Chapter 7 : The Threads That Bind

Lyria woke with Aric's name on her lips and the taste of salt in her mouth.

The thin wool blanket was tangled around her legs, damp with sweat despite the chill in the air. She lay still for a moment, staring at the cracks in the ceiling that formed the same branching pattern as the Weirwood's limbs. Her left hand throbbed—the scar pulsing in time with her heartbeat.

Somewhere beyond the Veil, Aric was hurting.

The water in the bedside pitcher had developed a skin of dust. She drank it anyway, wincing as a stray eyelash stuck to her tongue. The mirror above the washbasin showed a stranger: hair matted at the temples, the hollows beneath her eyes dark enough to plant seeds in.

She'd dreamed of him again. Not of their last desperate goodbye, but of an ordinary morning—Aric half-asleep in her lap, his breath warm through the fabric of her dress as she worked burrs from his hair. The memory was so vivid she could still feel the texture of each tangle between her fingers.

A knock at the door startled her. The apprentice hovering outside flinched at her appearance. "High Oracle Neryth requests—"

"I know where the sanctum is." Her voice came out rougher than she intended.

The stone corridors of the Twilight Coven were smoother underfoot than they'd been last month. Lyria noted this distantly—how her body had memorized every chip and groove in the flagstones while her mind was elsewhere.

Neryth's chambers smelled of camphor and the peculiar bitterness of dried moonpetals. The old woman sat perfectly straight despite the tremor in her hands, sorting through strands of some shimmering thread Lyria didn't recognize.

"You cried out in your sleep again," Neryth said without looking up.

Lyria's scar pulsed. She curled her hand into a fist. "I didn't realize the coven monitored dreams now."

"Don't be obtuse." Neryth held up a strand of thread to the light. "The entire western wing felt it when you shattered the basin last night. Again."

The admission sat between them like a challenge. Lyria focused on the tapestry behind Neryth's head—a depiction of the first Veilweavers, their faces blurred by time and poor stitching.

"We found this in the lower gardens." Neryth pushed a small wooden box across the table.

Inside lay a single sunberry, perfectly preserved. It shouldn't have been possible—the fruit didn't grow in the Twilight Realm. Yet there it was, plump and glistening as if freshly picked, the stem still bearing the distinctive diagonal cut Aric always made when harvesting them.

Lyria's throat closed.

"The Veil is thinning in strange places," Neryth said softly. "Your... connection appears to be creating spontaneous bridges."

A drop of water fell onto the box's lid. It took Lyria a moment to realize it was her own tear.

Neryth sighed. "Child, you must—"

But Lyria was already walking away, the berry clutched in her scarred hand like a stolen secret.

That night, she didn't sleep. She sat by her narrow window, rolling the sunberry between her fingers until the scent of summer filled the room. Somewhere beyond the Veil, Aric was staring at the same moon, his hands equally empty.

The berry burst under her thumb, staining her skin the color of old blood.