The golden afternoon in the cottage did not break all at once. It spoiled.
Nyx was standing at the wooden table, her fingers pressed into the soft, yielding dough of a loaf that would never be baked. Beside her, Vane was setting down a basket of fresh apples, his face bright with a laugh that suddenly froze on his lips. The air, which had smelled of cinnamon, yeast, and late-autumn sun, turned abruptly sour—thick with the metallic, sharp tang of a butcher’s shop at the end of a hot day.
"Vane?" Nyx whispered, turning to look at him.
The blue of his apron was darkening, a wet, black stain blooming upward from the hem like ink spilled on parchment. When he reached out to take her hand, his fingers left behind greasy smears of ash.
"Something is wrong with the hearth," Vane said. His voic
