Calla's POV
The golden thread is dying.
I can see it with my witch-sight—the thin, glowing strand that connects my father's heart to the cosmic Loom of Time. It flickers like a candle in the wind. Each flicker means another minute stolen from his life.
Two days. That's all he has left.
"Calla?" Papa's voice is so weak I have to lean close to hear him. "Did the doctor come?"
I squeeze his cold hand and force myself to smile. "Yes, Papa. He said you're getting stronger."
It's a lie. Dr. Marsh left an hour ago and told me to prepare for the end. He said Papa's soul-rot is too advanced. Nothing can stop it now. He gave me two small bottles of medicine that won't save Papa's life—they'll just make his death less painful.
I hate Dr. Marsh for giving up. I hate the village for not caring. I hate the universe for taking the only person who ever loved me.
Outside our tiny cottage, the Harvest Moon festival is in full swing. I can hear laughing, singing, and music. The whole village is celebrating while my father dies three feet away from their stupid party.
"You should go join them," Papa whispers. His eyes are closed, but he's smiling. "You're twenty-four, my darling. You should be dancing with handsome boys, not sitting with a dying old man."
"You're not old," I say fiercely. "And you're not dying. I won't let you."
Papa's smile fades. He opens his eyes—those gentle brown eyes that used to read me bedtime stories and teach me about stars and magic. Now they're clouded with pain.
"Calla, listen to me." His grip on my hand suddenly tightens. "When I'm gone, leave this village. Go to the capital. Find your mother's sister—"
"Stop it!" My voice cracks. "You're not going anywhere. I'll find a cure. I'll—"
"There is no cure for soul-rot, child." His voice is sad but certain. "My thread is decaying from the inside. Even the strongest healers can't fix that."
I look at his thread again with my witch-sight. He's right. The golden strand that should be bright and strong is turning black at the edges. It's like watching mold spread across bread. The rot started two years ago and has been eating him alive ever since.
I've sold everything we own to pay for doctors and medicine. I work three jobs—laundress, apothecary assistant, and cleaning the magistrate's house. The whole village knows we're poor. They whisper about us. They call me "the useless Thorne" because my magic is too weak to do anything important.
My family used to be powerful. We used to matter. But that was a hundred years ago, before we were accused of treason and hunted like animals. Now I'm the last Thorne in this village, and everyone treats me like garbage.
Especially Helena Corwin.
She used to be my best friend. We grew up together, played together, promised to be sisters forever. But when my family lost everything, her parents forbade our friendship. Helena obeyed. Now she leads the group of girls who make fun of me in the market. Last week, she "accidentally" knocked my basket of laundry into the mud and laughed while I picked up dirty clothes with shaking hands.
I thought I had cried all my tears. But sitting here, watching Papa fade, I realize I have more.
"Don't cry, little witch." Papa reaches up and wipes my cheek. His hand is shaking. "I'm not afraid of death. I've lived a good life. I got to raise you. That's more than enough."
"It's not enough for me!" The words burst out of me. "You're only fifty-three! You should have decades left! This isn't fair!"
"Life rarely is." Papa closes his eyes again. "But we play the hand we're dealt with grace."
Grace. He always talks about grace and honor and doing the right thing. That's why we're poor. That's why the village hates us. Because Papa refuses to lie or cheat or be cruel, even when it would make our lives easier.
I love him for it. But right now, I wish he had been a little less honorable and a little more selfish. Maybe then we'd have money for better doctors. Maybe then he wouldn't be dying.
The festival music outside gets louder. Someone is lighting fireworks. Papa flinches at each boom, and I want to scream at them to shut up. Can't they see we're suffering? Can't they care about anything except their own fun?
Papa's breathing becomes labored. His thread flickers dangerously. For a horrible moment, I think this is it—he's dying right now, and I can't stop it.
Then his eyes snap open. They're suddenly clear and focused in a way they haven't been for weeks. His hand grabs my wrist so hard it hurts.
"The Forbidden Archives," he gasps.
"What?" I lean closer. "Papa, you're not making sense—"
"Beneath the old temple." His voice is urgent, desperate. "The Temple of Hours at the village edge. There's a hidden chamber under the main altar. Your grandmother showed me when I was young. The books are still there—our family's real history. The magic they tried to erase."
My heart pounds. "Papa, what are you talking about?"
"The spell to steal time." His eyes bore into mine. "It's there, Calla. In the black book with silver chains. The Thread Severance Ritual. You can cut my thread from the Loom itself. You can save me."
Ice floods my veins. "That's forbidden magic. Time-thieves are hunted by Reapers. They—"
"I know what they do." Papa's grip tightens even more. "But I also know the truth they've hidden from everyone. You're not just any witch, Calla. You're the last Guardian. The last one who can touch the Loom without breaking it. That's why your magic feels weak—it's been suppressed. Locked away to keep you safe."
"I don't understand—"
"You don't have to understand. Not yet." His breathing is getting worse. "Just promise me you'll go to the temple. Promise me you'll read the books. Learn what you really are before they find you."
"Before who finds me?"
Papa's eyes roll back. His thread flickers wildly.
"Papa!" I shake him gently. "Papa, stay with me! Who's looking for me? What do you mean?"
But he's unconscious again. His breathing is shallow, rattling in his chest like dry leaves. The golden thread is barely glowing now.
Two days, Dr. Marsh said. But looking at Papa now, I don't think he has two days. I'm not sure he has two hours.
The festival outside reaches a crescendo. Fireworks explode in bright colors. People cheer.
And I make a decision that will change everything.
I stand up, grab my cloak, and head for the door. The Temple of Hours is forbidden for a reason—everyone says it's cursed, that ghosts live there, that anyone who enters goes mad. Even children won't go near it.
But I'm not afraid of ghosts or curses or madness.
I'm afraid of losing my father.
And if there's even the smallest chance that the spell he mentioned is real—if I can steal time from Death itself and give Papa the life he deserves—then I'll take it.
Even if it damns me forever.
I look back at Papa one last time. His thread flickers weakly in the darkness.
"I'll save you," I whisper. "I don't care what it costs."
Then I slip out into the night, leaving the festival behind, heading toward the abandoned temple where forbidden magic waits.
I don't know that Death is already watching me.
I don't know that the moment I perform that spell, a Reaper Prince will appear in my life and change everything I thought I knew about magic, destiny, and love.
All I know is that I'm going to cheat Death.
And Death doesn't forgive.