ONCE I HAVE sunken into his form, my father is all that helps me stand.

As the adrenaline of the night leaves my body, I find in its place pain.

Every part of me hurts—my limbs heavy with exhaustion. A wave of nausea washes over me, and I press a hand to my mouth to stifle a groan that threatens to escape. The sensation is overwhelming, like a relentless tide pulling me under.

Orion's grip tightens around me, his strength the only thing keeping me from collapsing onto the frozen ground. Gently, he guides me to my room. Each step feels like a chore, my joints aching and protesting with every movement. When we reach the stairs, he lifts me up effortlessly, but carefully. The wood creaks under the weight of Orion's steady footsteps as he climbs, and I try not to wince as I'm moved.

I bury my face into his shoulder, seeking solace in his warmth and the steady rhythm of my father's heartbeat. The familiar scent of juniper and sage linger on his clothes, a reminder of this morning that now seems like a distant memory. Like times around a flickering bonfire where I would sit on the dew damp ground leaning against my fathers leg, his skin shining with salty sweat, perplexed in my youth by the thick black hair on his muscled calf where I had none.

Finally, I am gently laid down on the soft bed, relief flooding through my exhausted body as I sink into the blankets. He helps remove what is left of my ruined sandals. The once fine things are now tattered and torn, remnants of a life I can barely recognize anymore. My feet ache with cold, the numbing starts to thaw into a burning sensation that shoots up my calves. Orion leaves my side, his silhouette disappearing into the shadows as he heads towards the stairs. I imagine him searching for a way to light the upstairs hearth, seeking out some warmth and illumination in the darkened cottage. The clash of a flint and steel suddenly sound, and with practiced ease, the fire hisses to life under his skillful touch. The crackling is a comforting sound amidst the heavy silence that hangs in the air.

I can now see my father's features clearly as he stands in front of the blazing fireplace, his face aglow with orange and gold hues. Even bolder shadows appear across his already hardened features, darkening every crease and line. The furrow of his brow casts a dark veil over his usually warm eyes.

I watch him silently as he tends to the fire until his silhouette is outlined against the flames.

The warmth begins to seep into my bones, thawing the icy chill that had settled within me. I take a deep breath, allowing myself to bask in the soothing heat of the hearth. My knuckles scream as I try unclenching my fists from the fur of the Daenara's pelt, releasing tension I hadn't even realized I was holding.

Its weight is an entirely newfound comfort around me.

As a toddler, I had spent countless nights snuggled into it's fur, and even now, it offers a sense of security that I desperately need. I turn my face to bury my freezing nose into the white softness, inhaling the scent.

Memories flood my mind.

Simpler times when my only worry was whether I could climb the tallest tree in the forest or make it across the river without getting wet.

Orion disappears again before returning with a basin of water he adjusts above the hearth.

Five minutes later, he sets it down on the bedside table and dips a cloth into the lukewarm water, wringing it out before gently cleaning the dirt and grime from my face. His touch is tender, each movement deliberate and careful as he cleanses the blood and tears that have dried on my skin. My father dips the cloth back into the water, wringing it out before carefully tending to my frozen feet. The sensation is both agonizing and relieving as feeling returns to my numbed extremities. I bite my lip to stifle a cry, my body tensing at the shock of pain. His strong jaw is set in concentration, his mouth a firm line of concern.

As a child, I would often find myself horsing around too roughly and inevitably end up bumping my head on a nearby table or chair. Tears would stream down my face as I would watch my father then pretend to engage in a fierce battle with the offending furniture. He would dramatically wield a broomstick as his sword, declaring war on the treacherous table that had dared to harm his little warrior.

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I thought back then he was strong enough to stop anything from hurting me.

Now, as he tends to my injuries once more, I can't help but to wonder who Prince Noadok is, that even my father surrendered to him.

Fae.

The word appears in my mind again.

I'm certain Prince Noadok is fae. A creature of legend. A dweller of the eternal realm.

But they weren’t supposed to come here.

And what had he said?

Tamer of the swift? Those are words meant for my father, not me.

Whispers of Orion's legends are shared around decks and campfire, in cottages and castles, uniting allies and foes, during the hushed depths of night and sweet dew filled dawn mornings. Echoed in the salty breeze between merchants, passing from ship to ship like a treasured relic.

Hero Orion, the Hunter of Avalon.

A mortal raised by fae.

He bowed to no one.

Until today. When I watched him bow to the fae who brought the storm that killed his Aunt Elora.

MY Great Aunt Elora. The closest person I had to a mother.

I catch sight of something glinting on the floor near the hearth—a trail of coins. Knocked off from the windowsill, probably during the thunder. Blown out candles lay scattered, only half way burnt wicks. She never got to finish her rituals. A sudden knot twists painfully at the pit of my stomach. I wish the prince would have let me finish braiding Aunt Elora's hair.

Now, it would have to remain that way. At least, until the "necromancer" comes.

I close my eyes, willing the world to stop spinning, to stop reminding me of all that's been lost.

Of all I must face.

From behind my eyelids, the fire dwindles, darkness growing as my thoughts are consumed by that word again.

Necromancer.

Orion stills, the damp cloth hovering above my feet. I wonder if the chill in the room alone is enough to give away who I am thinking about, but then my father continues, just as quickly as he paused. As he finishes cleaning my wounds, Orion reaches for a small jar on the table beside him. He uncaps it with a soft click, revealing a salve that exudes a faint herbal scent. With deft fingers, he applies the salve onto my cuts and blisters.

Gratitude washes over me that I have not lost them both today.

He bandages anything that needs it, including taking a look at the back of my head, where I had received a nasty blow.

I feel a wave of exhaustion wash over me, the events of the day finally catching up to my battered body and weary mind.

My father can read me easily, and speaks softly. "Almost done, then you can sleep."

I nod weakly, my eyelids heavy with exhaustion. As Orion finishes bandaging my wounds, he tucks the Daenara pelt around me, cocooning me in its warmth. I sink into the softness of the furs, feeling a sense of safety wash over me. He must know I can not bring myself to part from it yet.

Then Orion kneels before me, his hands brushing the damp hair back from my face. "I will be right back, don't sleep just yet. Let me get you some tea. It'll help when you wake up."

He rises from his kneeling position, and disappears through the wooden door.

I close my eyes and as much as I struggle, I can't fight the urge. It's too easy. Just like that I'm drifting into sleep, plagued by nightmares of swirling snow and flashes of lightning. The sound of the howling wind outside seems to echo in my dreams, mixing with the distant cries of the Daenara in its final moments. A predator turned prey. I toss and turn, until I see images of Aunt Elora's kind smile, the crows feet that marked the dark skin around her eyes.

When I finally startle awake, it takes me a moment to orient myself in the dimly lit room. The distant, solemn cry of a solitary bird echos. The fire in the hearth has diminished to glowing embers, casting eerie shadows on the walls.

I shiver despite the warmth.

Memories of the storm and the chaos it brought flood my mind as I sit up groggily, looking around for any sign of Orion. The room feels abandoned in his absence, a heavy silence pressing down on me. I push aside the furs and swing my legs over the side of the bed, wincing as soreness shoots through my body.

On the bedside table stands a cup of tea and a glass of water.

I reach for the cup of tea, and even the lukewarm temperature of it brings a welcomed warmth to my fingers. The fragrant rises to caress my face, soothing my frayed nerves and the taste eases my raw throat. Even at just the smell, a coziness takes form in my chest, like a cocoon of soft cotton around my heart.

Every sip seems to coax me further and further into the bed, but there's something stopping me. A frozen force that pumps directly from my heart, like a surge of adrenaline that commands I rise.

It must be the middle of the night now, or very early morning.

I set the cup down after finishing, my gaze drawn to the window. The glass panes are covered in a thin layer of lace white, same as the cellar.

Outside, moonlight filters through thinning clouds, casting an otherworldly glow over everything it touches.

My feet carry me toward the window as if drawn by an unseen force. I press my palm against the winter-numb glass. My ghostly breath mists up the glass as I peer closer.

The entire world outside is bathed in an ethereal light, the moon hanging low in the sky like a silver coin. The snow that blankets the landscape glistens, untouched and pristine.

The night is so quiet, so serene, that for a moment I forget the chaos and sorrow. The moon's light seems to beckon me, whispering promises of peace and solace.

Then, my heart leaps into my throat as across the flat, snow covered meadow, footsteps begin to appear, left by an unseen being.