The days grew shorter as the seasons began their slow, inevitable shift toward winter. The air grew colder, and the once-thriving garden outside their small home, now suffering from neglect, began to wither under the chill. The village of Emberfall, already broken by the orc raid, now seemed to wither along with it. Thorin felt the weight of the world on his shoulders every time he stepped outside, as if the very earth beneath him was sinking into despair. But it wasn’t just the world around him that seemed to behaving differently—something else was happening inside, too. Something that he couldn’t quite name.

At first, it was small things. The flicker of candlelight in the corners of their home when there was no breeze, no wind. Shadows that seemed to stretch unnaturally across the room when Thorin would catch a glimpse from the corner of his eye. A chill that would sweep through the room, sharp enough to make him shiver, even when the hearth was roaring with fire. These strange occurrences were easy to dismiss at first. He had convinced himself that it was the grief—the stress of it all—that made his mind play tricks on him.

But it happened more often now and it was more and more difficult to discount.

He would be sitting by the fire, his gaze fixed on the dancing flames, and the sensation would come again: that cold feeling, as if someone was standing behind him. He’d turn quickly, his heart pounding, but there was nothing there. Just the flickering shadows on the walls, stretching and shrinking with the light of the fire. At times, he would hear a soft whisper, a faint sound carried on the wind, as if someone was calling his name. The first time, he had thought it was Elysia. But when he looked, she was always in the next room, tending to her quiet tasks or sitting with her head in her hands, lost in her own thoughts.

The strangest of all was the feeling that his father was near. Thorin would stand in the kitchen, preparing the evening meal, and the air would grow thick with an inexplicable pressure. He’d hear his father’s voice, low and commanding, as if Alaric were right beside him, just out of sight.

“Thorin … You must live, son.”

The first time it happened, Thorin had shaken it off as nothing more than the weight of his grief manifesting in his mind. It was an easy explanation, one that he had tried to cling to. But as it continued, he began to wonder—was it possible? Was his father’s spirit truly trying to reach him, or was he simply unraveling, unable to distinguish reality from the phantoms of his sorrow?

But he tried to not let himself dwell on it. Not for too long, anyway. There was too much to manage—too much of his own grief to bear. He couldn’t afford to indulge in thoughts of the dead, not when he was already having enough trouble paying attention to the living.

And then there was Elysia.

She had always been the bright flame in the midst of his world. And even when things had been at their worst, when their lives seemed to unravel, she had been his anchor. But now, even she seemed to fade, like a distant star slowly dimming in the night sky.

It began with her seeming exhaustion. More than the weariness that had always accompanied her long days of work. She grew pale, her hands trembling slightly whenever she held a cup or a fork. Her eyes, once bright and full of life, were now often clouded with fatigue. At first, Thorin had dismissed it, telling himself it was simply the temporary result of the constant strain she had been under, trying to keep their home together while he slowly fell apart.

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But as the days wore on, it became impossible to ignore or dismiss as something fleeting. He’d find her sitting in the kitchen, her elbows resting on the table, staring at the empty space before her as if she didn’t know how to fill it. Sometimes, when he was walking by, he’d see her clutch her stomach in a sudden, sharp pain. She would grimace and take a deep breath, but when he asked if she was alright, she would brush it off with a weak smile.

“It’s just the stress,” she would say. “It’s nothing.”

But Thorin wasn’t blind. The pallor of her face was growing worse, her movements slower, more sluggish. He could see the pain in her eyes, even when she tried to hide it. He wanted to help, wanted to comfort her, but the weight of his own sorrow was so crushing that he felt powerless to ease her suffering.

One evening, after the sun had set and a thick fog had settled over the village, Thorin returned to find her leaning against the doorframe of their small bedroom. Her arms were crossed protectively over her stomach, and her face was drawn tight with pain. The candles flickered on the small table beside her, casting long, wavering shadows.

“Elysia …” Thorin’s voice cracked, his throat tight as he stepped toward her.

She gave him a small, forced smile, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “It’s just this … the stress. It’s been too much for both of us.”

Thorin’s heart sank as he looked at her. He could see it now—the dark circles beneath her eyes, the way she leaned against the wall as if holding herself up. She wasn’t well. She hadn’t been for a while.

He reached out, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “You don’t look alright. I—I don’t think you can keep pushing yourself like this.”

Elysia shook her head, though there was no conviction in the gesture.

But Thorin could see it now—could see the growing strain in her eyes. He felt helpless, watching her fall further into her own pain, knowing he could do little to ease her suffering. He wanted to reach out, to take her pain away, but there was nothing left in him to give. The well of his own grief was too deep.

Later that evening, after they had eaten in silence, she came to him as he sat by the fire, staring at the flames without truly seeing them. She knelt beside him, her hand resting gently on his arm.

“I love you, Thorin,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. “But I think you were right. I can’t keep pushing myself like this … I don’t think I can stay here any longer.”

His eyes snapped to hers. “What do you mean?”

She hesitated, her fingers twitching as if she were uncertain of the words. “I think I need to go to my father’s village. I need help, Thorin. I can’t do this alone anymore. You … you obviously need to grieve, and I can’t do everything myself anymore. I’m so sorry.”

Thorin’s heart clenched. He wanted to argue, wanted to protest that she couldn’t leave him, not now. But the truth was, he didn’t know what he could offer her anymore. He had nothing left to give. Nothing except his sorrow.

“I’ll help you pack,” he said softly, his voice hoarse. “I’ll help you prepare. Just … be careful. Take care of yourself.”

It hurt to say the words, but he knew they were the right ones. He couldn’t ask her to stay. He couldn’t make her carry his burden any longer.

She looked at him for a long moment, as if trying to read him, but there was no warmth left in his gaze. Only an empty, hollow ache. “I’ll come back when … if I can. I don’t know when that will be … but I will try.”

He nodded slowly, unable to say anything more. His heart felt heavy, a weight too unbearable to bear.

The next morning, after packing a small bag of provisions and taking care of the last few things, Elysia mounted her horse. Thorin stood by the front gate, watching as she adjusted the reins, her face pale but determined.

“I’ll be waiting if you get better,” she said, her voice soft but resolute. “You’ll find your way, Thorin. I know you will.”

Thorin’s chest tightened as he watched her ride away, her silhouette gradually fading into the distance. He had wanted to follow her, to stop her, but he knew she needed this—needed to be away from him at the moment.

He watched her disappear into the fog, and the emptiness inside him deepened.