Chapter 85: The Weight That Doesn’t Fade

Chapter 85: The Weight That Doesn’t Fade
It started like it always did—quietly.

Grief didn’t shout when it returned. It didn’t crash through the door or set fire to your lungs. It came on bare feet, moved like fog, and wrapped itself around the back of your mind while you were busy trying to live. You didn’t notice it until the weight pulled you down again.

It had been a good day by any standard I’d grown used to. Nothing burned, nothing bled, and no one said my name with a sneer. I’d scrubbed pans in the morning, shelled nuts in the afternoon, and served stew by the potful at evening mess. Talon had giggled when I kissed his toes during a break. Dessa had smirked at him like he was hers. He’d spent the rest of the day asleep in her arms while I finished my shift.

It should’ve been enough. Should’ve felt like peace.

But as I walked back to my little stone room with Talon bundled against my chest, I could feel it already. The edges of it. The press of a memory I hadn’t invited.

Kael’s voice. Not the words—just the sound. That low, quiet rumble that had always made me feel like the world was steady no matter how bad things got. It slipped under my ribs and coiled there. It made the walk feel longer. Made the silence feel louder.

By the time I laid Talon down and straightened the blanket over his chest, I could barely breathe.

He stirred a little, one small hand fisting the edge of the wool, but he didn’t wake.

I stood there longer than I should’ve, just watching the rise and fall of his tiny chest, his furrowed brow, his soft dark lashes against pale cheeks.

He looked more like Kael every day.

Not in obvious ways. But in the way he made me feel—like I was holding something fragile and precious and mine. And I was failing him.

I sat down on the floor beside the cot. Didn’t plan to. Just... folded. My back hit the wall, and I pulled my knees to my chest, arms tight around them. The stone was cold. The quiet inside me was worse.

It cracked open without warning.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered, voice barely there. “Kael, I’m so sorry.”

The first tear didn’t hurt. The second did.

And then I was weeping.

Not loud. Not violent. Just slow, aching sobs pressed into the fabric of my sleeve. My breath shuddered out of me like it didn’t want to stay. My chest caved inward with the force of it.

“I didn’t forget you,” I said. “I didn’t forget. I just—he needs so much. I can’t stop moving.”

My throat tightened until I could barely force words out.

“I haven’t said your name in days. I didn’t mean to. I swear I didn’t mean to.”

It felt like a betrayal. Like every moment I spent surviving without him was another knife in my own back. And still I kept breathing. Still I kept going. Because of Talon. Because there was no one else left to do it.

But there were nights like this when the cost of it all came due.

“I should’ve died with you,” I whispered. “Or killed them before they touched you. I should’ve—”

The door didn’t creak.

It just... opened.

I froze, mid-sob, breath caught in my throat.

A figure filled the frame. Tall. Broad. Still.

Roran.

Of course it was him.

I should’ve looked away. Wiped my face. Pretended I wasn’t broken open like an old wound. But I didn’t.

I let him see.

His expression didn’t shift. He stood there, gaze level, arms at his sides. For a moment, I thought he might speak. Ask something. Say something cold or sharp or exacting.

Instead, he stepped inside without a word.

His boots were near-silent across the stone. He walked over to the table—just a few paces from where I sat huddled against the wall—and laid something down.

The scent of roasted meat filled the room. Stew, bread, sliced fruit. Still warm. Steam curled gently from the plate’s edge.

Then another sound. Softer. Fabric.

He set down a folded blanket. Thicker than the ones from the storerooms. Heavy-knit. Clean. New.

He didn’t say a word.

Didn’t look at me again.

He just turned, walked out, and shut the door behind him.

Silence returned.

But it felt different.

Not empty. Not cruel.

Just... still.

I stared at the table for a long time. My face was tight with dried tears. My chest ached. My hands were trembling. I felt raw. Unworthy.

But something in the way he’d looked at me—how he hadn’t looked away—stuck in my bones like a thorn.

He didn’t pity me.

He didn’t want to save me.

He just saw me.

And in seeing me, he made sure I wouldn’t starve beneath the grief.

Eventually, I crawled across the floor and reached for the blanket. It was warm against my skin, even before I pulled it over my shoulders. The scent of wool and pine clung to it faintly—his scent. I didn’t think about why that made me feel steadier. I just pulled it tighter.

I stood, limbs sore and stiff, and made my way to the crib.

Talon was still sleeping, mouth slightly open, one arm sprawled above his head. I brushed my knuckles down his cheek, then lifted him gently and carried him to the cot.

I laid him in the center and crawled in beside him.

The plate of food sat untouched across the room, but the blanket held the warmth he’d left behind.

I curled my body around my son and let the stillness come.

Before I closed my eyes, I whispered one last time, “I’m still here.”

And I knew that wherever Kael was—whatever waited beyond the dark—he’d heard me.

Because I still carried the weight of him.

And I always would.