The first sign came in the morning.
Mira rose early, as she always did, to prepare tea. Jalen usually stirred soon after, humming to himself, eyes bright as sunlight. But today, when she set the steaming cup by his bedside, he didn't move.
"Jalen," she whispered, shaking his shoulder.
He groaned, rolling over. His eyes blinked open, but they weren't radiant—not the way they had been. They were dull, shadows nesting in the corners.
"I'm tired," he murmured.
Mira froze, the cup trembling in her hand. "Tired?"
He nodded, his gaze unfocused. "I don't know why. I feel…heavy."
The words chilled her. Heavy. Tired. Those were the first steps, the precursors she remembered too well. She forced a smile, brushing his hair back. "Maybe you didn't sleep well. Drink the tea. You'll feel better."
But as the day wore on, Jalen's laughter dimmed. His steps slowed. At the market, where once he charmed every vendor with his brightness, he barely managed polite nods. Mira saw the shopkeeper's frown, the curious glance that followed them.
It was starting again.
Panic gnawed at her as the days passed. Jalen still smiled, but it was thinner, forced. He tried to hide it, to shield her from worry, but Mira saw the truth in the slump of his shoulders, in the way his eyes no longer lingered on small joys.
The golden vial's gift was fading.
Mira wanted to deny it, to pretend that perhaps he was merely ill or restless, but she knew better. The Exchange's gifts were not permanent. They were loans, not blessings. Temporary injections of light, designed to run dry—so the desperate would always return.
And she was desperate.
One evening, she found Jalen sitting by the window, staring at the rain streaking down the glass. He didn't hear her enter.
"Jalen?" she asked softly.
He turned, and the emptiness in his eyes nearly broke her.
"Mira," he whispered. "Why does it always feel like it slips away? I was happy. I know I was. But it doesn't stay. It's like…like trying to hold water in my hands."
Her throat tightened. She wanted to scream the truth: Because I've been feeding you stolen happiness. Because I've traded away everything I have to keep you alive.
But she couldn't.
So she crossed the room and took his hand, squeezing it tightly. "We'll find a way," she promised.
But even as she said it, her heart was sinking.
The Exchange's pale-eyed woman had warned her: The Exchange always demands more.
And Mira had so little left to give.
She tried, at first, to delay the inevitable. She bought small vials—cheap things, fragments of energy and contentment. But when she slipped them into Jalen's tea, the effects were fleeting, barely lifting his spirits for an hour before he slumped again.
It wasn't enough.
The happiness she had bought him before had been bright and overwhelming, like sunlight flooding a darkened room. These scraps were only candles, flickering out too quickly.
And each time Jalen's smile faltered, Mira felt her resolve crack.
Her nightmares returned.
She dreamed of standing in the Exchange's endless hall, shelves of glowing vials stretching into infinity. She ran, searching desperately, but every vial she touched crumbled into ash. Behind her, Jalen called her name, his voice growing weaker with every step.
When she turned, he was gone.
She always woke in tears.
The turning point came one night when she found Jalen sitting on the floor, his head in his hands.
"I don't understand," he whispered. "I was so happy. It felt real. But now—" His voice broke. "It's like it was stolen from me."
Mira's chest ached. She knelt beside him, clutching his shoulders. "It wasn't stolen. It was real. I swear, Jalen, it was real."
"But why can't it stay?" he asked, eyes brimming with desperation. "Why can't I just hold on to it?"
Mira had no answer. Only silence.
And in that silence, she realized she had no choice.
She would have to return to the Exchange. Again.
The decision weighed on her for days, pressing like a stone against her ribs. She avoided Jalen's gaze, terrified that he would see the truth in her eyes.
Finally, when he was asleep, she slipped out into the night. The streets were damp with mist, lanterns flickering like dying stars.
Her steps carried her down, down, into the heart of the city, to the door marked with shifting chalk.
The pale-eyed woman was waiting.
"You're back," she said, her tone neither mocking nor kind.
Mira's breath shuddered. "He's fading again. I need more."
The woman studied her, eyes sharp as glass. "You knew this would happen."
"Yes," Mira admitted. "But I can't let him fall. Please."
The woman moved slowly, her fingers trailing along the glowing shelves. She selected a vial the color of twilight—deep violet, shimmering with threads of silver.
"This will restore him," she murmured. "But the price will be higher than before."
Mira swallowed hard. "What is it this time?"
The woman's pale gaze pierced her. "Your capacity for trust."
Mira's stomach lurched. "Trust?"
"Yes. From this moment forward, you will never fully believe another's words. Every promise will feel hollow, every kindness suspect. Even your brother—you will always doubt him. Trust is the foundation of love. Without it, your relationships will be brittle, fragile things. That is the cost."
Mira's knees nearly buckled. No trust. The thought terrified her. To never again believe in anyone—not even Jalen—was a wound deeper than she could fathom.
But she saw Jalen's face in her mind, the emptiness creeping back, the way he whispered, Why can't it stay?
And she knew.
"I'll give it," she whispered.
The ritual was sharp this time, like a blade slipping between her ribs. She felt something snap inside her, a thread cut clean. When it was over, she staggered, gasping.
The woman placed the violet vial in her trembling hands.
"You are unraveling," she said softly. "Piece by piece. Be careful, Mira. Soon there will be nothing left to give."
Mira clutched the vial to her chest, tears burning her eyes. "As long as he's happy," she whispered, "it doesn't matter."
But as she stumbled home, she felt the first seeds of doubt worming in her chest.
Because already, she was wondering if Jalen would thank her—or if, deep down, he might resent her.