Nivi's fever worsened by nightfall.
Her skin burned beneath cold cloths. Her lips cracked when she tried to whisper. She had stopped asking questions. That was what scared Eon most.
He sat beside her bed, holding her hand in both of his, whispering words he didn't remember learning. He didn't know if they were prayers or fragments of some ancient language, but they came like instinct.
Elira paced behind him. She had already tried everything she knew—steam, herbs, compresses, old forest remedies. Nothing held back the heat blooming beneath her daughter's skin.
"This is beyond me," she finally said, voice tight. "I have to go."
Eon turned. "Where?"
"To the council. To Callen. Someone must have medicine. Or something—anything."
"I'll go with you."
"No," she said firmly. "If they see you, they might shut their doors. You've seen how they look at you now."
He couldn't argue.
So she went alone.
**
The village square was colder than it should've been, wind biting as she knocked on Callen's door. A woman opened it—Mara, the weaver—her eyes cautious.
"Elira," she said. "It's late."
"I need help," Elira said, pushing past her.
Callen stood near the hearth, reading by candlelight. He looked up, and something in his face fell when he saw her.
"My daughter," she said, voice breaking. "She's burning. I've tried everything. If you have anything left from the old supplies—"
"Elira…" he started gently, but she cut him off.
"She's a child, Callen!"
He hesitated, then finally said it: "We have some tonic. But not enough. Not for everyone. If others get worse…"
Her blood froze. "You're rationing?"
"We have to think of the whole village."
She stepped closer. "And what if it were your child?"
He looked away.
The silence was answer enough.
**
Back home, Eon gently wiped Nivi's brow. Her breathing slowed, then hitched—sharp, shallow gasps.
"Hold on," he whispered. "Just hold on."
Outside, the wind howled like something ancient was waking in the woods.
And for the first time since he fell, the god wished he still had power.