The river sang thunderous that morning, swollen from spring rain, its current thick with silt and sunlight. Lytavis liked it best when it was loud—when it carried stories. She followed the bank with her basket swinging against her hip, the air rich with the smell of wet earth and young ferns.
That was when she heard it—a thin, broken sound, almost swallowed by the rush of water.
She turned. A scrap of fur lay tangled in reeds near the bend, half in shadow, half in sunlight. The tiny nightsaber cub was slick with mud, sides barely moving. Its eyes were shut, its paws curled tight against its chest as if bracing for the end.
"Oh, no," she breathed, dropping to her knees. The grass soaked through her dress, but she didn't notice. She lifted the cub gently, its fur cold beneath her hands. "Come on, little one. Please."
She pressed her palms to its ribs and closed her eyes. Light answered her like an echo, faint but sure—threading from her hands into the fragile creature. The cub coughed once, a weak, watery sound, then shuddered. A stream of river water spilled from its mouth.
Lytavis gasped, holding it closer. "That's it. Breathe."
When its sides began to move again, she rose and ran. The basket fell somewhere behind her. The path blurred with tears and sunlight.
Lucien was in his study when the door burst open. Papers scattered. Ink trembled. He looked up just in time to see his daughter racing into the kitchen, a dripping bundle clutched to her chest.
"It fell in the river!" she cried, breathless. "I think she's dying."
Lucien was already on his feet. "Here—bring her here."
He took a towel from a hook near the window and spread it across his desk. Together, they laid the cub down. Its fur was matted, its breathing shallow. Lucien's heart tightened. "She must have fallen in upstream," he murmured. "The current's strong after rain."
He began to blot away the water, slow and careful. "There, now… poor thing."
When he reached to dry its face, the cub stirred. Its tiny jaws opened in a trembling yawn.
Lytavis gasped. "She's alive!"
Lucien blinked, the corners of his mouth twitching upward despite himself. "So she is."
They carried the towel-wrapped cub out to the veranda, where Zoya was shelling beans in the shade. She looked up, then smiled faintly at the sight of her daughter's muddy knees and wild eyes.
"What have you found this time?" she asked, already setting the bowl aside.
"A nightsaber cub," Lytavis said proudly. "She almost drowned."
Zoya brushed a hand along the cub's flank. The little creature gave a small, uncertain mewl. "Too young to go back," she murmured. "Her mother's likely stopped searching."
Lytavis stroked the soft, damp fur. "I'll call her Whisper."
"Whisper," Zoya repeated, nodding approval. "A good name. Come, let's make her comfortable."
They found an old crate in the pantry, lined it with straw and linen, and set it near the hearth. Zoya showed her how to warm goat milk with a touch of honey, and how to feed the cub drop by drop until its eyes began to close again.
Lucien lingered a while, watching from the doorway—the glow of the fire, the quiet hum of his wife's voice, the soft rhythm of his daughter's breathing as she bent protectively over the tiny creature. Then he turned back to his study. There was something he meant to write.
Notes in the Margin - Lucien Ariakan
She found another one today. A nightsaber cub this time, near the bend in the river. Half-drowned, half-frozen, all teeth and will. I expected it to die within the hour. Instead, it purred in her lap by nightfall.
That makes three now—a fox, a raven, and this one.
Zoya says the girl collects the wounded like fallen stars. I think she simply refuses to believe that anything broken must stay that way.