Ian lies on his back, staring at the ceiling.
The book still sat on the shelf to his right — untouched since yesterday, though its presence was impossible to ignore. It loomed there like an open eye, watching. Waiting.
With a sigh, he reached over and pulled it down, holding it above his face. The spine groaned. The pages crackled like dry leaves shaken from a tree. His eyes scanned the passage he couldn't stop thinking about:
"Do not listen, for he deceives you.
Do not eat to be like him,"
she said.
"Eat to remember
what he tried to bury."
Ian blinked.
"…What the hell is this thing talking about?"
He scratched at his head, more out of ritual than confusion —
Crash.
A dull thud from downstairs.
He didn't flinch.
He already knew what it was.
He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stood, stretching. The floorboards creaked beneath his bare feet as he made his way down the narrow staircase, ducking automatically at the low dip in the ceiling.
In the kitchen, the light was pale and quiet. His mother stood facing the wall, her forehead pressed flat against it. Her arms hung limp at her sides.
Thump.
Again.
Thump.
Again.
Her rhythm was steady. Measured. Almost mechanical — like a ticking clock. She did this every morning. It never seemed to hurt her.
Ian watched in silence for a while, the book still in his hand.
He looked down at it.
Maybe there's something in here… something that could fix her.
He didn't believe that. Not really.
But belief wasn't a requirement.
Hope just needed somewhere to hide.
Then— the past, like breath fogging glass.
They were walking through a sun-drenched field, grass brushing their knees, the sky stretched wide above them like a held breath. Sunlight poured through in amber shafts, catching in her hair, lighting up the freckles on her face.
She laughed at something he'd said — something dumb, probably. He didn't remember the words, just the sound of her laugh, the weight of her hand finding his.
"I love you."
He turned to her.
"Huh?"
Nothing.
Only the wind, curling through the grass like it was searching for something.
Or—
"Ian."
His name. Soft. Distant.
Was she saying it now, or remembering it then?
"I love you."
He was back in the kitchen.
She hadn't moved, but something had changed. Her posture had slackened — forehead still resting against the wall, but now as if asleep.
Ian stepped closer. Gently, he brushed a strand of hair behind her ear.
Her eyes were closed. Breathing shallow.
She didn't weigh much anymore.
He lifted her like a bundle of laundry and carried her to bed, the old wooden frame creaking under her lightness. He pulled the covers up, tucked them around her like he used to be tucked in, and kissed her forehead.
"I'll be right back," he whispered.
Knock, knock.
The front door.
He stepped to the front door and pulled it open.
Isaac stood there, arms crossed, the breeze tugging gently at the hem of his coat. His hair was a mess, as usual, and his eyes looked like he hadn't slept — also as usual.
"Oh. So you do still answer your door," Isaac said, his voice flat.
Ian rolled his eyes and leaned against the frame. "What do you want?"
Isaac shrugged, glancing off toward the path. "Alexandra needs help with the wood. Elias usually goes, but…" He trailed off, not finishing the sentence. He didn't need to.
Ian nodded slowly. "He too sick now?"
"David's staying with him." Isaac scratched the back of his neck. "Not that it'll do much."
There was a short silence. A breeze stirred the dead leaves on the steps.
"Where's Isabelle?" Ian asked.
"She's with her sister." Isaac's voice was quieter now. "Didn't wanna bother her."
Ian didn't ask anything else. They both knew what bother really meant these days.
The road to Alexandra's clearing was still damp from last night's rain. Moss clung to the stones like old secrets, and the air smelled faintly of iron and pine. The trees arched overhead like cathedral beams, and for a while, they walked in silence.
Then Ian reached under his coat and pulled out the book.
He flipped it open to the same cryptic passage:
"Eat to remember
what he tried to bury."
He tilted it toward Isaac.
"What do you think it means?"
Isaac glanced at the page, then shot him a deadpan look. "Why the hell would I know?"
"I dunno," Ian said, slipping the book shut again. "Isabelle said you were some kind of philosopher the other day."
He raised a finger dramatically, mimicking Isaac's voice in a mock-serious tone:
"Yeah. I think fate is when you stare at your name too long and it stops looking like a word."
"Shut up," Isaac muttered, trying not to smile.
They kept walking.
They emerged into the clearing, and there she was.
Alexandra stood in the center like a monument. Her shirt was damp with sweat, clinging to her broad frame. She swung the axe in brutal, effortless arcs. Each strike split wood into perfect halves. Splinters rained around her like confetti.
"About time you boys showed up," she called out, wiping her brow with the back of her arm. "Either of you know how to hold an axe?"
Ian and Isaac exchanged a glance.
Ian raised a hand.
"No." she snapped immediately.
Her eyes scanned Isaac. "You. You look marginally less useless."
Before he could protest, she thrust the axe at him. It was heavier than it looked — it nearly dragged him forward as he took it. Alexandra stepped behind him, repositioned his grip.
"Back straight. Feet wide. You're not swatting flies."
Isaac steadied himself. Lifted the axe. Brought it down.
Crack.
The log split clean.
"Good job, Isaac!" Ian shouted, grinning.
Alexandra pointed to him. "You. Pick up the halves. Bring them inside."
Ian gave a half-hearted salute. "Yes, ma'am."
He stooped to gather the logs. They were heavier than expected, slick with sap. His arms fumbled to hold too many at once — and then they slipped, scattering across the clearing with a loud clatter.
Alexandra snapped, "Stop fooling around, boy!"
Ian froze. Face flushed, he crouched down quickly, scrambling to collect the pieces.
Ian dropped the logs beside the hearth with a soft thud. Sap stuck to his fingers like dried honey. He wiped his hands on his pants, then just stood there a moment, staring at the firewood like it might rearrange itself into an answer.
Behind him, outside, he heard the rhythm of the axe continue.
Isaac's strikes were heavier now. More focused. Each one hit like he was trying to bury something.
Inside, the air was cooler. Still.
The room smelled like ash and old pine. Dust drifted lazily in the shafts of light sneaking through the curtains. Everything was quiet — the kind of quiet that made your ears ring.
He sat down at the edge of the table, letting his arms hang useless in his lap.
The rhythmic thud of the axe kept time with his thoughts.
Crack.
Crack.
Crack.
Something about it made his skin crawl. Not the sound — the intention. Like Isaac wasn't splitting logs anymore, he was carving into the world. Making room for something.
Ian reached into his coat and pulled out the book again.
Its cover felt colder than it should. He didn't open it this time. Just stared at the cross pressed into the leather. The thing felt heavier the longer he held it — like it wanted to be opened, but not by him.
He turned it over in his hands, ran a thumb along the spine.
Elias had found it first. Or maybe it found Elias. Either way, the two of them had been tied together by it before Ian ever touched the thing. And now Elias was sick. Deteriorating. Shrinking out of himself.
Ian tried to remember the last time he really talked to him. Not just passed by him or nodded in the hallway. A real conversation. One where they were still boys, not fragments of them.
He couldn't recall.
The guilt hit like rot. Slow, but thorough.
He turned toward the bedroom door at the end of the hall — the one Elias was behind, with David never more than a foot away from his side. Like a guard dog. Or a priest.
Ian tapped the cover of the book once, then slid it back under his coat.
If Elias knew anything, Ian needed to hear it. But David wasn't going to move. Not without a reason.
He stood, chair scraping quietly against the wood.
Outside, the axe paused.
Now or never.
Ian stepped back outside.
The light had shifted — a little more gray in it now, like the sun had started to second-guess itself. The trees whispered above. The axe strikes had stopped.
Isaac stood off to the side, catching his breath, arms hanging loose. A deep red mark was blooming along his palms where the handle had rubbed raw.
He looked up as Ian approached. "Let me guess. Alexandra sent you back to bring her a throne made of bark?"
Ian shook his head. "I need a favor."
"That usually means something dumb's about to happen."
Ian lowered his voice. "I need to talk to Elias."
Isaac blinked. "Okay… and?"
"David won't leave him alone. Not for a second. Not unless something happens."
Isaac stared, not quite following. "…What kind of something?"
Ian glanced around the clearing. No one else. The trees leaned in like nosy old men.
"You have to hurt yourself."
Isaac made a face. "Huh?"
"Just—sprain your wrist or something. Yell really loud. Make it look bad."
Isaac narrowed his eyes. "Did your stupid book tell you to do that?"
"No." Ian's voice was flat. "I want to know what the book is. I think Elias might know. He's the one who found it first. He hid it. He started all this."
Isaac crossed his arms, still breathing a little hard. "Why not just ask David if you can go in for a bit?"
"Because David's a statue. He'll tell me Elias is resting. Or delirious. Or 'not up for guests.' But if something happens to you, he'll have to leave."
Isaac looked away, toward the treeline. His jaw clenched.
"…Why now?" he asked. "You never paid Elias any mind when he was doing fine. When he was sharp. Why do you care so much now that he's—what—melting?"
Ian hesitated. He didn't want to answer. But the truth pushed through anyway.
"He's still alive," he said. "Just… less well."
There was something like sorrow in his voice. Not the loud kind. The kind that lived deep down, in the bones. The kind that sat quietly at the dinner table and never spoke unless asked.
Isaac sighed through his nose.
"When we saw him last," Ian went on, "he wasn't a person. He was a shadow. Sitting in the dark like he'd forgotten how light worked. He might not have much time. If he knows something — anything — I want to hear it before it's gone."
Isaac was quiet. Then:
"…The village's been weird lately. You feel that?"
Ian nodded. "Ever since Maribel's ascension. Ever since I found this book."
Isaac rubbed his wrist absently. "What if Elias is like… past talking? What if he doesn't even know who we are anymore?"
Ian shrugged. "Then I'll sit with him in silence. But I have to try."
A gust of wind passed through the clearing. Leaves trembled overhead.
"Fine," Isaac muttered. "I'll do it."
Ian exhaled. "Thank you."
Isaac raised a finger. "But you owe me something big. Like… I don't know. A deer. Or a sword."
"I'll whittle you a squirrel," Ian muttered.
Isaac looked down at his arm. "Okay. So how exactly do I make this look real?"
"You could just fall."
"Right. 'Just fall.' Genius. What if I break my teeth on a log?"
"Then I'll take that as extra commitment."
Isaac shook his head. "Three minutes," he said. "That's how long you've got once I scream. Get in, get out."
Ian nodded. "Three minutes."
Behind them, Alexandra's voice rang out like thunder.
"Ian! I'm not paying you to stand around with your thumb up your ass!"
"I'm not getting paid at all, actually," Ian muttered.
Then, louder, to Isaac: "Three minutes."
Isaac rolled his neck. "Yeah. I got it."