Chapter 1: The Weight of Silver
The wind that raked the Lukso highlands was a living thing. It had teeth, and it hunted the warmth from any exposed skin, screaming down from the jagged mountain peaks that walled the Kurta clan off from the world.
Inside their small, sturdy cottage, the hearth fire fought a valiant, losing battle against the cold seeping through the stone.
Six-year-old Elara was lost in a different kind of battle. She was wrapped in three layers of wool, but the shivering came from within. The fever had held her captive for two days, a relentless, burning weight that made her limbs feel like lead and her thoughts swim like smoke. Her hair, a fall of liquid silver so pale it was almost white, was matted to her small forehead, a stark contrast to the deep, dark grey of her eyes—eyes she shared with every member of her father's clan.
Her father, Kaelen, sat heavily by the fire, his own body aching. The same sickness was in him, but where it blazed in Elara, it smoldered in him, a dull, nagging exhaustion. He coughed, a dry, rattling sound that pained his wife to hear. He had just finished using the long-range radio, a concession to the outside world he both distrusted and, in this moment, desperately needed.
"He's close," Lyra, Elara's mother, said. She stood at the small, thick-paned window, wiping condensation from the glass. Her own eyes, a startling, clear blue, scanned the oppressive grey sky. She was not Kurta. She was an outsider who had seen the kindness in Kaelen's gaze and had chosen this isolation, this life, over the one she had left behind.
"Mama..." Elara's voice was a dry whisper. "It hurts. My head."
"I know, my moonbeam. I know." Lyra moved back to the cot, her movements efficient and laced with a thrumming anxiety. She dipped a cloth in a basin of cool water and laid it gently on Elara's brow. "Mr. Valois is coming. He will take you to the city. The doctors there will make the hurting stop."
Elara's eyes, heavy-lidded, turned to her father. "Papa too?"
Kaelen tried to smile, but it was more of a grimace. "Papa is too stubborn. I just need sleep. You... you are the priority."
A new sound began to tear through the howl of the wind. It was a mechanical, rhythmic thwack-thwack-thwack, a sound of metal and force that felt alien in this valley. It grew from a distant pulse to a roar that seemed to shake the very stones of the cottage.
"He is here," Kaelen said, pushing himself up from his chair.
Lyra was already bundling Elara in her thickest travel coat, pulling a fur-lined hood over her silver hair. "Kaelen, you should not be standing."
"I will see my daughter off," he stated, his voice a low command.
Lyra met his gaze, and the argument died. She knew that look. It was the iron will of his people. She simply nodded, lifting Elara's limp form. The child was light, far too light.
The black helicopter descended into the wide, grassy clearing that served as the village square. It was a machine of sharp angles and dark glass, looking like a predatory insect against the muted greens and greys of the land. Its rotor wash flattened the tall grass and sent a spray of cold air rattling against their home.
A man in a fine, dark cashmere coat stepped out, ducking under the still-spinning blades. Alistair Valois was a man of the city, all sharp lines and expensive leather, but his face, as he hurried toward them, was etched only with genuine concern.
"Kaelen! Lyra! I came as fast as I could."
"The fever won't break," Lyra said, her voice tight, shifting Elara into his arms. "It's been two days."
"She will be at Yorknew Central in ninety minutes," Alistair promised, his voice confident and reassuring. He cradled the girl as if she were porcelain, striding back to the machine. He secured her in a padded seat, buckling a harness over her small, blanket-wrapped body.
"Mama..." Elara whimpered, her hand weakly reaching out.
Lyra grasped it, kissing her knuckles. "Be brave, my moonbeam. I will be right here when you return. Papa and I will be waiting." She squeezed her hand one last time before stepping back.
Kaelen placed a hand on Alistair's shoulder. "Alistair. My friend..."
"Not a word, Kaelen. She is as my own. Just get well."
Alistair sealed the door, and the world was reduced to the rising whine of the turbine. Lyra stepped back, her arm around Kaelen's waist, supporting him as much as he supported her. The helicopter lifted, a sudden, powerful ascent. Elara, fading back into the fever's embrace, pressed a small hand to the cold glass. Lyra raised her own, holding it high until the black shape was just a speck, swallowed by the bruised, heavy clouds.
The silence that rushed back in was heavier, colder than before.
Lyra clutched her shawl tightly, her gaze lingering on the sky. A single, perfect snowflake landed on her cheek and melted. Then another. She looked up, her blue eyes wide. "The air stings," she murmured, an old saying from her own childhood. "It will snow tonight. A heavy snow."
She helped Kaelen back inside, the click of the heavy oak latch a sound of profound finality. The cottage felt impossibly large, impossibly empty.
Kaelen sank onto their bed, exhausted from the brief effort. Lyra immediately went to work, stoking the fire, pulling his boots off, and covering him with quilts.
He shivered, his gaze distant. "You should have gone with her, Lyra. This sickness... the city..."
Lyra paused, her back to him. She turned slowly, her expression unreadable. "And leave you in this state? How could I?"
"Alistair is a good man. He would have..."
"Do you not trust him?" she asked, her voice quiet.
Kaelen let out a weak chuckle. "He is the only man in this world, outside this clan, that I would trust with her life. I have known him since before I knew you. He is... family."
Lyra's expression softened. She came and sat on the edge of the bed, taking his hand. "Then I must trust him," she confessed, her thumb rubbing circles on his knuckles. "I do not trust outsiders easily, Kaelen. You know this. Their world is... too fast. Too loud." She looked at him, her blue eyes full of devotion. "But I trust my husband."
He smiled, a genuine, tired smile. "Good." His eyes grew heavy. "Now, stay back. This fever... I will give it to you." He tried to gently pull his hand away.
Lyra's grip tightened. She leaned forward, brushing the damp hair from his forehead. She rested her cheek against his temple, closing her eyes, sharing his warmth and his sickness. "And who says," she whispered, her voice a low vow against his skin, "that I mind being bedridden... so long as it is next to you?"
"I mind," he protested, his voice a rasp.
"And I," she replied, kissing his hand, "do not."
He sighed, his resistance fading, and intertwined his fingers with hers. Outside, the wind howled, and the first true snowflakes of the season began their silent, relentless descent, blanketing the village of the Kurta in a white, deceptive peace.