Tyche woke as though she had been dragged back into her body.
Her eyes burned before they even opened, swollen and heavy, the kind of ache that throbbed behind the skull and made light feel cruel. Her head split with a dull, pulsing pain, each heartbeat echoing like a punishment. She lay still for a moment, breath shallow, throat tight, her chest aching with the remnants of tears she could no longer cry.
She felt awful.
Not the kind of awful that came from sickness — but the kind born from grief held too long, from sobbing into the dark until exhaustion won where comfort never came. Her face felt tight, tender, as though it no longer belonged to her.
When she finally opened her eyes, fear struck before understanding.
The ceiling was visible.
Clear. Pale. Bathed in daylight.
Tyche sucked in a sharp breath and pushed herself upright, dread flooding her veins. This was wrong. When she usually woke, the room was still drowned in shadows, the sky barely awake. Morning chores began before the sun fully claimed the world.
But now the light had already settled.
She scrambled from her pallet, heart hammering. Her limbs felt heavy, sluggish, as though sleep had not rested her but punished her further. She did not need a mirror to know she looked terrible. She could feel it — the tightness of her eyes, the dryness of her cheeks, the tremor in her hands.
I'm late.
The thought struck like a blow.
Tyche hurried to dress, grabbing the first simple garment her fingers found. She pulled it over her head clumsily, tying it with shaking hands, already bracing herself for the sharp words she expected to hear.
She rushed from the room and down the stairs, her bare feet quiet against the wood.
And then she froze.
The house was… tidy.
Not merely clean — finished.
The floors swept. The table wiped. The hearth neat and cold. The work she always did — every morning, without fail — had already been completed.
Her fear deepened.
If she had not done it, then someone else had. And that only meant one thing.
Her heart raced as she hurried toward the kitchen, desperate to be useful, to fix whatever damage her lateness had caused. She reached for a bowl—
"Tyche."
The voice stopped her mid-step.
She turned slowly.
Demetrios stood near the table.
Her uncle.
For a moment, she simply stared, disbelief rooting her to the spot. Then something inside her loosened — a fragile thread snapping free. Relief washed through her so suddenly it nearly made her dizzy.
He's back.
The weight she carried every day eased, just slightly. With Demetrios home, the house felt… safer. Quieter. Less sharp around the edges.
"Come," he said gently. "Sit. You've not eaten."
Tyche hesitated, then nodded, moving toward the table with careful steps.
They were all there.
Demetrios at the head.
Lysandra beside him, posture perfect, expression composed — her face a masterwork of politeness, smooth and unreadable.
Ouriania sat upright, distant, her mind clearly elsewhere.
And Xanthe — sweet Xanthe — watched Tyche with open concern, her smile gentle but worried.
Tyche lowered herself into her seat, suddenly aware of every ache in her body.
Demetrios studied her quietly. His gaze softened.
"You look unwell," he said. "What happened?"
Tyche swallowed.
"I… didn't sleep well," she replied. "My head ached badly."
Xanthe nodded quickly. "She complained of it last night too."
It was enough. A shield, small but real.
Demetrios frowned. "You must rest more. Avoid straining yourself."
"I will," Tyche said softly.
Lysandra smiled then — a thin, controlled thing. "Soak your face in cold water," she offered. "It helps with swelling."
Tyche inclined her head. "Thank you."
They ate in near silence.
The quiet pressed down on the table, heavy and strange. Demetrios eventually spoke, trying to lighten the mood.
"You attended the festival," he said. "And yet you sit here as though nothing happened."
Lysandra answered smoothly, "I suppose there was nothing memorable."
No one disagreed.
Because none of them could speak the truth.
When breakfast ended, they dispersed without ceremony.
And then the news came.
The bell rang through the village — slow, heavy, deliberate. Not the joyful peal of celebration, but the kind meant to command attention. A herald's voice followed, carried down the streets.
By order of the crown.
Tyche stood near the doorway as the words reached her ears.
All citizens were to return to their homes before nightfall.
Men and women alike.
No one was to linger after dusk.
Extra patrols would be enforced.
Until further notice.
Whispers followed the announcement. Fear moved like a living thing through the village, seeping into doorways, into hearts.
Something had happened.
Something bad.
Tyche's fingers curled into the fabric of her dress as unease settled deep within her chest. She did not know what stalked the night — only that it had tasted blood.
And it was not done.