House of Blight

Book 1: Threadmender Chronicles

by Maxym M. Martineau

Genres: Fantasy action & adventure; Fantasy Romance; Romantic Fantasy; Gothic

Synopsis

The first novel in an eerie, darkly creative, and romantic new gothic fantasy duology from Maxym M. Martineau, for readers of Sarah J. Maas and Rachel Gillig.

Edira Brillwyn is a threadmender. She holds a rare, lifesaving power that can cure disease and heal injuries in the blink of an eye. But magic always comes with a cost, and saving anyone sacrifices a sliver of her own life. She’s always kept her abilities hidden…until the powerful Fernglove family discovers her secret.

The Ferngloves are charming and beautiful, possess powerful magic, and don’t take no for an answer—especially Orin, the head of these ruling elites. When Edira’s brothers unexpectedly contract blight—an incurable virus killing people throughout the town, and an illness too strong for her to heal them both—Orin offers to help. Together at his estate they’ll research a cure while Orin slows their sickness and Edira hones her magic. His kindness and honesty surprises Edira, as does her undeniable attraction to him.

But the other Ferngloves are suspicious of her power and may be more dangerous than the ever-present disease. The longer Edira stays within the confines of the Manor, the more the family’s pristine exterior begins to crack—until Edira discovers a terrifying secret and must choose who she can save and at what cost…

Release date: April 8, 2025

Publisher: HarperCollins

Print pages: 384

Sample

Prologue

When the stars were young and the sun was new, a woman of great power and strong mind met Death at a four-way crossing. Cloaked in shadow despite the high noon hour, he welcomed those who found their way to him, and he always afforded them the same opportunity: a path of their choosing.

“Successfully choose the correct path forward, and I will allow you to pass, turning my back to you and your kin. Choose incorrectly and walk with me now to your end,” he said.

The woman studied Death with keen eyes. She was not afraid, but she knew there was magic in words. Her choice was not one to be taken lightly.

“What do the paths represent?” she asked.

With bony fingers, Death gestured to her left: “A fork in the road you missed in your youth.” Then, directly before her: “The unchanged path, as most predict.” To her right: “A future, wild and unseen.” Death looked beyond her to the path she’d been walking: “And a past you cannot escape.”

The woman pondered her options. She knew she was not the first to meet Death on this road and surmised all paths had been chosen before. She glanced to her left. To right a wrong or avoid a regret and start anew . . . She narrowed her eyes. Only to meet Death sooner.

She stared past Death at the path ahead. The unchanged path that led me to Death; the only prediction guaranteed to come true.

She shook her head and gazed to the right. Wild and unseen. Tragic and swift. Grimacing, she regarded the path behind her, and she knew that if she turned back now, her feet would only carry her here again—the path she could not escape.

“Every path leads me to you,” she said.

Death smiled. “Yes.”

“I see. Then I’ll return tomorrow.” And with that, the woman left down the path she’d came, leaving a perplexed Death behind. When the sun rose, the woman returned. She asked Death the same question, received the same answer, and once again departed down the path she’d come.

This continued for a decade until Death’s patience grew thin. “Your time is up.” From the folds of his cloak, he drew a blade devoid of life and color, darker than the depths of night. The woman studied the weapon without moving, but there was a strange glint to her hardened stare that even Death could not miss. He gripped the weapon tighter and said, “Death comes for us all.”

“Including you?” she asked, finally rounding her gaze to Death.

She was not the first person to ask such a thing, and she wouldn’t be the last. Death once again hid his blade in his cloak. “There is death for me yet, but you are not it. You do not possess the power or the weapon. It is your fate to meet me here, and you’ve wasted enough of my time.”

She nodded. “I understand. Grant me one final chance to say my farewells, and I’ll part from the life I’ve always known.”

Sensing a shift in her demeanor, Death allowed her this courtesy. When she returned the next morning, Death once again gestured to the roads. “Choose.”

Without hesitation, the woman strode forward and unsheathed a dagger, a twin to Death’s own weapon, and plunged it deep into his gut. “I know you, Death. I came into the world cloaked in your shadow when you stole my mother’s life as I left her womb. You think I’m powerless? Far from it. I’ve 

been watching you for years, biding my time until it made sense for me to strike. You will not take me, too. The path I choose is yours.”

Stunned by her revelation and grievously wounded, Death had no option but to concede. “Spare my life, and I’ll spare yours,” he said. She waited, her hand gripped tightly around the hilt of her blade. “Walk whichever path you please. You shall be . . . ever living.” Slowly, so as not to draw the woman’s blade farther into his own flesh, Death reached into the folds of his cloak and extracted a smooth stone of pure moonlight. “I cannot walk where there are no shadows. Stay within its glow, and you will never see me again.”

“And for my kin?” She took the proffered gem while twisting her knife deeper. Instead of ruby blood, obsidian rivulets oozed down the blade.

Death hissed. “Split it. Search for more. All jewels of this nature are now bound by this promise, I swear to you.”

“Good.” She removed her blade and continued onward, down a path Death did not see, while pocketing the stone with a smile. And while Death lay crumpled in the crossroads, feeling bitter and cheated, he decided he’d allow the woman and her kin to feel safe for a time—long enough for all to forget the power of her bargain and everything she left out.

One

I’d always found cemeteries a bit odd—they housed the dead, but the dead didn’t need them. The dead didn’t need anything. The very existence of graves, of coffins, felt like a living riddle. What was made for the deceased but comforted the living? A silk-lined box. It sounded like something one of the Evers would say, and while I had no desire to get involved with them, it was hard not to respect the power behind their words.

Or maybe I was drawn to the quiet graves because of the abundance of mugwort. That seemed far more likely.

Crouching before the nearest crumbling headstone, I drove my fingers into the soft dirt and uprooted the sage-green plant, minding the tiny white hairs covering the leaves. I tucked it into the overflowing burlap sack hanging from my hip and stood, brushing my hands along the fabric of my fitted pants. Most ladies of marriageable age favored satin skirts and low necklines, sumptuous frills and elegant lace trimmings. Perhaps if my station had been different, I would have, too. I had nothing against the artful construction of whalebone and ribbon, but when one rummaged through the dirt as often as I did, it was tiresome to change skirts frequently enough to remain presentable.

Plus, those ladies had families and coin that afforded them lazy afternoons sipping tea over gossip, whereas I did not. I would likely be plowing through earth right up to my final days, and I’d probably dig that grave, too. And even yet, that fate seemed preferrable to the alternative: spending time with Willowfell’s elite for the chance of a marriage that would “save” me from my work.

I’d rather work for myself than work to be someone else’s version of “suitable.”

River birch trees clambered against the moss-covered stone wall rimming the graveyard, and I lingered in their shade a moment longer before navigating the path toward the flower-studded meadow. The spring air was thick with the scent of fresh linens, as the townsfolk strung up damp sheets and garments to take advantage of the cloud-free sky. I cut a glance toward the midafternoon sun. There were only a few hours left until my brothers returned from the nearby mines, and I was eager to brew a few tonics for tomorrow’s market before they commandeered the kitchen.

Taking the right fork around a small hill, I came across the first crop of houses marking the edge of Willowfell. The quaint homes rimming the outskirts of town looked largely the same—the pearl-colored bricks were fashioned from stone found at the base of our closest mountain, and the hipped roofs were a dark shade of ivy to match the surrounding canopy of leaves. But perhaps the most unique custom of Willowfell was the construction of its doors. It was tradition for families to decorate them however they deemed fit. The Shatterlends’ door was a mosaic masterpiece depicting a romantic embrace. Lazlo and his husband opted for a circular entrance with half-moon windows burrowed into the rich wood. The Hafters’ was covered in iron handles.

Our door, though, was my favorite. The facade itself was simple, but the surrounding frame was something else entirely. Even now, as I passed by our neighbors’ homes and found myself standing before my father’s handiwork, I couldn’t help but marvel at the intricate details. He’d taken a fallen branch from a nearby ash tree and carved an arch of interconnected roses and vines. He’d studied the flowers for weeks in order to capture even the most minor features. The thin veining in the leaves. The uneven crinkles in the petals. Buds blooming. Buds closed. Thorns of various sizes but precisely sharp. He’d polished it all to perfection, but he’d refused to stain it. For

him, there was nothing more beautiful than the story told by the nuances in the grains of wood.

My heart twisted as I lightly fingered a petal by the bronze handle—my way of greeting him each time I returned home. My mother I kept with me at all times. Instinctively, my hand dropped to the front pocket of my pants, where I could feel the outline of an embroidered scrap of leather. She’d been excellent with a needle, often stitching designs into our clothes and crafting small toys for us with leftover fabric.

Years had passed since their deaths, and still I missed them so much I ached.

Once in the kitchen, I deposited my bag on the knobby, worn wood table and fished a heavy pot from the lower cabinet. After filling it with water, I lit the cast-iron stove. Heat bloomed outward in a drowsy bubble, cooking the space in a matter of minutes, and I tied my raven-black hair in a bun atop my head to keep the strands from sticking to my neck.

With deft fingers, I opened my bag and began sorting through herbs when my hand stilled. Something gold flashed between the muted greens and browns. At first I thought I’d picked up a coin in my foraging, but it was smaller than our currency and even more brilliant in its metallic sheen. Frowning, I drew myself closer, and the object—the insect—moved.

Beetle. My lips quirked up as it skittered across my knuckles. The edges of its outer shell were transparent, and two soft antennae twitched as it regarded me. Careful not to jostle the creature, I moved to the open window and let it crawl onto the sill. It stretched its wings as if preparing to fly, then stopped.

“It’s all right,” I murmured. “Take your time.”

Just then, a hesitant knock sounded from the front door. “Ms. Brillwyn? Are you home?”

Ms.? I bit back a chuckle. One of the children, then, hoping a touch of respect would gain my favor. I was only twenty-five, and I’d never really cared for titles. That was something only the elders—or those hoping to become pinnacles of our quiet society—cared for. Ridiculous. I dusted my hands together and crossed the kitchen to the small foyer, sidestepping the worn stairs winding upward toward the bedrooms. When I opened the door, a boy with bleary, red-rimmed eyes looked up at me. He breathed heavily through his parted, chapped lips, careful not to inhale sharply as one hand precariously shielded his nose.

Sighing, I opened the door wider and leaned against the frame. “Toman, why am I not surprised?” I’d never met anyone in all of Glaes who injured themselves as much as him, and our country

was rather large.

“Hi, Ms. Brillwyn.” His congested voice trembled with the low whimper of a child hoping to avoid a scolding.

“It’s just Edira. You know that.” I tilted my head, trying to catch a glimpse of the injury he was hiding. “What happened?”

“Elbow to the face,” he mumbled. I glanced over the top of his head to spy a discarded, filthy ball waiting for him at the edge of my garden. No doubt he’d been playing rough with his brothers and ended up here instead of risking an earful from his mother.

Stepping to the side, I gestured toward the kitchen. “Come on, then.”

“Thanks,” he said as he easily found his way to my table and sunk into one of the sturdy chairs. At this point, he could’ve claimed it as his own. I’d helped him and his siblings more times than I could count—all free of charge. Which was probably the real reason they kept finding themselves here. Mrs. Marlow was nothing if not shrewd. I really should’ve refused her sons altogether, but I loathed the idea of holding her children accountable for her snobbery. At least not until they showed signs of it themselves, and then I’d ignore their pretentious comments, too.

Dragging one of the opposite chairs across the creaking floorboards, I seated myself directly before Toman. “Let me see.”

He hesitated, his caramel-colored eyes full of pain, and then slowly removed his hand to reveal a misshapen nose with dried blood caked around the nostrils. My brows arched toward my hairline.

“Does your mother know?”

His face blanched. “Are you going to tell her?”

“She’s going to find out one way or another.” With light fingers, I gripped either side of his grubby face and inspected the injury. The awkward angle, fresh, heavy bruising, and congested breathing were indicators enough. Broken. A prickling sensation spread outward from my chest and trickled toward my fingers, and I clenched my jaw to steel myself against the hidden surge of magic now flooding my veins.

And suddenly I was thrust into a memory of when I’d held Nohr’s crushed leg in my hands just a few years ago. He’d come back from the mines with his femur split after loose rubble pinned him to the earth until Noam wrenched him free. Nohr was already unconscious when Noam dragged him back to our home and screamed for me in the foyer.

Threadmending hadn’t even been a question then. Nohr never would’ve been able to work again if I hadn’t healed him. He could’ve died. I’d tapped into my power as seamlessly as breathing and watched as his life threads unfurled, searching

until I found the mangled fibers tied to the devastating injury that was his leg.

And then I’d poured everything I had into stitching them back together.

Of course, there had been a cost. There was always a cost when it came to my magic. For every ailment that I healed, every life thread I put back together, I’d sacrifice a few strands of my own and diminish my lifespan. As well as, to a somewhat lesser degree, suffer the physical consequences of the injury or illness.

Nohr’s splintering pain had immediately become my own, and fires had ruptured from the bone in my left leg as tears stung the backs of my eyes. Heat flushed through my skin and left me raw. Every breath was a jagged, sharp exhale that stung, and I was a trembling mess coated in a thin sheen of sweat, until I finally finished my work and then collapsed beside my brother, letting the magic fade as I, too, succumbed to unconsciousness.

There was no way to know exactly how much of my life I’d sacrificed to save Nohr’s leg. Threadmenders couldn’t see their own threads. Why, I didn’t know. My aunt, a threadmender like me, didn’t either. But she speculated that the cost was scaled. Minor illnesses and trivial breaks? Possibly a few weeks. Major fractures like Nohr’s leg? Several months at least.

I never dared to ask her how much of her life she thought she’d sacrificed to cure my mother of a winter illness that lingered far too long in her lungs. An illness that caused the townsfolk to avoid my family at all costs, barely offering condolences if they saw one of us in passing. I’d been young when it happened, but I still remembered how they refused to look directly at us. As if averting their eyes would somehow absolve them of acknowledging our pain.

But for Toman’s nose . . . I forced myself back to the present, to the mild ailment at hand. I would not threadmend him. It wasn’t worth it. Still, my power recognized Toman’s need, and it flourished just the same, filling me to the brim with a near-unbearable tingling warmth. Fortunately, Toman had no idea I possessed such magic. And I had to keep it that way.

“Can you fix it?” he mumbled.

“I’m half tempted to leave it as is and teach you a lesson.” I let my hands fall away and instead toyed with a sprig of lavender, giving myself a chance to squash the nagging pull of my magic. “Not to mention you’d acquire some of that roguish charm I hear is very attractive.”

“Edira,” he whined, dragging out my name. He searched my face for a moment, his gaze lingering on my hair before shifting elsewhere. My breath caught in my chest, and I resisted the urge to finger the black strand framing my cheek. I’d only just dyed it a week ago. A current of anxiety wove through me, but I refused to acknowledge it. I was safe. No one in town

knew.

“Yes, I can fix it.”

“Will it hurt?” An ache of fear gnawed at his vocal cords. That tiny mewling sound was like a royal doctrine I was obligated to follow, and I sighed. My lack of self-control would be the death of my pockets if I kept offering my services for free.

Of course, that was better than putting one foot in the grave by resorting to threadmending. I flexed my hand, fighting with the still lingering prickling in my fingertips. It didn’t fully subside—and it wouldn’t until Toman’s injury was resolved or he removed himself from my presence—but it’d dulled enough for me to focus.

“Only a little. Promise.” At that, I stood and made my way to one of the open shelves lining the walls of my kitchen. Jars and vials marked with my own handwriting clinked a quiet hello as my fingers maneuvered through them. After a minute of searching, I secured a small container with a corked lid and a vial with milky-white liquid: healing balm and numbing serum.

Before Toman could shy away, I’d tilted his head back and used a dropper to add the serum to his nostrils. The numbing agent worked quickly, and his face slackened as pain fled from his expression. A relieved smile tugged at his lips.

“Now to set it.” I sank back onto my chair. “Are you ready?”

“Yes,” Toman said, pulling my focus back to him.

“All right. Close your eyes.”

Steadying myself with a deep breath, I cast away all thoughts of the day: the sounds, the smells, the sticky sensation of heat from the cast-iron range cooking away at my back. I stared only at Toman’s misshapen nose. Again, my power called to me. Begged me to study the threads of his life, to find the frayed edges that needed repairing and stitch them together, but I pushed the impulse away and instead focused on the practical art of medicine.

I brought my hands to his face, pressing my thumbs on either side of his nose and pushing into the break. Toman gave a pained grunt—nowhere near as bad as it would’ve been had I not used the serum—as I realigned the bone, and then it was done.

“There.”

With careful fingers, Toman tested his newly re-formed nose. “How does it look?”

I cracked a warm smile. “While I’m partial to suitors my age, I think you look rather dashing.”

Boyish charm flooded his face. “Thanks, Edira. You’re the best.”

“I know. Here.” I handed him the healing balm and watched as he opened the lid to inspect the heavy cream mixture. “Apply nightly to speed up the healing process and eliminate lingering pain. You’ll be fine in a few days, but take it easy in the meantime. Understood?”

“Will do!” His grin was wide as he bounded toward the door. He was already down the walk before he turned to wave goodbye, and I sighed as I returned the gesture. He hadn’t even bothered to clean the blood from his face.

To be that carefree. I shook my head, and my hair dusted along my cheek. A familiar swell of unease trickled through my stomach, and this time, I allowed myself to finger the loose strand. Still black. I rubbed the lock between my forefinger and thumb, only to frown at the dark film that began to smear across

my skin. I needed to make another batch of dye to hide my telltale moonlit hair. If even a rumor of my power somehow spread throughout the town, the Evers would be at my door, and I’d disappear just like my aunt had, whisked away by the Ferngloves to cure gods only knew what until she likely passed from wasting so many threads of her own.

Swallowing thickly, I moved to the kitchen and set to work, splitting my focus between my remedies and the concoction for the dye. The afternoon quickly slid into evening as I tore at leaves, ground stalks, and brewed tinctures over the roiling heat of our stove. At some point, I paused to light one of the oil lamps clinging to the wall, and burnt-orange light bounced off the sludge-like surface of the cooling charcoal dye. I changed in my room into a thin nightgown splattered with ink-black stains and returned to the kitchen.

Careful not to spill, I angled my head over the massive pot and drowned my hair in the viscous liquid. I was fortunate to still have enough of a base coloring in my hair that the dye would likely set within the hour. Better than waiting for it to fully fade and having to sequester for the day so the townsfolk wouldn’t catch me in the act. It was an exercise my aunt had done herself and taught me early to help keep my power hidden. Not everyone in my family was born with the power to threadmend, but enough had been blessed—cursed, really—that a handful of best practices had been passed down through the years.

A horrendous annoyance, to say the least, but a necessary precaution. Better to have charcoal-coated locks than be dead. Thank the gods I wasn’t as vain as some of my tittering neighbors.

Satisfied with the thick layer of sludge now clinging to my hair, I twisted my locks into a tight bun. The dye hardened quickly, forming the worst kind of cakey, uncomfortable bonnet, and I returned to my remedies. As I counted vials and allocated herbs, I let out an annoyed groan. If I wanted to purchase enough flour and fresh meat for the week, I’d need to produce and sell at least a dozen more tinctures. Otherwise, we would have to dip into our reserves of dried venison to make it through. Before I could begin brewing another tincture, a heavy bell toll rang through the quiet evening air. The miners’ shift was at an end.

Looking up from the ever-increasing number of pots piling high around me, I glanced through the open window. The golden beetle I’d freed was nowhere to be found, and the first smattering of stars winked back at me. Soon, Noam and Nohr would be home, and they’d want the kitchen to prepare supper. They’d willingly taken up cooking to grant me time away from the stove.

My fingers tapped against the wood-plank counter as I stared out the window, checking to see if they were already loping up the path to our home. Nothing yet. I sighed and began clearing

what dishes I could. Willowfell had two mines nestled against the mountain—one for sapphires and one for garnets. Those without hefty inheritances or education were forced to toil away in their cool depths, which meant my brothers never had a chance to become something else. They’d been working since the moment their bodies could carry the weight of a pickaxe just to help us survive. The job wasn’t easy. Or safe.

Of course, if they were lucky enough to unearth an everjewel, all that would change.

There was a loud grunt, followed by the door wildly swinging open and crashing against the wall. I rolled my eyes. Our father must have had the gift of foresight to create an ornate archway instead of a door.

“Any everjewels today?” I called without looking in their direction. It was the same greeting I offered every time Noam and Nohr returned from work—one that was always met with silence or groans of frustration.

The stones were rare and coveted by Evers. In my life, two workers were fortunate enough to find an everjewel. Both times, one of the Ferngloves, Evers living on the fringe of our town and owners of the mines, had left their manor to handsomely reward the laborer in person. Every prominent city or town stretching across Glaes had at least one Ever family to preside over the land. The Ferngloves came into Willowfell sparingly, but when they did, everyone always rushed to grovel before their immortal feet.

Except for me. I couldn’t risk being discovered. Not by the very people who I’d long suspected were responsible for the disappearance of my aunt. She wasn’t the only threadmender who’d vanished in recent years. Rumors had begun to spread throughout Glaes, thanks to traveling merchants who moved about our country and traded wares as well as gossip. Most townsfolk passed it off as an oddity and nothing more, but I saw what they refused to acknowledge: threadmenders went missing only in places where Evers ruled.

“Edira!” Nohr shouted, pulling my focus. I turned to find my brothers stumbling through the entryway, a limp body strung haphazardly between them like a loose clothing line. With gentle motions, they laid a young man on our weathered sofa.

“What happened?” I sped toward them, wiping my hands along my nightgown to rid them of lingering residue from my work.

Noam and Nohr exchanged a silent look. Their teakwood gazes mirrored each other down to the smallest of nuances. They shared the same slender build of boys on the cusp of becoming men, their labor in the mines threatening to usher them into adulthood all too quickly. Seventeen and they’d already endured so 

 much.

“Is that Alec?”

Nohr ran his hand back to front through his cropped brown hair. A poof of dust clouded the space above his head. “Yes.”

“He just collapsed,” Noam muttered.

I peered closer. Beneath the caked-on dirt and soot, Alec was barely recognizable. A sweaty sheen had broken out along his hairline, turning the grime on his skin into a damp sludge. With a strangled moan, he shifted restlessly on the couch. My brows drew together as I scoured his trembling frame. Something was wrong, and the pull of my magic immediately flared to life. Warmth rippled outward through my limbs, and yet I saw nothing. No visible injuries, no broken bones or bleeding wounds. I rushed to the pot in the kitchen and dampened a cloth with leftover water, returning quickly to wipe away the layer of filth clinging to his face.

The moment I finally caught a glimpse of his skin, I dropped the rag.

“You brought him here? What were you thinking?” I couldn’t take my eyes off Alec’s sallow cheeks. Sprawling blisters climbed from his jaw to his forehead, and several had already ruptured to expose a sickening display of black mold and bubbling yellow froth. The edges of each lesion were rotted and brown like leaves withering in the presence of winter. My stomach clenched tight. The revolting odor of decomposing flesh and sour mulch bloomed from his skin, and I swallowed thickly to force down a gag.

Nohr’s face went pale. “We didn’t . . . I didn’t . . .”

Tearing away from the couch, I yanked my brothers together and dissected every inch of their stock-still forms. The durable fabric of their work trousers was still intact, carefully tucked into leather boots. Their long-sleeved shirts were more grime than cotton, but thankfully they were free of rips. Pulling their hands upward, I inspected their gloves. Worn and in need of another round of weatherproofing, but again, securely intact. The rising concern in my chest slowed.

Diseased land had started to encroach on the areas surrounding the mines, but it wasn’t an airborne affliction. My gaze drifted back to Alec, and I spied a small nick marring the space where his throat and jaw met. The risk of shaving was rarely the blade. A whisper of blight straight to the blood was all it took.

“We didn’t know it was blight. We just thought he’d hurt himself somehow,” Noam finally managed. Heavy tears cut pathways through the dirt on his face, and I looked away.

“I can’t help him,” I murmured softly, but Noam flinched as if I’d shouted loud enough to rupture his eardrums.

“You can try.”

I pinched my nose.

“There’s nothing I can do. There is no medicine that can cure this affliction.”

“Not medicine, but maybe something else.” Noam refused to look at me. A cold chill swept down my spine, a direct contrast to the blooming heat radiating through my fingertips.

“No.” My gaze flew to the open windows. A peal of laughter from kids playing in the fields outside carried in on a breeze. Townsfolk were still out. If they saw me . . .

Nohr followed my tight stare and sprang into action, quickly latching the windows shut and drawing the curtains tight. As if eliminating the possibility of someone witnessing my power was the only problem. Sure, I didn’t want to be discovered, because that meant some brownnosing neighbor—likely an elder hoping to gain even more favor with the Evers—would alert the Ferngloves to my existence.

A sliver of anger wound through me. My brothers knew the cost to my magic. And still, they wanted me to try. To sacrifice a few years of my life for someone who wouldn’t live to see tomorrow.

“It’s not just about being seen. You know this,” I hissed.

Suddenly, Alec bolted upright on the couch, his gaze locked on something far away. And then he laughed. Not a normal laugh—not the pleasant, rumbling sound of warmth from deep within his chest. But a maniacal laugh that bubbled from the depths of a clouded mind. One steeped in sickness. His eyes rolled to the heavens, showing white to the world, and his teeth gnashed together. The soft squirt of his canine puncturing his tongue sent gooseflesh rippling over my skin.

“Edira,” Nohr said over Noam’s sharp inhale, “please. He’s our friend.”

“And I am your sister.” My throat bobbed as I stared at Alec. “I’d only be risking harm to myself.”

My brothers’ gazes dropped in unison. Before I could take another breath, Alec let out a pained cry as his body began shaking uncontrollably. His hands went to his arms, his fingers raking against the rough fabric of his shirt.

“Alec, we’re here.” Noam knelt beside him, mindful not to touch him but hovering close just the same.

Alec turned to Noam, unfocused eyes searching for something to anchor him to our world. He kept twisting his neck back and forth, craning it in impossible directions, until he spied me. He stilled as a glee-stricken smile pulled at his lips. “I see her. I can really see her. She’s standing over there, and she’s got the biggest grin I’ve ever seen. Annabelle.”

“His sister. She died last year.” Nohr grimaced.

“He doesn’t have any other family,” Noam added, voice terribly soft.

Alec wouldn’t survive this. Again, I glanced at the drawn curtains. We were hidden from the outside world, and since Alec had no remaining relatives, there was no one to miss him or question his absence, save my brothers. I forced out a heavy breath. Slowly, I came around the sofa. Alec’s gaze never faltered. He tracked every step of mine until I crouched beside Noam.

“Hello, Alec.”

“You’ve got fire shooting from your fingertips. How’d you manage that? You don’t look like you’re burning. Can you come closer?" 

His voice climbed higher, words cracking as his grip on reality disappeared entirely. “I’m stuck inside this glacier and the heat would help.”

I brushed my hands along his forehead for a moment, wiping away the film of sweat and dirt. He groaned as I nudged him to the side and edged onto the sofa, my hip bone flush with his. Unlike my brothers, I didn’t have to worry about contracting Alec’s illness. The only thing that could kill me was myself.

“Edira?” Noam’s soft plea was a weapon straight to my heart, and my resolve wavered. No threadmender had ever been able to cure blight. Myself included. I wouldn’t risk drastically shortening my lifespan by fully inviting Alec’s affliction into my veins—not when there was nothing to be gained.

Alec’s gaze locked on mine. “I hear my bones cracking. They’re giant splinters caught in my skin, and I need to get them out.”

My chest heaved. I’d lived through this exact scenario already with my parents, and even though I knew what would happen in the end, I couldn’t bring myself to ignore him. “I’ll ease his passing. That’s all I can do.”

It’d likely cost me a few threads, but I couldn’t stand the look in his eyes. Or the weight of my brothers’ pleas.

Energy hummed through me as I finally—finally—allowed my power to surge to the surface. ...