Page 26 of A Sunwoven Ascent

Evelyne’s protest withered before it reached her lips. Heidara was looking at her as though the world might break if she said no. And beneath all the fear, Evelyne wanted the same thing. She wanted Alaric back.

She forced her voice to steady. “Then we do it carefully. Slowly, Cillian. And the moment you feel it consuming—” She looked at her brother, hard. “You stop. Do you hear me?”

Cillian nodded. “I hear you.”

***

Lorena refused to let Cillian attempt any healing until both he and Alaric were steadier.

On the outside, Cillian looked improved, at least compared to the night before. The bruising around his throat had darkened into ugly bands instead of fresh red, and his breathing no longer sounded like it might tear. But inside, he was wrecked. His throat still burned every time he swallowed, his muscles ached from where Alaric’s grip had crushed him, and exhaustion sat heavy on his bones. Not just physical exhaustion, either. The kind that came from fear and sleeplessness and the constant strain of holding yourself together.

So they decided to wait one more day.

It should have felt like relief. Instead it felt like another chain. Every night they remained in this small village was another night farther from Caltheris, farther from answers, farther from his mother and sister. Farther from knowing what waited at home. But if they were forced to pause, Cillian would not waste it. He would use the time to focus inward. To find that light again and learn how to touch it without letting it devour him.

It wouldn’t be like the throne room. That night, he hadn’t chosen anything. The prophecy had chosen for him. His body had obeyed as dormant power tore awake and flooded his mind, his blood, his very breath. It had been glorious and terrifying, and he’d had no control over the outcome. Now there was no prophecy to ride like a wave. There was only himself, and whatever this strange gift had become.

He did not even know whether it could help Alaric. Still, he meant to try.

So while the pack gathered to eat and the firelight made the village seem warm, almost ordinary, Cillian slipped away. Not to hide, but to think. Because silence was the only thing that did not ask anything of him.

The moment did not last.

A soft knock sounded at the door, and Lorena let herself in carrying a steaming cup that smelled of bitter herbs and metal.

“I thought you might want another dose before you sleep,” she said, setting it carefully on the small wooden table before fluffing his pillow with the ease of long practice.

The tonic reminded him of the drafts his healers back home used to force down his throat whenever the hallucinations came. They had meant well, but they had never understood what they were treating. At least Lorena’s brew truly helped. For a few precious hours, it dulled the raw pain in his throat.

“Thank you,” Cillian murmured.

Lorena gave a single nod. “Let me see the bruises.”

She reached him before he could object, tipping up his chin and turning his face from side to side as her eyes narrowed over the marks.

“He got you good,” she said, blunt as ever. “I’m glad you’re still breathing.”

“Yes,” Cillian said dryly. “It would have made Evelyne’s heroic quest to save me a rather spectacular waste of effort.”

A quiet huff of laughter escaped Lorena. “That would have been unfortunate. You can thank your wolf blood for healing so quickly.” Lorena’s mouth curved faintly. “And your voice sounds better.”

Cillian watched her move about the room. “Do you ever rest?”

“Not often,” she admitted. “The pack is always in need of mending. Quick healing only goes so far, and we are not exactly known for avoiding danger.”

“That makes sense,” he said. Then, after a small pause, “I only wonder who looks after you.”

Lorena stilled, then gave his shoulder a light pat, warmth softening her expression. “I like you,” she said. “Perhaps one day you can take my place, and I may finally get some rest.”

Cillian laughed, though the sound came out thin. “Tempting as that sounds, my life back home is bound up in duty. It is where I belong. Where my father needed me.”

The word lodged in his throat like a stone.

His father. Newly dead.

Grief rose swift and sharp, tightening around his chest.

Lorena’s eyes grew kind, as though she understood far more than he had said. After a quiet moment, she spoke again, her voice gentler now. “That light in you was meant for more than purging darkness.”