Chapter 89 THE DYING WIZARD
Athalia slept for two days and two nights while Oren drained the magic from her into another jar.
But with each passing hour, as her strength slowly returned, his faded.
When Athalia finally awakened, Oren let out a long, trembling breath of relief. He said nothing to her, though. Not a word.
Soon after, he fell ill.
The sickness took Oren quietly.
Athalia noticed it first in the way his hands shook when he reached for the kettle. Water sloshed over the rim and spilled onto the hearthstones. He stared at it, as though confused by how it had escaped him. When he straightened, his breath came too fast, too shallow.
“You look weak. You should sit,” she said.
“I am sitting,” he replied, breaking his silence — though he was still standing.
He took two more steps before his knees buckled.
Athalia lunged forward, catching him awkwardly. His weight was heavier than she expected. They went down together, the smell of old smoke and bitter herbs filling her nose as she eased him onto the low pallet that had once been hers.
Oren waved a weak hand. “It will pass.”
She did not move away. “You said that yesterday.”
“And the day before that, I was fine,” he muttered, closing his eyes.
Athalia pressed two fingers to his wrist, feeling for his pulse the way she had seen him do countless times. It fluttered, uneven — like a bird trapped in cloth.
“You’re burning,” she said.
He gave a thin smile. “That is new.”
She stood and moved quickly, gathering herbs and lighting the fire with practiced motions. Her body protested — joints aching, the familiar pressure behind her eyes tightening — but she ignored it. She crushed roots, measured powders, and poured water.
When she brought the cup to him, he barely lifted his head.
“Drink,” she said.
He obeyed, coughing as the bitter liquid slid down his throat. Some spilled into his beard.
“Careful,” he murmured. “You’ll waste it.”
“I can make more,” she said sharply.
He opened his eyes and studied her, as if noticing a change for the first time. Not just the brief flashes of returning strength, but the sharpness in her gaze — the way magic hummed beneath her skin now, restless and alive.
“You have been listening too well,” he said.
“You taught me,” she replied.
He laughed softly, then winced, a hand going to his chest. When the pain eased, he lay staring at the ceiling, breath shallow.
“A teacher does not always mean to teach from the beginning,” he said. “That is the trouble.”
Silence settled between them, broken only by the crackle of the fire. Outside, the forest rustled, leaves whispering to one another.
After a long while, Oren spoke again, his voice quieter.
“I have a daughter. You remind me of her.”
Athalia turned, surprised. He had never spoken of family before. He had always seemed as if he had grown from the forest itself.
“She lives with her mother,” he continued. “Far from here. By the river plains, where the soil is soft and nothing listens when you speak.”
Athalia sat beside him. “Why didn’t she stay?”
His lips pressed together. “Because I chose this life. And her mother chose not to.”
He closed his eyes, breath hitching.
“She was small when I left. Always running ahead of me, as if the world would vanish if she didn’t reach it first.” His fingers twitched against the blanket. “Sometimes I feel her close — when the wind shifts, when the fire burns blue for a moment.” He smiled faintly. “But I never see her. I hear she’s a great witch now.”
Athalia swallowed.
An image came unbidden: a small boy with dark curls, his laughter echoing through marble halls. Tiny fingers clutching hers. The way he used to fall asleep against her shoulder, trusting completely that she would not let him fall.
Her chest tightened painfully.
“I have a son,” she said.
Oren’s eyes opened, but he did not speak.
“I don’t know where he is,” Athalia continued, her voice steady only by force. “Or if he is alive.” She stared into the fire. “Every day I wake wondering if he’s calling for me somewhere I cannot hear.”
The fire popped loudly, sparks spiraling upward.
Oren turned his head slightly toward her. “That kind of loss does not fade.”
“No,” she said. “It sharpens. It waits. And then it hurts all over again.”
He nodded, as if that confirmed something he had long suspected.
\---
The sickness worsened over the following days.
Oren could no longer stand without help. His spells faltered, words slurring, hands trembling too much to complete even the simplest incantations. Athalia took over more and more of the work — treating villagers, brewing remedies, keeping the hut running.
At night, when he slept fitfully, she found her eyes drawn again and again to the thick, leather-bound book wrapped in cloth beneath his bed.
She did not touch it at first.
But the hunger for it grew.
It coiled in her chest beside the anger — anger at losing her child, her crown, and her body’s obedience. The curse gnawed at her constantly now, no longer content to lie quietly. Some mornings she woke gasping, nails digging into her palms as pain tore through her without warning.
\---
One evening, Oren lay in a chair outside the hut, watching the sky fade into violet and gold.
Athalia approached him with a cup of tea.
“I just want to say thank you,” she said softly, kneeling beside him. “For saving me. I never truly said it before.”
The cup slipped from her fingers, spilling into the grass.
There was no response.
“Master?”
Silence.
She touched his hand.
Cold.
Athalia’s breath caught as she took both his hands in hers.
He was gone.
\---
Oren had no family who came for him. Only a few villagers stood at his grave, along with Athalia.
“He was a great wizard,” they said.
It was true.
\---
Days later, she walked through the hut alone, sorting herbs the way he had taught her. The quiet pressed heavily against her ears.
Her gaze drifted to the bed.
Slowly, she knelt and reached underneath, pulling the wrapped bundle free.
The leather beneath the cloth was warm.
She carried it to the table and unwrapped it carefully. The cover was cracked with age, etched with symbols that seemed to shift when she looked at them too long.
Her heart pounded as she opened it.
The air in the hut thickened.
Then she saw it.