Chapter 12:The Thread That Holds
*Aveline POV*
Aveline rose before the sun, as she always did.
The house was quiet in that familiar, intimate way she had known for years. Floorboards cool beneath her feet. The faint smell of hay drifting in from the yard. The steady breathing of her children upstairs, soft and trusting. She moved through the early hours with practiced ease, lighting the hearth, preparing water, kneading dough with steady hands.
From the outside, nothing was wrong.
It had been six days since Braxon left.
Six days alone meant nothing in itself. Braxon had always traveled. He had always vanished for stretches of time that other husbands would never dare. Aveline had learned early in their marriage that his absences were not carelessness, nor avoidance, but necessity. He never explained fully, because she knew him, and she never demanded he do so. Trust between them had been forged quietly, deliberately, and without conditions.
Still, when he traveled far, truly far, there were letters.
They were never long. Never emotional. Often mundane. A mention of the road. A note about trade. A reassurance that he was well. They arrived with rhythm, like a heartbeat. Every three days, without fail.
There had been none.
On the sixth night, sleep began to slip from her grasp. She would lie awake staring at the ceiling, listening to the wind, listening to the silence. On the seventh day, food lost its taste. She forced herself to eat anyway, chewing slowly, swallowing mechanically. By the tenth day, she found herself pausing in doorways, turning instinctively toward the yard whenever a sound reached her ears.
By the twelfth day, the worry had become something else entirely. Not panic. Not hysteria. It was deeper than that. Quieter. A pressure beneath her ribs that never eased.
She did not let the children see it.
Kai was perceptive. She could see him watching her from the corner of his eye, memorizing her expressions the way he memorized the moods of animals. He lingered closer than usual, volunteered for tasks without being asked, asked fewer questions. Anya, bright and sensitive, felt the shift too, though she lacked the words for it. She clung more tightly, laughed louder, sought reassurance in small, unconscious ways.
Aveline gave it to them.
She smiled. She sang. She listened. She kept her voice light and her movements unhurried. She told them stories before bed and kissed their foreheads as if nothing in the world had changed.
She carried the fear alone.
When evening came, the house settled into stillness. The children slept upstairs, safe and unaware. Aveline remained in the sala, seated near the hearth, a half finished scarf resting in her lap. Her fingers worked the needles automatically, looping yarn into careful patterns meant to distract her mind.
A single scented candle burned beside her chair. Its flame flickered gently, casting long shadows that danced across the walls. The smell of herbs and wax filled the room, grounding her, anchoring her to the present.
Her hands moved, but her heart did not rest.
Thoughts pressed in from every direction. What if he was hurt. What if he was trapped. What if the silence meant something worse than danger. She had trained herself never to imagine the worst, but exhaustion weakened even the strongest discipline.
She prayed quietly, without words. Not for answers. Not for explanations. Only for safety.
Her eyelids grew heavy. The room blurred. The candle flame stretched and softened.
Just as sleep began to claim her, a voice cut through the quiet.
"Aveline."
Her heart clenched violently.
She lifted her head, breath caught painfully in her chest. For a brief, terrible moment, she convinced herself it was nothing. A dream. A trick of exhaustion. Grief had a way of mimicking what one most wanted to hear.
"Aveline, darling."
The voice came again, warmer now, unmistakable.
She surged to her feet, chair scraping softly against the floor. Her pulse thundered in her ears as she crossed the room and pulled the door open, hope blazing so fiercely it hurt.
The yard was empty.
No wagon stood where it should have. No familiar shape moved in the shadows. Only darkness, wind, and the distant sound of night insects.
The hope shattered.
Her knees gave way, and she sank to the floor, pressing her hand to her mouth as a sob escaped despite her efforts to contain it. Fear flooded her, sharp and overwhelming now that the barrier had cracked.
Where are you. Please. Where are you.
"Aveline."
The voice again.
Her entire body went still.
The sound did not come from outside.
It came from within the house.
Slowly, carefully, she rose and turned toward the stairs. Her movements were silent, deliberate. Every instinct screamed at her to hurry, but another urged caution. She climbed step by step, following the voice that called her name with gentle persistence.
The sound led her to the bedroom she shared with Braxon.
She stopped in front of the door.
A full minute passed.
Her mind raced. If he were home, she would have seen the wagon. She would have heard Old gray. She would have felt his presence long before now. Her grip tightened around the large knitting needles still clutched in her hand. Solid. Sharp. Real.
Her face settled into calm resolve.
Aveline, darling.
The voice came again, faint but undeniable.
She inhaled once, deeply, then pushed the door open.
The room was unchanged.
The bed neatly arranged. The floor clean. No sign of struggle, intrusion, or disorder. It looked exactly as it had that morning.
Relief and dread tangled painfully in her chest.
Then the voice spoke again, closer now.
Aveline.
She turned slowly toward the window.
Approaching with measured steps, she eased it open just enough to look outside.
A large black raven perched on the sill.
Its feathers absorbed the candlelight, glossy and dark. Its eyes were sharp, intelligent, far too knowing to belong to an ordinary bird.
Aveline gasped softly, then exhaled.
Understanding settled over her like a blanket.
"I know you."
Her grip loosened. Her vigilance dropped.
The raven tilted its head and spoke, Braxon's voice flowing from its beak with perfect familiarity.
"I am sorry I could not return sooner. The problem is larger than I expected. If I came home now, they would follow. And that would put you and the children in danger."
Aveline did not answer. She knew better than to try. This was not conversation. This was a message, carefully prepared and entrusted to a loyal messenger.
"It may take longer for me to return. I cannot send letters. I cannot leave trails. Please understand."
Tears slid down her cheeks silently.
I love you.
The raven fell silent, releasing a deep, throaty croak, the sound of the wild reclaiming its voice.
Aveline sank to her knees, hands trembling as relief flooded her so intensely it left her weak. She laughed and cried at once, pressing her forehead to the window frame.
He is alive.
Thank you.
She lifted her gaze to the raven again.
Can I send a message back, she asked softly.
The raven croaked once.
Then it said, "okay."
Her breath shook as she leaned closer, voice barely a whisper.
"Tell him we are safe. Tell him the children are well. Kai helps with the animals every morning. Anya sings to the horses when she thinks no one is listening."
Her voice wavered.
"Tell him I understand. That I trust him. That I will wait as long as I must."
She swallowed, tears blurring her vision.
"And tell him to come back when it is safe. Not sooner. Not later. Just alive."
"I love him."
The raven watched her for a long moment, then spread its wings and vanished into the night.
Aveline closed the window gently and rested her forehead against the glass.
The house was still quiet.
But the weight on her heart had lifted, just enough.
She returned to the sala, picked up the scarf, and resumed knitting.
This time, her hands did not tremble.
The thread held.
And so would she.
*End of Aveline's POV.*