AUNT ELORA'S CHAIR is empty when I walk in.

Morning light streams in through the tall kitchen windows, casting long shadows across the room.

The once inviting space, with its polished oak cabinets and gleaming hanging copper pots, usually invokes nothing but comfort- A well-stocked pantry boasting jars of preserves and pickled delicacies, a vase of picked wildflowers decorating the rustic dining table, and the hearth fire crackling merrily. But it all suddenly pales in her absence, and the air around me thickens with a sense of dread. My father's movements seem slower, almost deliberate, as he stirs.

I can still faintly detect the scent of Aunt Elora's favorite jasmine perfume, but it is quickly overpowered by freshly cooked food that my father has prepared for our breakfast. The aroma of hot baked blueberry oatmeal bread, a scramble of seafood, and rich lobster hash fills the room.

All my favorites.

But the smell does little to dispel the unease settling in my chest.

I'm afraid if he recognizes the tea didn't work, he'll use something else to make me forget. Maybe he even put something in the food. I shake the thought out of my head, forcing a smile as I approach him, my heart pounding in my chest.

"Good morning," I say, trying to keep my voice steady.

He turns to face me, and my father's eyes widen, a flicker of recognition passing through them.

Orion takes in the rich fabric of my mother's dress. His gaze lingers on the intricate pattern of lace at the hem, a memory stirring in his eyes. His voice, when he finally speaks, is tight with restrained tension.

"Morning," he says, tone carefully neutral. "Your mother's dress." He notes, masking his expression with a hint of a smile.

I nod, relief flooding through me at his reaction. He hasn't noticed anything amiss. Not yet, at least.

"You look lovely." The more I look the more I notice his smile doesn't quite reach his eyes. Orion's face falters for just a moment with guilt, before he turns back, busying himself with stirring the pan.

Good.

I swallow hard before managing, "Thank you. I don't know why, I just felt like wearing it today."

I occupy myself with setting the table, willing my hands not to tremble. Aunt Elora's absence weighs heavy in the room, a gaping hole where her presence should be. Despite my efforts to keep up appearances, the silence between us feels suffocating. Watching him closely, my stomach churns with anxiety. I want to bring up Aunt Elora, to ask my father about her absence from the table. But the words stick in my throat like glue, refusing to budge. At the back of my mind is an inkling of what I'm supposed to believe- The village celebrated Storm Rites as usual, and I'm not meant to have any memory after yesterday morning.

I take a deep breath, reminding myself that he is still my father, despite everything else. Did 17 years of raising me count for nothing?

"Where's Aunt Elora?" I comment, motioning towards the vacant spot at the table.

Orion's hand hesitates over the pan, the sizzle of cooking seafood filling the heavy silence between us. His back remains turned to me, as though he needs a moment to collect himself before responding.

He clears his throat, setting the utensil down with deliberate care before turning to face me. "She... has fallen sick," My father lies, his gaze avoiding mine. "It happened last night. We didn't wake you because we didn't want to worry you. Eustace believes she needs specialized treatment that can only be found further inland. She left at dawn this morning."

If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

The words sound rehearsed, lacking his usual confidence. Maybe if I didn't remember, if I didn't know any better, I would trust him. Chop up his reactions to a father just protecting his daughter from knowing just how gravely ill her elderly Great Aunt really is.

But I do remember.

And she's not gravely ill. She's already dead.

The ache in my head gives me a sense that the tea was meant to make me more receptive to suggestions, so I if I didn't know any better, I wouldn't question that the closet inland kingdom is a far trip. Days away in fact.

"She's already left?" I ask, trying to sound genuine. "Is it serious?"

The way he avoids my eyes, the tension in his movements - it's all too obvious now.

"It's... it's a delicate situation," he hedges, his voice strained. "Eustace is confident that the healers in the inland kingdom have the best chance of helping her."

I nod, trying to appear convinced by his words even as anger gnaws at me from within. Aunt Elora would never leave without saying goodbye.

I know he's lying, and that knowledge sets a cold weight in the pit of my stomach. But for now, I have to play along, bide my time until I can uncover the truth. Until I can talk to the Prince.

Orion speaks again. "I know it's not much, but I've made your favorites. Don't worry about any chores today, either. Go to the village and see Jovanna and Circe. Just... take it easy."

I take a seat at the table, trying to appear casual, and watching Orion closely as he serves the food onto our plates.

The blueberry oatmeal bread is a deep plum purple, studded with bursts of bright blue. Fresh from this morning, he must have started baking right as I was waking up. The scramble of seafood is a vibrant orange color, still sizzling with loud pops and hisses as it steams. He'd have to be in the market negotiating for ingredients at dawn. Probably still with that Prince.

I frown at the thought of him.

Even the golden brown lobster hash glistening enticingly as Orion ladles a generous portion onto my plate doesn't lift my scowl. He places a pitcher of cool, cider, and I squint disapprovingly at the ice.

"How long will she be gone?" I break the clinking of utensils against ceramic.

"Only 3 weeks," At this, my father sounds quite certain.

It matches up with the words of the prince- that Aunt Elora would be revived in less than a month. I shudder at the thought.

Where is her coffin now?

As Orion reaches for a slice of the blueberry oatmeal bread, I notice a tremor in his hand, barely perceptible. My father has always been a man of unwavering composure, his control as solid as the mountains.

But the past days, his eyes flicker with a mix of emotions - guilt, fear, and something else I can't quite place. It's as though a shadow has fallen over his usual stoic demeanor.

I push my food around, poking at the perfectly curled pieces of seasoned shrimp.

Better to wait for Orion to eat before I do. That way I know for sure the food's okay to eat.

I hate thinking this way. But I have to protect myself. With Aunt Elora gone and my father acting suspiciously, I can't afford to be naive.

As Orion reaches for a slice of blueberry toast and butter, I take small glances at him, waiting for any sign of distress or discomfort. To my surprise, he eats quickly. No apparent ill effects, except for the haunted look still lingering in his eyes.

I decide to take a risk and take a bite of the seafood scramble, watching my father intently for any reaction. When none comes, I let out a small sigh of relief and continue eating, though most of my appetite has been lost.

I mirror his actions and take a small bite of the lobster hash, my taste buds exploding with a medley of flavors - savory, buttery, and rich. But I linger on the events of the past day and the taste quickly turns to ash on my tongue, every bite like lead in my stomach.

With a deliberate push of my plate away, I rise from my seat, the wooden chair creaking softly under my weight. "I think I'll head to the village now, see Jovanna and Circe like you said," I announce.

"Be careful out there, Kaia," he warns, his tone almost pleading. "I'll be in the village if you need me. I have some matters to attend to. There will be a Prince visiting. Please... stay out of trouble."

I nod curtly, not trusting myself to speak. Orion will clear the table, and no chores means I don't have to do the dishes like usual.

Taking slow, measured steps, I can feel the weight of uncertainty on my shoulders like a heavy shroud as I leave the kitchen. I almost wish it were cold enough still to wear the Daenara pelt. I feel naked without it's massive form to protect me.

Making my way to my room, the familiar creak of the floorboards echo through the cottage as I climb the stairs.

Reaching the top, I pause for a moment, my hand resting on the ornately carved banister. The hallway is dim, the only light filtering in through main hallway's stained glass windows, casting colorful patterns on the ancient wooden floor.

Aunt Elora's door is ajar, and I peer inside.