the last piece of Angel he had left, and soon they’d be gone too. The realization sat heavy in his stomach as he cleared away the breakfast dishes, their cheerful conversation washing over him like waves on a distant shore.

Estaria swallowed the lump forming in his throat and forced himself to nod. “That makes sense.” His voice sounded distant, even to himself.

Sara rose to give his hand a squeeze before turning back to the girls. “We’ll have plenty to do before we go, but we’ll make time for a few good memories too.”

Clara shrugged, still avoiding everyone’s eyes. Beth hesitated, then muttered, “Maybe we could visit the creek again.”

Sara tucked a stray piece of hair behind Clara’s ear. “That sounds like an excellent memory.”

Estaria barely heard them. His gaze had drifted to the chair across from him, where Angel used to sit in the Blush farmhouse. He could still picture Angel balancing her spoon on her nose, Clara rolling her eyes, and Beth giggling as she tried to copy her.

His chest tightened. That kitchen didn’t exist anymore. That family didn’t exist anymore. And soon, the girls wouldn’t be here either.

Beth nodded absently. Then she stopped abruptly, her hand flying to her hair, searching for something. “Oh no! My hair pin!”

“What pin?” Sara asked, turning to Estaria for clarification.

“The one Angel gave me.” she turned to Clara, “Remember? It was mom’s,” Beth’s lower lip trembled. “I left it at the cabin last time. I need it.”

Estaria’s chest tightened at the mention of the cabin. He could picture the hair pin perfectly—Angel had worn it for years, and given it to Beth when her bunny died last year.

“I’ll fetch it for you,” he said, forcing his voice steady.

“No!” Both girls spoke at once. Clara stepped forward, chin lifted. “We want to go too. We haven’t been there since—” She broke off, swallowing hard.

“I said I’ll get it.” The words came out sharper than he’d intended. The thought of returning to the cabin made his hands shake. He hadn’t been there since the fire: and he couldn’t bear to have the girls see him fall apart there.

“But—” Beth started.

Sara stepped between them, smoothing Beth’s hair. “Actually, girls, I need your help with something important. Remember those new dresses Mrs. Miller brought over? We need to try them on before we pack them.” She caught Estaria’s eye. “That way Estaria can fetch the hair pin while we’re busy.”

Beth’s face scrunched up. “But I want—”

“And,” Sara continued, “I thought we might stop by the bakery afterward. I heard they have fresh sugar cookies today.”

Clara’s expression softened slightly. “The ones with raspberry jam?”

“The very same.” Sara guided both girls toward the street. She glanced back at Estaria, understanding clear in her eyes.

He managed a weak smile, grateful for her intervention. She nodded once, then turned her attention back to the girls, already discussing which dress Beth should try first.

Estaria watched them go, his heart hammering against his ribs. The cabin waited for him, filled with memories he’d been avoiding. Angel’s laugh still echoed in every corner. Her touch lingered on every surface. But Beth needed that hair pin, and he couldn’t let his pain keep it from her.

He took a deep breath, steadying himself. The morning sun warmed his face as he started down the familiar path, each step carrying him closer to the place where his happiness had lived and died.

Estaria’s boots crunched along the familiar path, each step stirring memories like autumn leaves. The morning sun filtered through the canopy, dappling the ground in patterns he and Angel had traced countless times before. His chest ached at the thought of her name, but he kept walking.

A jay called overhead, its harsh cry cutting through the stillness. He remembered how Angel would mimic their calls, convinced she could speak their language. The thought brought an unexpected smile to his lips, quickly followed by that familiar hollow feeling in his gut.

The path curved around an ancient oak, its branches reaching across the trail like gnarled fingers. Just beyond it lay the fallen maple they’d encountered last spring. He paused, running his hand along its weathered bark. The afternoon they’d cleared it played out in his mind with painful clarity.

“You don’t have to help,” he’d insisted, rolling up his sleeves. “You’ll get your dress dirty.”

Angel had laughed, already tucking her skirts up. “Since when have I cared about getting dirty?”

She’d grabbed one end of the trunk before he could protest further, her face flushed with determination. They’d ended up covered in dirt and bark dust, but the path was clear in less than an hour. Angel had worn those smudges of earth like badges of honor, even as her father grounded her for unlady-like behavior that evening.

Estaria’s hand trembled against the old maple. He pulled away, continuing down the path. Willow Lake emerged through the trees, its surface mirror-smooth in the morning stillness. Their cabin stood just as they’d left it, though the wood had weathered slightly in the weeks since he’d last visited.

The ancient willow’s branches swayed gently in the morning breeze, its leaves casting shifting shadows across the ground. Estaria’s steps slowed as he approached, each footfall heavy with memory. The tree’s massive trunk still bore the smooth patch where they’d worn away the bark from countless afternoons of sitting against it.

He could see Angel there now, her auburn curls catching the sunlight as she read aloud from one of Clara’s adventure books. Her voice would rise and fall with the story, giving each character their own distinct tone. Beth would always sit closest to her, Brando squirming in her small arms as she petted him with enthusiasm that made Angel pause her reading.

“Gently, Beth,” Angel would say, marking her place with a finger. “Remember what we talked about? Soft touches make happy bunnies.”

Beth’s face would scrunch up in concentration as she adjusted her grip, her little hands moving more carefully over Brando’s grey fur. “Like this?”

“Perfect.” Angel’s smile would light up her whole face before she’d return to the story.

Clara usually sprawled in the grass nearby, pretending not to listen while secretly hanging on every word. Sometimes she’d correct Angel’s pronunciation or argue about a character’s motivation, but mostly she’d just lay there, twirling a piece of grass between her fingers and watching clouds drift overhead.

Estaria remembered how the willow’s shade kept them cool even on the hottest summer days. He’d bring his own books sometimes, content to read separately while still sharing the peaceful afternoon. The quiet would wrap around them like a comfortable blanket, broken only by the rustle of pages, Beth’s whispered conversations with Brando, and the occasional dramatic flourish from Angel’s storytelling.

Those had been simple days. Happy days. Before Brando died and left Beth heartbroken. Before Angel gave Beth her mother’s hairpin to help her cope with the loss. Before everything else fell apart.

His fingers traced the smooth patch on the trunk. The bark felt warm under his touch, alive with memories of laughter and stories and quiet companionship. He could almost hear Beth’s small voice asking Angel to “do the voices” for her favorite parts, or Clara’s exasperated sighs when Angel would deliberately mispronounce words just to tease her.

The cabin emerged from behind the willow’s curtain of leaves, and Estaria’s steps faltered. His throat tightened as memories washed over him like waves against rocks. The worn path to the door still showed signs of their footprints, now softened by recent rain.

Angel would always know when he was coming. He never figured out how—she’d claimed it was because the birds told her, but he’d suspected she simply memorized his schedule. The wooden door would fly open, and she’d race down the path, her auburn curls streaming behind her like autumn leaves caught in a breeze.

“You’re late!” she’d call out, even when he wasn’t. Then she’d launch herself at him with complete trust that he’d catch her. He always did, though sometimes they’d both end up stumbling dangerously close to the lake’s edge, laughing as they regained their balance.

Once, they hadn’t quite managed it. They’d toppled right into the shallows, splashing water everywhere. Instead of being upset about her soaked dress, Angel had simply pulled him deeper, claiming they might as well go swimming now that they were wet. They’d spent the afternoon in the water, their clothes drying on sun-warmed rocks while they floated on their backs, pointing out cloud shapes until the sun started to set.

Estaria’s hand shook as he reached for the cabin’s door handle.

He pushed the door open, and stepped across the threshold. His eyes took in the room.

The fireplace - The fire crackled steadily now, casting dancing shadows across the walls. They’d added simple furnishings over time: a sturdy table, two chairs, some shelves that held their fishing gear and the collection of interesting stones Angel insisted on bringing back from their walks. A worn but comfortable mattress lay in the corner, piled with blankets for the times when their explorations ran late, and they told their families they were staying with friends in town.

Estaria was so lost in thought that he didn’t hear the soft footsteps approaching behind him. Suddenly, warm hands covered his eyes, and a familiar voice whispered, “Guess who?”

Before he could respond, Angel’s weight hit his back, throwing him off balance. They tumbled forward, Estaria twisting to avoid the fireplace. They landed in a tangle of limbs on the wooden floor, Angel’s laughter filling the small space.

“You’re supposed to guess!” she protested through her giggles, her auburn curls falling around them like a curtain.

“Let me think,” Estaria pretended to ponder, even as his arms wrapped around her waist. “Could it be that merchant’s daughter we met in the southern village? She seemed quite interested in Appledale’s finest baker.”

Angel swatted his chest, her hazel eyes narrowing playfully. “Don’t even joke about that. I saw how she was looking at you.”

“Oh? And how was she looking at me?” He grinned up at her, enjoying the way her cheeks flushed.

“Like you were a fresh-baked honey cake.” Angel leaned down, her nose brushing against his. “But you’re my honey cake.”

Tears stung his eyes as he walked toward the corner where they kept their expedition packs. Her pack had always been 10 lbs too heavy for her, but she never let him carry it for her.

Estaria knelt beside the pack, his fingers tracing the worn leather before undoing the buckles. The scent of old canvas and dried pine needles rose as he pulled it open, stirring ghosts he wasn’t ready to face. He reached inside, feeling past coils of rope and a weathered map before his hand brushed something familiar—soft, delicate, and tucked carefully in the corner. He pulled it free, and the moment he saw it, the cabin around him blurred.

A folded scrap of parchment, edges curled from years of handling. He knew what was inside without opening it—Angel’s sketch of the Azure Stag, drawn on a cold morning when she was still breathless from seeing it with her own eyes. “Proof,” she’d declared, shoving the charcoal into his hand and grinning. “When we find it again, I’ll get the details right.” They never did. He swallowed hard, running a thumb over the faded lines, remembering the way she had refused to believe it was just a trick of the mist.

Beneath the sketch, his fingers closed around something small and smooth—cool metal against his skin. He pulled it out and stared at the tarnished coin, its once-polished surface dulled by time. The Trader’s Gamble. Angel had won it in that absurd game of cards, laughing as she bluffed her way through a table full of seasoned merchants. “Luck’s just another skill, Estaria,” she’d whispered when she tossed him the winnings, eyes dancing with mischief. They’d lost most of the silver in their escape, but she had kept this single coin, swearing it was a good-luck charm. Now it felt heavier than it should—like all the luck had drained from it the moment she died.

Tears blurred Estaria’s vision as he closed the satchel. No hair pin. He’d have to tell Beth he couldn’t find it. His throat tightened at the thought of her disappointment.

As he moved to return the pack to its corner, something caught his eye—a small knife strapped to the side. His fingers trembled as he pulled it free, running along the distinctive blade. The metal felt cool against his skin, its golden-brown tinge catching the morning light filtering through the cabin’s window.

The knife transported him instantly to that day across the mountains in Southern Gaiadra. They’d been exploring, as usual, when they stumbled upon the remains of an old cottage. The structure had reminded him of their own cabin—simple, tucked away from the world, holding its secrets close.

Angel had immediately started poking through the abandoned home while he hung back, watching her childlike enthusiasm with amusement. The rotting drawers had groaned under her touch as she rummaged through them, undeterred by the layers of dust and debris.

Her sudden squeal had made him jump. “Look what I found!” She’d spun toward him, holding the knife with reverence. The blade was unlike anything he’d seen before—wide and flat, perfectly balanced. An intricate ferret danced across the metal, its form so detailed it seemed almost alive.

“Angel, we can’t just take—” he’d started to protest.

She’d cut him off with that familiar sparkle in her hazel eyes. “If they wanted it, they would have held onto it!” Her voice had carried that particular tone that meant her mind was made up, the same one she’d used when deciding to keep their cabin, when planning their adventures, when choosing him.

The memory faded, leaving Estaria alone in their cabin, clutching the knife while tears rolled freely down his cheeks. The blade felt heavier now, weighted with memories of her bright smile and unwavering certainty. His fingers traced the ferret’s outline, feeling each groove and line that had so delighted her that day.

The words echoed in Estaria’s mind, twisting with each repetition. “If they wanted it, they would have held onto it.” Angel’s voice, light and carefree, morphed with each pass through his memory. The cabin’s wooden walls seemed to close in, amplifying the sound until it became something else entirely.

“If you wanted me…” Her voice turned accusatory, piercing through time itself. “You should have held onto me.”

The knife trembled in his grip. Dust motes danced in the shafts of morning light, looking too much like the ash that had filled the air that night. His chest constricted, memories of smoke and screams threatening to overwhelm him.

“Why?” The word tore from his throat, raw and ragged. “Why did you go back for that bastard?”

The ferret on the blade caught the light, its metallic eyes seeming to mock him. Estaria’s fingers whitened around the handle as rage bubbled up through his grief like magma through stone.

“After everything he’d done to you!” His voice rose, bouncing off the cabin walls. The peaceful morning outside seemed to retreat, leaving him alone with his fury. “The bruises! The cuts! The fear in your eyes when you thought he might find our cabin!”

Estaria surged to his feet, the knife thrust out before him like an accusation. “He beat you! Killed your mother! He destroyed everything he touched!” Spittle flew from his lips as he shouted at the blade, at the memories, at the ghost of Angel that haunted every corner of their sanctuary.

“And still—” His voice cracked. “Still, you ran back into that burning house for him!” The words echoed off the walls, each reflection striking him like physical blows.

Sunlight glinted off the strange metal of the blade, catching tears he hadn’t realized were falling. They splashed onto the ferret’s intricate form, making it seem to writhe in the changing light.

His breaths came in harsh gasps, the sound of his own heartbeat thundering in his ears. The morning birds had gone silent outside, as if even they knew better than to interrupt his grief. The knife in his hand felt impossibly heavy, weighted with all the questions that would never have answers.

The cabin offered no response, just the hollow echo of his own broken accusations. The knife caught another shaft of sunlight, and for a moment, the ferret’s eyes seemed to hold all the judgment he felt he deserved.

Estaria spun toward the door, knife gripped tight, ready to hurl it into the lake’s depths. The blade caught the morning light, and in that flash, he saw them—wisps of orange and gold, dancing at the edges of his vision. Fire phantoms. His hand trembled, the knife nearly slipping from his grasp.

The memories crashed over him like a wave. That night, returning from their southern expedition, breathless with tales of mysterious spirits that emerged from flame. Angel had insisted on building a fire, determined to see if the stories were true. The wood had crackled and popped, sending sparks spiraling into the darkness.

And there they’d been—translucent figures swaying in the firelight, their forms fluid and ethereal. Angel had gasped, her fingers digging into his arm. “Do you see them?” she’d whispered, her voice filled with wonder. The phantoms had danced around them, trailing ribbons of light that seemed to pulse with an unheard rhythm.

The scent of Angel’s hair filled his nose—pine needles and wildflowers and something uniquely her. She’d pulled him to his feet, laughing as they spun among the spirits. Her body had pressed against his, warm and alive, moving to that secret melody only they could hear. The fire phantoms had swirled faster, matching their movements, until he couldn’t tell where the spirits ended and they began.

His chest constricted as the memory shifted. Angel’s hands sliding up his back, her lips finding his in the darkness. The way she’d whispered his name like a prayer. Their bodies had moved together, creating their own dance, more intimate than any phantom could mirror. The fire’s warmth had painted her skin golden, every touch electric, every breath shared between them charged with something ancient and profound.

Love surged through him, pure and devastating. But rage followed close behind, a dark tide threatening to drown the precious memory. How dare she leave him? How dare she make him remember this? The two emotions warred in his mind, tearing at his sanity like wild beasts.

The knife bit into his palm, and he welcomed the pain. It was real, unlike these ghosts that tormented him. But the memories wouldn’t stop. Angel’s fingers tracing patterns on his skin. The soft sounds she’d made as he’d kissed her neck. The perfect rhythm they’d found together, as natural as breathing. Love and lust and anger all tangled together in a tapestry of sensation that had seemed unbreakable.

His mind splintered under the assault of conflicting emotions. Love so deep it threatened to shatter him. Rage hot enough to burn the world. Desire that still ached in his bones. The fire phantoms danced faster, mocking him with their eternal dance, reminding him of everything he’d lost.

The scream ripped through him like tearing sinew. It burst from his throat, raw and ragged, and the valley threw it back—mocking, endless. Birds took flight in panic, small animals darted for cover, and still he screamed. He screamed for the love that had been ripped away, for the rage that consumed him, for the memories that wouldn’t let him go. He screamed until his voice gave out, until the fire phantoms disappeared, until only the empty cabin remained to witness his grief.

Estaria’s knees hit the wooden floor, his body curling around the knife like it was the last anchor to reality. The memories crashed over him in waves, each one threatening to drag him under completely. His chest felt hollow, as if something vital had been carved out, leaving only raw edges and bleeding wounds that would never heal.

The knife burned in his grip. Not with physical heat at first, but with something deeper—like the press of summer sun against bare skin, or the lingering warmth of Angel’s touch. His fingers clenched tighter, refusing to let go even as the metal bit into his palm. Blood welled up, dark and sticky, dripping onto the cabin’s weathered floorboards.

Something inside him fractured. He felt it snap like ice in spring thaw, a fundamental breaking that went beyond bone and flesh. The hole in his chest yawned wider, threatening to swallow him whole. He couldn’t survive this. Not alone. Not without her.

The knife’s heat intensified, no longer just a memory of warmth but real, tangible heat that should have made him drop it. Instead, his grip tightened further. Blood flowed faster now, but the pain felt distant, unimportant compared to the burning that spread up his arm.

The ferret on the blade seemed to writhe, its metallic form catching the morning light in impossible ways. The heat built and built, until the knife glowed with an inner fire that matched the inferno in his chest. His heartbeat thundered in his ears, each pulse sending waves of scorching energy through his body.

The blade’s heat pierced deeper than flesh, reaching for something essential within him. Or perhaps it was the other way around—something in him reaching for the knife, desperate for an anchor, for anything to keep him from dissolving completely into grief.

The distinction between metal and flesh blurred. The knife’s heat became his heat, its edges his edges. Blood dripped steadily onto the floor, but Estaria barely noticed. The burning sensation spread up his arm, across his chest, until his entire body thrummed with it.

He gasped as the final barrier dissolved. The knife wasn’t just in his hand anymore—it was part of him, its strange metal merged with his essence. The ferret’s dance became his heartbeat, its metallic eyes his window to a world that suddenly felt both more real and more distant than before.

Estaria’s body hit the mattress with a soft thud, his muscles aching from the weight of the day. As his head sank into the pillow, Angel’s scent enveloped him—wildflowers and pine, mixed with something uniquely her. His throat tightened as memories flooded back: her hair spread across this same pillow, her quiet laughter in the darkness, the way she’d curl into him during cold nights.

Sleep pulled at him, dragging him down despite his resistance. He didn’t want to dream. Didn’t want to face what waited in the darkness. But exhaustion won, and the world blurred.

In his dreams, strange creatures emerged from shadows. A deer with bark for skin, its antlers flowering with metallic blooms that chimed softly as it moved. Its eyes, deep and knowing, held him in place. You weren’t there, they seemed to say. You let her burn.

The deer morphed into a fox whose tail ended in thorny vines, each thorn tipped with silver that caught non-existent light. Its face reminded him of how Angel’s skin had flushed when he’d traced kisses down her throat, how she’d gasped his name in the darkness.

A bird made of twisted copper and oak leaves perched before him, its wings spreading to reveal patterns like the ones Angel’s fingers had drawn on his back. She brought life, it sang in a voice of metal on metal. She made the world bloom, and you let her wither.

Each beast bore impossible combinations of nature and metal, living things frozen in precious alloys. A rabbit with rose-gold whiskers and emerald eyes hopped past, its movement reminding him of how Angel had danced through their cabin. A wolf made of silver bark prowled the edges of his vision, its howl carrying echoes of her laughter.

They circled him, these impossible creatures, each one a testament to what he’d lost. Each one carrying a piece of Angel in its hybrid form. The way she’d moved. The sound of her voice. The feel of her skin against his. The life she’d carried inside her.

Their accusations pressed against him like physical weights. You failed her. You weren’t quick enough. You weren’t strong enough. You weren’t there.

The creatures began to fade, their metallic parts turning to dust, their natural elements withering away. As they disappeared, so did the memories they carried—Angel’s touch, her warmth, her life-giving presence. Everything that had made her real began to slip away, leaving only silence.

The quiet settled over him like a heavy blanket, muffling even his thoughts. No more accusations. No more memories. Just emptiness, vast and complete, swallowing everything that Angel had been, everything she had meant to him.

In that silence, Estaria floated, untethered from even his grief, as consciousness slipped further and further away.

When Estaria woke, harsh sunlight streamed through the cabin’s window. His eyes felt gummy and swollen, crusted with dried tears. Confusion washed over him as he realized he’d actually slept—not the fitful dozing that usually plagued him, but deep, peaceful sleep.

He moved to push himself up from the mattress, and white-hot pain lanced through his hand. Looking down, he saw the deep gash across his palm, blood dried black around the edges. The wound was serious enough that he wouldn’t be able to use the hand until it healed properly.

The knife lay on the wooden floor beside the bed where it had fallen during the night. Without thinking, Estaria reached for it with his good hand. The moment his fingers brushed the metal, emotions crashed through him like a wave—burning rage, desperate love, raw desire. All the feelings from the previous night slammed into him with physical force.

He jerked his hand back as if the blade had scorched him, and the surge of emotions subsided. His breath came in short gasps as he tried to make sense of what had happened. Something had changed last night, something profound, but he couldn’t focus on that now. The sun’s position told him it was nearly midday. Beth would be waiting for him.

Gritting his teeth, Estaria grabbed the knife again. The emotions poured into him once more—Angel’s touch, her scent, the heat of their shared passion, the bitter ashes of loss. Working quickly, he tucked the blade into his belt, and the intensity of the feelings faded to a manageable hum.

He scanned the cabin’s interior, looking for one last item. There—the silver hairpin glinted in a shaft of sunlight, nearly hidden beneath a fallen blanket. Estaria snatched it up, trying not to think about how often Angel had used it to pin back her auburn curls.

With the pin secured and the knife at his hip, Estaria turned toward the door. Each step felt heavy as he prepared to leave their sanctuary and return to town, to face the world without her once again.

Estaria’s boots crunched along the path as morning light filtered through the trees. His mind felt impossibly clear, like a pond after a storm has settled. He touched the wound on his palm, the pain sharp but somehow distant. The strange events of last night had changed something fundamental within him.

A willow tree swayed ahead, its branches dancing in the breeze. Yesterday, that tree had been a knife to his heart—the place where Angel had first kissed him, really kissed him, not just the playful pecks of childhood. Now, looking at those graceful branches, he felt warmth spread through his chest. He remembered her fingers tangled in his hair, the taste of honey on her lips, the way she’d laughed when they finally broke apart.

The memory didn’t tear him apart. It filled him instead, like sunlight through leaves.

He turned toward Willow Lake, where memories of Angel saturated every stone and blade of grass. There, she’d taught him to skip stones. By that fallen log, they’d shared fresh-baked bread and dreams of the future. Near that boulder, she’d pushed him into the water, then shrieked with laughter when he’d pulled her in after him.

A genuine smile spread across his face as he remembered Angel bursting out of their cabin door one morning, launching herself at him with such force they’d both tumbled to the ground. She’d been so excited about the rabbit she’d trapped, her first successful snare. The pride in her eyes, the way she’d kissed him breathless right there in the dirt—it was a good memory. It deserved to be remembered.

His hand brushed the knife at his hip, and a whisper of emotion flowed through him—love, joy, desire—but controlled now, like music through a closed door. What had happened last night? The blade had burned, had somehow merged with him, taken something of his grief into itself.

His mother’s words suddenly echoed in his mind: “Well that changes things.” He stopped dead in his tracks, the smile falling from his face. The phrase that had haunted him since Angel’s death suddenly crystallized with new clarity.

The knife hummed against his hip as his fingers traced its hilt. More emotions seeped into him: Angel’s joy as she’d told him about the baby, his own elation, their shared dreams of the future. But now those memories carried new weight. His mother’s calculating voice: “Well that changes things.” A Valens heir, carried by a Blush girl. An inconvenience to his parents’ plans.

His jaw clenched. The blade’s heat increased slightly, but instead of drowning him in grief, it seemed to focus his thoughts. The timing of the fire, his parents’ strange behavior, the suspicious loans—it all connected to that moment when Angel had revealed her pregnancy. When she’d changed things.

The knife’s presence steadied him as rage tried to build. He could think clearly now, could examine the evidence without emotion overwhelming him. Whatever had happened last night had given him control. His grief hadn’t vanished—he could feel it contained within the blade, like wine in a bottle—but it no longer ruled him.

Estaria flexed his injured hand, the pain grounding him further in the present moment. He needed that ledger from his father’s study. Needed to understand exactly what had changed, and why, and who had paid the price for his parents’ schemes. The answers were there, hidden in his father’s careful numbers, and now, finally, he could focus long enough to find them.

He looked back at the willow tree one last time. “I’ll make this right, Angel,” he whispered, not in despair but in promise. Then he turned toward home, his mind clear and sharp as the blade at his side, ready to uncover the truth his parents had buried in ash and lies.