The chill in the wind had nothing to do with his frostblood.
Devin stood at the edge of the estate's western overlook, gazing down at the heart of Hawthorne. It was just after sunset. The town below looked almost peaceful, cloaked in shadows and amber streetlight. But he knew the stillness wasn't peace.
It was surrender.
The humans were suffering.
He saw it every day—at school, in town, along the market roads. Faces drawn thin with worry. Streets quieter than they should be. Shops closing early.
And today… today had marked the first death.
Mara.
He remembered her vividly. The way she collapsed in the hallway. How Elora had touched her forehead, glowing, radiant, like something not entirely of this world. He didn't know what Elora had done—only that it had worked.
Temporarily.
Now Mara was gone.
And all Devin could think about was how Elora must have felt when she heard.
The way her hands would have trembled.
The tears she would have tried not to let fall.
He closed his eyes.
How badly he wanted to find her. To hold her. To let her cry into his chest and tell her she wasn't alone. But he couldn't. They weren't there. Not yet.
And maybe… not ever.
He turned from the overlook and stormed back inside.
Russell was in the main hall, reading something at the long stone table.
Devin didn't wait. "You've heard what's happening."
Russell looked up, eyes calm. "Yes."
"And?" Devin asked sharply.
Russell's expression didn't change. "The illness doesn't affect us. It's human-borne. We're monitoring it."
"Monitoring it?" Devin echoed. "People are dying."
"Humans," Russell said. "Not of our blood. Not our concern."
The words hit like a slap.
Devin slammed a fist onto the table. "They're part of this town too, Russell. They're not livestock."
Russell's voice lowered. "Watch your tone."
Devin stepped back, seething.
"I walked through the clinic today. I saw a father holding his unconscious son like he was already dead. I saw a woman screaming because she couldn't remember her daughter's name."
Russell looked back at the paper. "And what would you have us do? Break ancient pacts to aid those who wouldn't do the same for us?"
Devin turned on his heel and stormed out.
Elias found him later, sitting on the front steps of the estate, head bowed, frost biting along his fingertips from tension.
"You too, huh?" Elias said, dropping beside him. "I told my uncle we should help fund extra healers. He told me I was being dramatic."
Devin didn't answer.
"They're wrong, you know," Elias continued. "About the humans. About all of it."
"I know."
"They think this plague is Hawthorne purging itself. Heard two council elders say it at the market—'The town is cleansing itself of the unnecessary.'"
Devin clenched his jaw. "Like they're weeds."
"Yeah," Elias muttered. "And I think Elora and Mira are probably doing more right now than all the founding families combined."
Devin nodded once, quietly.
He didn't say it aloud, but it sat heavy in his chest:
I should be with her.
She shouldn't have to face this alone.
_________________
Devin didn't go back inside.
Even after Elias left, even as the frost crept into the soles of his boots and the chill settled against his skin like second breath, Devin stayed on the stone steps of the estate.
Thinking.
Tracing the threads.
He knew something now. Not clearly. Not with names or spells or symbols.
But his instincts—those didn't lie.
Mira. Elora. They were connected.
It wasn't just a guardian and ward.
It wasn't just a healer and apprentice.
The only viable explanation was them being mother and daughter
And Mira's hair, they were the same impossible shade as Elora's.
He had to know more.
It didn't take long to get a lead.
People talked. Shopkeepers remembered who bought what. Supernaturals whispered, but humans gossiped.
A woman in the market confirmed it.
"Oh, you mean the dark-haired woman? Mira, I think. She lives past the eastern grove, near the old boundary stones. Lovely garden, very private. I see her girl sometimes. Always polite, if a bit... quiet."
Her girl.
No name.
But he knew.
Devin thanked her with a nod and left without another word.
He didn't approach the house.
Not that night.
He found it easily enough, nestled between hawthorn trees that hadn't bloomed in years, half-hidden behind a moss-laced stone wall. Lanterns glowed inside, low and golden, and there was the unmistakable hum of protective wards along the threshold.
But he didn't cross it.
He simply stood in the distance, cloaked by the trees, watching.
That was her light.
It felt like her warmth, even from this far.
Mira's energy lingered like old firewood. Elora's aura shimmered above the house like mist that refused to be named.
He leaned against the bark of a pine and let the truth settle.
They were together.
Whatever they were—blood or bond—it didn't matter.
It made sense now.
Why Elora had moved like someone raised on magic.
He was… relieved.
At least it guaranteed she would be fine.
Because now he knew where she was.