Chapter Text
Not long after the traveler’s death, Elaria began to show signs of the illness.
It started with headaches, which she dismissed as exhaustion from her work. But Tirhal noticed how her hands trembled when she thought no one was watching. His father noticed too.
“We were exposed,” Thalor muttered one evening, his voice tight. “I should have been more careful. She should have been more careful.”
Tirhal felt a cold weight settle in his chest. He wanted to believe his mother could fight it off, that she was stronger than the illness. But he had seen what the sickness had done to the traveler. It had claimed him—and now it was coming for her.
As Elaria’s condition worsened, she made the decision to isolate herself in the lûthara , where she had treated the traveler. "It’s safer this way," she told Tirhal, her voice weighed down with exhaustion. Thalor stayed with her, unwilling to leave her side, though his duty was to oversee the training of the new recruits in the village. For nearly two months, he had been home to guide the boys who had come of age, but the illness now kept him locked away in the lûthara .
Elaria left Tirhal the supplies he needed, placing them on the bench outside, maintaining her distance. Every day, Tirhal brought them food, stepping back once he had left it by the door. He hadn't seen either of them for days—his only comfort was that the food was gone by nightfall, and empty dishes, along with requests for more supplies, waited outside each morning. The silence gnawed at him, but he told himself this routine meant his parents were still holding on.
Merael, the younger apprentice training to be a midwife, handled much of the work related to childbirth and women’s health, leaving Tirhal to manage the bulk of the other duties. He cared for the elderly with their aching joints and bad teeth, brewed teas for upset stomachs, and helped mothers soothe teething infants. Though younger, Merael seemed confident in her path, and her steady hands only deepened Tirhal’s doubts about his own.
“Have you got any of that Anlissin ready, Tirhal?” Merael had asked once with a teasing smile, referring to the herb used for women’s monthly pains. Tirhal had nodded awkwardly, uncomfortable as always with such matters, and her chuckle hadn’t helped. She seemed to enjoy tormenting him, finding humor where Tirhal found only uncertainty.
Despite these lighter moments, Tirhal’s own path remained unclear. He knew healing felt natural to him, but a part of him still longed for his father’s approval. He was clumsy with a sword, never quite matching the skill of other boys his age, but the thought of following in Thalor’s footsteps lingered in his mind. His mistakes only made him question everything.
The week before, Tirhal had treated a boy who had fallen from a horse and twisted his ankle. Distracted, he applied the wrong poultice, meant to numb the skin rather than relieve inflammation. The next morning, the boy’s leg had swollen even more, and Tirhal had to correct his error, feeling the weight of the village elders' watchful eyes. Though the boy recovered, Tirhal’s confidence was shaken. The villagers trusted him because of his mother’s reputation, but he felt like an imposter trying to fill her role.
Meanwhile, Merael had assisted in a difficult birth with calm precision. When he had asked her how it had gone, she described the ordeal with steady hands and quiet certainty. Tirhal envied her composure, wishing he had the same confidence. Every mistake he made seemed to confirm his fears that he wasn't ready.
He hadn’t told anyone about the blunder with the boy’s ankle, but it haunted him. Each time he prepared an herbal tea or tended a wound, doubt crept in. Was the mixture of herbs correct? Had he boiled the bandages long enough? His mother had always known exactly what to do, but now she was unreachable, locked away in the lûthara , leaving Tirhal to carry the burden alone.
His days blurred into long stretches of routine. He brewed teas for fevers, prepared herbs for stomach ailments, and tended to burns, cuts, and broken bones. On quieter days, he boiled strips of cloth for bandages and cleaned the healing tools, following his mother’s instructions on cleanliness—washing his hands before every treatment, ensuring water for wounds was fresh, and boiling cloths to rid them of dirt. The habits she had drilled into him were the only thing that gave him a sense of control.
Kazárôn had changed. Though the sickness was confined to the lûthara , its shadow fell over the village. The people turned to Tirhal and Merael for healing, trusting him only because they had no other choice. Every sideways glance toward the lûthara reminded him that they expected him to fail. They saw him as a boy, unmarked and unsure, trying to fill his mother’s place.
Tirhal wasn’t prepared for the burden. His mother had always been there to correct him, to guide him, but now each misstep felt heavier than the last. Even Merael’s quiet confidence, once a small comfort, now served as a painful contrast to his own uncertainty.
Tirhal worked long into the nights, the strain of responsibility and constant worry for his parents wearing him down. The only sign that they were still alive was the empty dishes by the door. He had not seen either of them in weeks, and each day the absence grew heavier.
At night, when the village grew quiet and the fire in the hearth burned low, Tirhal sat alone in the silent house. He thought of his father, torn between caring for Elaria and his duty to the recruits. He knew the boys needed training at the camp, but Thalor couldn’t leave.
“We’re running out of time,” Thalor had told him one evening, standing at a distance. His face was pale, lined with exhaustion. “I need to get the boys to the camp soon, or I’ll be derelict in my duty. But I can’t leave her like this.”
Tirhal hadn’t responded. The illness had spread through his mother, and there was nothing either of them could do. Worse still, Thalor couldn’t return to his men, knowing the sickness could spread beyond Kazárôn if he did.
The breaking point came in the eighth week.
Tirhal was grinding herbs into a paste when the weight of the silence from the lûthara pressed down on him. He hadn’t heard a sound from inside for days—no clatter of dishes, no movement behind the door. Today, the silence felt different. Ominous.
Then, a crash shattered the stillness.
Tirhal froze as the crash of pottery shattering filled the air, slicing through the morning’s stillness. Another thud followed—heavier, angrier—like something large had been hurled in fury. A cold knot of fear tightened in his chest, but he couldn’t stay away any longer.
His legs carried him swiftly across the dirt courtyard, the light of dawn casting long shadows over the ground. The soft ripple of the pond, the rustle of the wind—all felt distant, out of place, compared to the storm brewing within. The lûthara loomed ahead. A sharp, sour scent mingled with the familiar smell of herbs, but something bitter lay beneath it, gnawing at his senses.
Without hesitation, he pushed the door open.
The lûthara felt stifling. The hearth flickered weakly, casting a faint glow over the room. The bundles of drying herbs hung overhead, but his attention was drawn to the wilting plants in pots around the room—herbs Elaria had once tended so carefully. Their leaves were curled, their edges brown and brittle, neglected. The long wooden table was cluttered with half-used bowls and torn cloths, a mess that mirrored the growing chaos within the household.
A washbasin, filled with soiled linens and bloodied bandages, stood near the hearth—a sign that his parents had been trying to care for themselves, isolated in their sickness. Tirhal’s heart sank. This room, once so full of life and healing, felt like it was unraveling.
His gaze fell to the door at the back, the one leading to the room where his mother had confined herself. From within, he could hear labored breathing, and his father’s voice—low, tired, strained.
Tirhal hesitated for only a moment, then stepped forward, pushing the door open.
What he saw made his blood run cold.
Thalor stood near the center of the room, his broad frame hunched with exhaustion. His tunic was torn, deep scratches marred his arms, fresh blood seeping through the fabric. His hands were raised, shaking slightly, as though he was trying to hold something back. His face was pale, drawn tight with strain.
And then Tirhal saw her.
Elaria stood hunched by the far wall, her thin fingers gripping the edge of a table for balance. Her skin, once so warm and full of life, had taken on a sickly pallor, stretched too tightly over her bones. Hollow cheeks, bloodshot eyes—she was a shadow of the woman he had known. Her hair clung in damp, tangled strands to her face, and her breath came in harsh, uneven gasps. Veins stood out sharply along her neck and arms, her skin showing patches of discoloration, as though something inside her had begun to rot.
But it was her eyes—the way they flickered with something frantic, something broken—that hit Tirhal hardest.
“You...” Her voice came out as a rasp, low and bitter. Her gaze, once warm, now burned with something close to hatred. “You left us. You brought this upon us.”
Tirhal’s heart pounded painfully in his chest. "Nithil... I—"
“You abandoned me,” she spat, her voice sharp as a blade. “You left us to rot!”
Tirhal took a step back, his breath catching. "It wasn’t—"
“Elaria, enough!” Thalor’s voice broke in, filled with a weariness that cut through the air. He moved toward her, hands reaching out, trying to hold her back. “This is not you. Please—let me help you.”
For a moment, she stilled, her wild eyes shifting between Tirhal and Thalor. Then, she wrenched herself from her husband’s grasp, her face contorting with fury. “You cannot help me! You never could!”
Thalor’s face tightened in pain, his hands dropping for just a moment, and Elaria took her chance. She tore free from his grasp, her body jerking forward with a surge of unnatural strength.
She lunged at Tirhal.
Her movements were fast, far too fast for someone so consumed by illness. Her hand shot to the floor, grabbing a shard of broken pottery, and she swung it toward him with a savage strength. Tirhal barely managed to stumble back, the jagged edge grazing his arm, the sharp sting of pain biting into him.
“Nithil, no!” Tirhal gasped, his voice breaking as he raised his arms in defense. But the woman who stood before him wasn’t his mother anymore. Her eyes blazed with something feral, something twisted beyond reason.
“Stop this!” Thalor called again, his voice rough with desperation. “Please, Elaria—stop!”
She slashed again, the shard flashing through the air, her strikes wild and erratic but driven by a force Tirhal couldn’t comprehend. His back hit the wall, his breath ragged and shallow. He couldn’t fight her—couldn’t hurt her. This was his mother.
Thalor moved forward, grabbing her arm once more, pulling her back with trembling hands. “I don’t want to hurt you... Elaria, please...” His voice broke, filled with anguish.
But Elaria was relentless. With a burst of strength, she wrenched free again, twisting violently out of his grip. Her breath came in harsh, furious bursts, her eyes locked on Tirhal. She raised the shard high, ready to strike again.
And then, without warning, the blade of Thalor’s sword plunged through her.
Elaria stiffened, her breath caught in her throat. For a moment, she seemed to freeze in place, her body going rigid as the blade ran through her chest. Her wild eyes blinked, confusion filling them as her breath faltered.
Thalor stood behind her, his face pale and stricken, both hands gripping the hilt of his sword. He had struck cleanly, the blade running through her back and emerging just beneath her ribs, slick with blood.
For a heartbeat, Elaria swayed, her gaze shifting as though she had finally recognized Tirhal, too late. A small, trembling sound escaped her lips, half a whisper of his name.
Then, as Thalor pulled the sword free, she collapsed.
She crumpled into Tirhal’s arms, her body limp, heavy, her blood soaking into his tunic. He fell to his knees with her, his hands shaking as he cradled her lifeless form. The warmth of her blood spread across his chest, but his mind was numb, unable to process what had just happened.
“No...” Tirhal whispered, his voice barely audible, choked with tears. “Nithil...”
His father knelt beside him, his breath coming in ragged, uneven gasps. His face was ashen, his hands shaking as he reached out to touch Elaria’s still form. His fingers hovered over her, trembling, too afraid to touch.
And then, the grief overtook him.
“I... I couldn’t save her,” Thalor whispered, his voice breaking as the weight of what he had done crushed him. His hands dropped to his sides, his shoulders shaking as a sob ripped through him.
Tirhal had never seen his father cry. The man who had always stood so tall, so strong—now crumpled beside him, broken, weeping as though the weight of the world had finally shattered him. His sobs were quiet at first, but soon, they grew louder, rawer, like a dam that had burst.
It was as if a mountain had fallen, and Tirhal could only watch as the man who had been his rock was reduced to a grieving shadow.
The room was heavy with silence, broken only by Thalor’s shuddering sobs. The flicker of the hearth cast long, faint shadows on the walls, but the warmth had gone, leaving the air cold and thick with sorrow.
Tirhal held his mother’s body, his father’s grief filling the space around him, suffocating. He had no words, no way to comprehend the depth of what had just happened.
The lûthara , once a place of healing, now felt like a tomb.
Thalor had taken her body far beyond the village, burying her in secret. Tirhal stayed behind in the lûthara, his mind numb, his heart shattered. When his father returned, neither of them spoke. The war would call Thalor back soon enough, but that night, there were no words left.
His mother was gone, and she had died trying to kill him.
Thalor, Tirhal, and Vôrshen worked in silence as they built the pyre on the hill, beneath the open sky. The wind, colder than usual for the season, tugged at their clothes as they stacked the wood. Only a few villagers had come to witness, standing at a respectful distance. Elaria’s body, wrapped in a simple shroud, lay atop the pyre. Tirhal’s chest tightened with each breath, the weight of the moment almost unbearable.
Vôrshen held the torch, its flame flickering as it waited to begin the final rite. Tirhal stood motionless beside his father, his heart pounding in his chest, his throat too tight to speak. His mind reeled, unable to accept that the cold, lifeless figure on the pyre was truly his mother. She had been the heartbeat of their home, the guiding hand in the lûthara. Now, she was gone, her warmth replaced by the cold stillness of death.
Vôrshen, silent but purposeful, extended the torch to Thalor. For a long moment, Thalor didn’t move, his hand hovering near the flame. His fingers trembled as he reached out, finally taking the torch. Tirhal watched his father’s face—the grief was etched into every line, his eyes hollow and distant. His father, the man who had always seemed so strong, now looked small and broken.
Without a word, Thalor stepped forward and lowered the torch to the pyre. The dry wood caught quickly, the fire spreading in bright, hungry flashes. The flames rose higher, licking at the edges of the shroud, and Tirhal felt the heat on his face, though it did nothing to ease the cold in his chest.
He was supposed to sing. His mother had sung this song at so many funerals, guiding the spirits of the dead to the Sky Father, to the place where their souls would run again, free as horses beneath the stars. Now, it was his turn to sing her to that place.
He opened his mouth to begin, but the words caught in his throat. His lips moved, but no sound came. His eyes burned with unshed tears, and he blinked rapidly, trying to force them back. His breath hitched, and the fire seemed to blur in front of him.
"Ride swift..." he began, but his voice broke, the rest of the words lost in the knot of grief tightening in his chest.
The song died on his lips, and for a moment, there was only the sound of the crackling fire.
Thalor stood beside him, unmoving, his face fixed on the flames. Tirhal wanted to look to him for strength, for some sign that they could get through this, but his father’s grief was too deep. Tirhal felt a sob rising in his throat, choking off any hope of continuing the song.
Then, out of the silence, Mereal stepped forward. She had been standing back with her parents, watching, but now she moved beside Tirhal. Her small hand slipped into his, her fingers warm and steady against his trembling ones. She didn’t say anything; she simply squeezed his hand and lifted her head, her voice soft but clear as she began the song.
"Ride swift, ride far, beneath the stars,
Where winds run free o’er fields unscarred.
Your spirit rides on skies alight,
To the open plains and endless night."
Her voice carried over the crackling fire, weaving through the smoke that rose into the air. The words were familiar, an ancient song of passing, sung by the Rhûnathi for generations. It was a song to send the soul on its final journey, to the farthest fields where the Sky Father awaited, where spirits would be reborn as horses, running beneath the stars.
Tirhal’s grip tightened around Mereal’s hand, his tears finally slipping free. The song, once his mother’s, now belonged to Mereal, her voice steady where his had failed.
"Where hooves beat swift on the shining ground,
And the starlit fields of the lost are found,
Your soul shall ride on wings unseen,
With the Sky Father’s herd, forever green."
The flames rose higher, consuming the pyre, and Tirhal watched the smoke lift into the sky, carrying her spirit with it. The wind stirred, and for a moment, he imagined he could hear the distant sound of hoofbeats, the gallop of horses in the heavens, waiting to welcome her.
"We will meet again where the winds are strong,
And the herd runs free, where the soul belongs.
Ride swift, ride true, to the world’s far end,
Where the Sky Father waits, your eternal friend."
The song finished, and Mereal’s voice faded into the night. The villagers bowed their heads, and one by one, they began to leave, slipping away into the shadows, leaving only Tirhal, Thalor, Mereal, and Vôrshen behind.
For a long time, they stood in silence, watching the fire burn. Tirhal wiped at his tears, but they kept falling, streaking his face as he stared at the flames. He could feel the weight of Mereal’s presence beside him, her hand still holding his.
Finally, she let go, stepping back slightly, though she did not leave. She lingered a few paces away, giving him space, but offering silent support. Tirhal glanced at her, his heart heavy with gratitude, though he couldn’t bring himself to say anything.
Thalor hadn’t moved. His face was pale, his eyes hollow as he watched the pyre. Tirhal could see the tremble in his father’s hands, though they were clenched into fists at his sides. He wanted to say something—anything—to break the silence between them, but the words wouldn’t come.
His mother was gone, and nothing would ever bring her back.
The days following his mother’s funeral felt like a blur to Tirhal, each one blending into the next. Time moved strangely, sluggish and heavy, but at the same time, it felt as if everything around him was crumbling too quickly to keep up with. The lûthara —once a place of calm and healing—had become a shadow of what it had been, as though the life had been drained from it along with his mother.
Tirhal could hardly stand to be inside the hut. The bloodstains on the floor had darkened, and no matter how hard he scrubbed, they wouldn’t disappear. He spent hours on his hands and knees, scraping at the wood until his fingers were raw and aching, but still the stains remained. He scrubbed the walls, swept the floors, and threw open the shutters to let the air in, hoping to banish the lingering scent of death and decay. But it wasn’t enough.
The air inside felt heavy, the herbs that once lined the shelves were wilting, some having dried beyond use. Tirhal picked through them, tossing the dead ones into a basket as he tried to salvage what he could. The familiar tasks—measuring out herbs, cutting them, bundling them for drying—were supposed to help bring him some sense of normalcy, but his hands trembled every time he touched something that had been his mother’s.
Outside, the small herb garden she had tended had fallen into neglect. Weeds had started to creep between the plants, and some of the younger shoots had withered in the late summer heat. Tirhal knelt in the dirt, pulling at the weeds with a kind of desperation, as if somehow restoring the garden might restore the balance in his life. The sun beat down on his back as he worked, but all he felt was the weight of his own failure pressing on his shoulders.
Each day, he brought fresh herbs from the garden and tried to replenish the shelves inside the lûthara , organizing them just as his mother had taught him. He cleaned every surface, boiled cloths to reuse as bandages, and aired out the rooms. But the more he worked, the more the lûthara felt like a shell of what it once had been.
Even the simplest tasks—tending to a villager with a fever, stitching up a small wound—felt harder than before. Without his mother’s quiet presence, without her gentle instruction, Tirhal second-guessed himself constantly. Was he making the Marithra tea too strong? Was the poultice mixed properly? He couldn’t stop himself from feeling like he was failing, and that feeling only deepened as the days passed.
Mereal had started coming by more often. At first, she had seemed hesitant, and Tirhal knew her parents were wary of her spending time in the lûthara , especially around Thalor. But with no one else to help, she had taken on more duties alongside Tirhal, dividing the responsibilities between them.
Mereal was small and slight, with dark brown hair braided neatly behind her back. At twelve summers old, she had already started to show the steadiness of a healer in training, though there was still a softness in her round face and wide eyes that betrayed her youth. She moved carefully, mindful of the tasks his mother had taught her, though Tirhal noticed the wariness in her gaze whenever she glanced toward his father’s house.
One afternoon, after a long morning tending to the garden and cleaning the shelves, Mereal lingered by the door of the lûthara as Tirhal was restocking supplies. She stood in the doorway, hesitant as if she wasn’t sure how to start the conversation.
“Tirhal,” she began, her voice a little quieter than usual, “I’ve got something to give you. Your mother left it for me... but I think it’s yours.”
Tirhal looked up from his work, wiping his hands on a cloth. “What is it?”
Mereal fumbled with her satchel, pulling out a leather-bound book, its cover worn smooth from use. “It’s one of her lûtharn ,” she said, handing it over. “She gave it to me a few months ago. Said I should keep it, but... well, I think she meant for you to have it.”
Tirhal took the book from her, staring at the familiar cover. His heart ached at the sight of it—he’d watched his mother write in this journal countless times. Each note, each remedy, was written in her neat, careful hand. The weight of it felt too much, and yet he couldn’t bring himself to set it down.
“She gave it to you?” Tirhal asked, his voice rough.
Mereal nodded, her hands twisting nervously in front of her. “She said I’d need it one day, but I think she knew... you were meant for something else. Not just this.”
Tirhal’s brow furrowed, the familiar knot of uncertainty tightening in his chest. “What do you mean?”
Mereal shifted awkwardly, as if she was afraid of saying the wrong thing. “I don’t know exactly,” she admitted, her voice soft. “But I think she saw something bigger for you—something outside the village.”
Tirhal shook his head, thumbing through the pages. His mother had always taught him the healer’s craft, and with the warrior’s path looming just ahead—his sixteenth year drawing near—it felt like the only choice that mattered was whether he stayed a healer or became a warrior. But the weight of this book in his hands, of his mother’s work, made him feel as if the answer wasn’t so simple.
“I don’t know if I can do this,” he muttered, his voice almost too low to hear. “I don’t even know if I want to.”
Mereal blinked at him, frowning. “You don’t have to decide now,” she said. “You’re still learning. And you’ve already done more than most of us could.”
Tirhal shook his head again, closing the lûtharn slowly. “But it’s not enough. It feels like... everything’s slipping away. The village needs me, but I can’t fix it. And my father... he’s not getting better.”
Mereal’s gaze softened, her small hand reaching out to touch his arm. “You’ve been through more than anyone should. No one’s expecting you to fix everything. But... you’re not alone. You’ve got me, and we’ll get through it.”
Tirhal looked at her, feeling the warmth of her hand through his sleeve. There was a kindness in her words, a maturity beyond her years, though he could see the uncertainty lingering in her eyes. She was trying to help, even if she wasn’t sure how.
“I’ll help you as much as I can,” she said, her voice steady. “We’ll figure it out. Together.”
Tirhal managed a weak smile, the weight of the lûtharn still pressing on him. “Thanks, Mereal.”
After a moment of silence, Mereal stood up, brushing dust from her tunic. “I’ll be back tomorrow,” she said, her tone a little lighter. “We’ve still got to finish clearing out that garden. It looks like it’s fighting us.”
Tirhal chuckled softly, nodding. “Yeah. I’ll be ready.”
As she left the lûthara , Tirhal sat in the quiet for a while, the smell of herbs and earth thick in the air. The afternoon light slanted through the open window, casting long shadows on the floor. He stared down at his mother’s journal, the weight of it both comforting and suffocating.
Tirhal wasn’t sure what path he would take. He wasn’t even sure if there was a choice anymore. But as the wind stirred outside, ruffling the pages of the lûtharn , he felt a faint spark of hope, buried somewhere deep beneath the grief and doubt.
One evening, as Tirhal was tending to a villager with a sprained wrist, Elder Vôrshen entered the lûthara . The older man paused at the threshold, his expression serious as he watched Tirhal work.
The villager winced as Tirhal secured the final bandage, muttering a word of thanks before leaving the hut. With his departure, the quiet deepened, leaving only the sound of the wind brushing against the walls.
“Good evening, Tirhal,” Vôrshen said, his voice even, though something heavier lingered beneath it.
Tirhal glanced up from the table where he was sorting herbs. “Evening, Elder.”
The air in the lûthara felt different than it had weeks ago, lighter since Tirhal had worked to restore it. The shelves were once again stocked with dried herbs, and fresh seedlings were sprouting in pots along the windowsill. But the hut still held a lingering emptiness, a sense of something lost that cleaning alone could not banish.
Vôrshen stepped further inside, his gaze sweeping over the room. “You’ve done well here. Your mother would be pleased.”
Tirhal’s jaw tightened. The mention of his mother still brought a sharp ache, though he did his best to keep it from showing. “I’m just trying to keep things going.”
Vôrshen nodded but remained standing, his expression unreadable. “There are other matters that need addressing,” he said after a pause. His tone was calm, but the weight behind it was clear.
Tirhal straightened, knowing instinctively what the elder was about to say.
“It’s your father,” Vôrshen continued. “He hasn’t returned to his duties.”
Tirhal’s eyes dropped to the floor. He had known this conversation was coming, but that didn’t make it any easier. His father’s absence had grown more noticeable with each passing day. The training grounds were empty, and the boys of age who should have been preparing for war were left idle.
“I know,” Tirhal said quietly. “He’s… grieving. He just needs time.”
“Time is not a luxury we have,” Vôrshen said, his voice soft but firm. “The village has been patient, but the council is growing concerned. The men are talking, and the boys haven’t been taken to the camps.”
Tirhal swallowed, the knot in his stomach tightening. He had overheard the whispers in the market, the murmurs of discontent. His father had once commanded respect, but that respect was beginning to erode.
“They want him back,” Vôrshen added gently. “But more than that, if he doesn’t return soon, we will be forced to send word to Ostarnen. The Khan must be informed, and the Warchief of the Wainriders will not take kindly to such news.”
The unspoken consequence hung in the air—if word reached the capital, it would mean dishonor for his father. For their family. Tirhal’s heart pounded as the weight of it settled on him.
“He’s not… he’s not himself anymore,” Tirhal said, his voice strained. “I don’t know if he’ll listen to me.”
Vôrshen stepped closer, his gaze steady. “You’re his son. He may shut the rest of us out, but he might hear you.”
Tirhal shifted, uncertainty gnawing at him. He had tried to talk to his father before, but Thalor had withdrawn further into grief with each passing day, shutting out the world—and his own son.
“I don’t know if I’m strong enough for this,” Tirhal admitted, almost too quietly.
Vôrshen’s hand came to rest on his shoulder. “You’ve carried more than anyone your age should have to, lad, but you’re not alone. Your mother taught you well, and your father… though he’s lost his way, he still has strength left in him. You need to remind him of who he is.”
Tirhal nodded, though his chest felt tight. He wasn’t sure if he believed Vôrshen’s words, but what choice did he have?
“The council has also sent word to Ostarnen for a healer,” Vôrshen added. “We need someone to train Mereal. She’s capable, but she’s young yet, and the village cannot go without a skilled healer for long.”
Tirhal nodded absently, though his thoughts remained focused on his father’s looming dishonor. He knew what it meant if the Khan was informed—Thalor would be branded a deserter, and their family would bear that shame.
“I’ll speak to him,” Tirhal said at last, the words feeling heavy in his mouth.
Vôrshen’s hand lingered for a moment before he nodded. “That’s all we ask, Tirhal. Speak with him. There’s little time.”
As Vôrshen left, the quiet of the lûthara returned, but Tirhal’s mind churned with uncertainty. The hut felt smaller, more stifling, as the weight of what he had to do pressed in on him. He glanced toward the shelves, toward the bloodstain that still faintly marked the floor, and felt the pressure building in his chest.
He wasn’t ready for this. But no one else could do it.