Night pressed close against the cabin, thick and unmoving, as though the forest itself were holding its breath. The hearth fire had burned down to a low orange smolder, throwing slow-moving shadows across the walls—shadows that crawled and stretched with every faint exhale of the flame.
Aaron hadn't slept.
He sat upright on the edge of the straw mattress, elbows braced on his knees, hands clasped so tightly his knuckles had gone bone-white. Neria lay in the bed beside him, wrapped in thick wool blankets Torim had insisted on tucking around her. Her breath rose and fell in small, shallow motions, barely stirring the cloth.
Every rise of her chest reassured him.
Every fall terrified him.
He should have been sleeping. Torim had said he needed strength. But the moment he closed his eyes, he saw the carriage tumbling, felt Neria's tiny fingers digging into his arm, heard Lira's voice breaking on his name—
No.
He swallowed hard, pushing the memory away. It slid back again, like a blade slipping through an old wound.
The Elder had gone to sleep hours ago, or at least retreated to his own room with that silent, heavy gait that suggested exhaustion rather than rest. The old man had done everything he could—salves, herbs, poultices, all with steady, practiced hands.
But there were limits to what herbs could mend.
Aaron's gaze drifted to Neria's legs beneath the blankets.
Still.
Too still.
He looked away quickly, jaw tightening.
A crackle sparked from the hearth.
The wind sighed outside.
And then—
A sound cut through the room like a knife.
A whimper. Faint. Fragile.
"Aaron…?"
His heart lurched. He turned sharply.
Neria's eyelids trembled. Her fingers twitched against the blanket. For the first time since the fall, she moved.
"Neria?" His voice broke and he hated how it sounded—raw, too hopeful. He leaned closer, brushing a gentler hand across her forehead. "Little star, can you hear me?"
Her breath shuddered, catching in her throat. She blinked slowly, unfocused at first, as though her eyes refused to trust what they saw.
Then her gaze found him.
"B-Big brother…?" Her voice cracked on his name. "Where… where's…?"
Her lips quivered. Whatever question she'd meant to ask dissolved into a tremor that rippled through her entire body.
And then she screamed.
It wasn't a timid cry. It wasn't even the startled shriek of a frightened child.
It was a raw, tearing sound—full of pain, confusion, terror, and something so deep it vibrated through his bones.
Aaron's breath vanished.
He cupped her cheeks with both hands. "Neria—hey, hey, I'm here, look at me. Look at me."
But she didn't. Her eyes darted wildly around the room, unfocused, desperate. Her fingers clawed toward him, shaking violently.
"big brother! big brother! I— I can't—I can't—!"
He gathered her against his chest before she could break.
"I'm here," he whispered fiercely. "I'm here, Neria. I won't let anything hurt you."
She sobbed into his shirt, her voice muffled but piercing. Her hands fisted in the fabric, clinging as though she feared he would vanish if she let go.
"big brother… I—my legs…! They—why can't—? Aaron, I—I can't—!"
His stomach twisted. He swallowed back the instinct to comfort her with lies.
She deserved truth. But truth would crush her more fully than any fall.
He pressed his cheek to the top of her head, holding her tighter—tight enough to steady her trembling but not tight enough to bruise.
"It's all right," he whispered, though nothing was all right. "You're safe. You're safe now. Just breathe for me, little star. Breathe."
"I tried!" she sobbed. "I tried to move but—brother, what's wrong? W-why don't they listen? My legs won't listen!"
A shard of guilt sliced through him. He had known this moment would come. He had dreaded it from the second Torim had spoken the words.
The spine… deep bruising… swelling… movement may not return.
He had nodded, silent. Numb. Holding Neria's tiny hand in his.
He had prayed—desperately, senselessly—to any goddess who would listen.
But no goddess had answered.
"Neria," he murmured, pulling back just enough to see her face. Tears streaked down her cheeks in shiny paths. "You've been hurt. Your body needs time."
"But I can't feel them," she cried. "I can't feel anything! Aaron, I'm scared—"
"I know." His voice cracked. He smoothed her hair back, strands sticking to her damp forehead. "I know you're scared. I'm here. I won't leave you."
He didn't let her see his eyes. He angled his face away, letting the shadows hide the guilt choking him.
You held her during the fall.
You promised she'd be safe.
You failed.
She sobbed harder, burying her face against his collarbone. Her whole body shook.
He rocked her gently, instinctively, as though she were still a toddler learning her first steps rather than a girl already carrying more pain than most adults ever would.
The cabin door creaked softly.
Aaron stiffened.
Torim stood in the doorway, gray hair loose around his shoulders. His eyes moved from Aaron to Neria—still clinging, still crying—and something old and soft flickered through the Elder's expression.
"Is all well?" Torim asked quietly, voice rough with sleep. He didn't enter, didn't bring the lamp's harsh light closer; he simply waited at the threshold.
Aaron turned his head, shielding Neria slightly with his shoulder. He inhaled, forcing steadiness into his chest, and nodded once.
"It's all right," he whispered. "She just… woke."
Torim's gaze lingered for a long moment on Neria's trembling hands. His face tightened—not with impatience, but something like restrained sorrow.
"I will fetch warm tea," the Elder murmured. "Call me if she worsens."
Aaron nodded again.
Torim's footsteps retreated. The door clicked shut.
The room returned to the rhythm of Neria's ragged sobs and the soft crackle of the dying fire.
Aaron let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding.
Neria's arms tightened around him suddenly, as if she feared Torim's presence meant he would be taken away.
"Don't leave," she whispered in a broken tremor. "Don't let anyone take me, Aaron. Please."
He wrapped both arms around her fully now, one hand supporting the back of her head, the other around her waist.
"No one will take you," he said into her hair. "I promise."
She hiccupped. Her breath hitched. Another sob broke loose.
"I want Mama," she whispered, voice thin and fractured. "Big brother… where is she…? Mama said she'd come back. She promised she'd come back for me…"
His heart folded in on itself.
A chill washed across his skin.
The cabin suddenly felt too small.
He closed his eyes.
He saw Lira's hand reaching for them as the carriage fell. Her lips forming his name. Her eyes filled with a fear she had hidden from him until the last possible breath.
He opened his eyes again.
"Neria," he whispered. "Mama… she's not coming back."
Neria froze.
For a moment, everything in the world held its breath.
Then she broke.
Her cry wasn't sharp this time. It wasn't panicked. It was soft—soft in the way falling ashes are soft, in the way broken wings collapse without sound.
"B-brother… Mama… Mama…"
He tightened his embrace until she fit under his chin, small and shaking, and he let her grief pour into him like water spilled from a shattered vessel.
"I know," he murmured. "I know, little star."
She cried until her voice cracked. She cried until her tears soaked through his shirt and into his skin. She cried until her body trembled with exhaustion, clinging weakly now instead of desperately.
"Big brother," she whispered, almost inaudible, "why did she go? Why didn't she come with us? She always comes with us…"
"She wanted to," he whispered back. "She always wanted to. She loved you more than… more than anything."
Neria's breath shuddered. "Then why isn't she here?"
His throat knotted. He didn't trust his voice. So he held her tighter.
Silence settled around them again—full, aching, gentler than before.
For a long while, the only sounds were her slowed sobs and the low, steady beat of his heart under her ear.
She shifted slightly, wincing when she felt nothing from the waist down. A small, confused sound slipped from her lips.
"big brother… will I ever walk again?"
He closed his eyes.
He didn't want to answer. He didn't want to place another stone on her fragile chest.
But lying would carve deeper wounds later.
"I don't know," he said softly.
Her breath quivered.
"But I'm going to help you," he added, voice firmer. "Every day. I'll carry you. I'll hold you up. I'll be whatever you need until you can stand again. And if you never do—then I'll still be whatever you need."
She stared at him through red-rimmed eyes. The firelight flickered against her cheeks.
"You promise?"
He nodded once—slow, solemn.
"I promise."
She exhaled a tiny breath and leaned into him, eyelids heavy. Exhaustion pulled at her small body, weighted her bones.
"Big brother…?"
"Yes?"
"Don't go anywhere. Not ever."
His chest tightened. "I won't."
She let out a faint, broken hum, like she believed him only because she needed to.
Her head drooped against his shoulder as her body finally surrendered to exhaustion, not sleep—she wasn't calm enough for sleep—but the thin, trembling half-rest of a child too tired to cry anymore.
Aaron held her gently, letting her weight settle on him.
He looked down at her face—this girl who wasn't his by birth, not truly, not in the life he remembered. The tiny nose. The freckle beneath her left eye. The way her fingers curled when she wasn't conscious.
She wasn't his sister.
Not in the world he'd left.
But in this one—
She belonged to him.
More deeply than blood.
He lowered his forehead to hers, eyelids drifting shut.
The forest wind murmured against the shutters. The fire crackled like a heartbeat slowly mending.
"This is my life now," he whispered to himself more than to her. "My body. My family."
His chest rose and fell in a careful, steady rhythm to keep from waking her.
"I couldn't save you in the carriage," he murmured, fingers stroking her hair. "But I will save you now."
Neria breathed softly against him, unaware of the vow forming around her like armor.
Aaron opened his eyes and gazed into the darkness beyond the dying fire.
"I'll build a world," he whispered, voice low and fierce, "where you never have to cry again."
The vow lingered in the air, heavy, unbreaking.
Outside, the night finally exhaled. The wind stilled.
And in the small cabin deep in the forest, Aaron held his sister as though holding the last fragile piece of his new world.
He would not let it break.
He would not let her break.
Not again.
Not ever.