Bearclaw Valley why the little frenchman wears his hand in a sling

set for the afternoon of the 14th

she ought to have visited her brother by now. she ought to have stopped by. she knows where he is. she's seen the healer go back and forth from there; she's seen the well-worn trail left by her parents.

but she hasn't—and she doesn't want to.

as soon as she knew he breathed, Avicus's worry had faded away. he lives. he breathes. and still, still, the attention is wholly fixated on him, and she's been left behind.

jealousy burns in her belly and gnaws at her bones. her rage at the pale woman has faded with the days, but the irritation with her own continues on. fawning over Aventus. . .what's the deal, anyway? he's not dead. he's going to live. there's no need to mourn.

they'd forgotten her. that's all there was to it. they have forgotten clever, capable Avicus, and worship a little broken boy instead. she burns bright, but they are drawn to a shadow.

she stomps along a hunting trail in the far north of the valley, her ribs intact, her body whole.

now she is become the shadow, and her brother the funeral pyre.