Chapter 7: The Unbearable Loss
The house was unusually quiet that morning. The soft sunlight filtered through the cracks in the shutters, casting delicate patterns on the walls. Hayyan stretched beneath his blanket, expecting to hear the familiar sounds of his mother moving about the kitchen. But instead, there was only silence.
A strange feeling settled in his chest, a heavy weight he couldn't quite explain. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and padded down the hallway, calling out softly. "Mom?"
No response.
His steps quickened, panic rising in his throat as he pushed open the door to his parents' room. There, lying beneath the thin sheets, was Elara. Her eyes were closed, her face serene, as if she had simply fallen into a peaceful slumber. But even as a child, Hayyan knew. He knew she wasn't sleeping.
"Mom…" His voice cracked as he rushed to her side, shaking her gently. "Mom, wake up… please."
But she didn't stir. Her body was cold.
Tears blurred his vision as he collapsed beside her, clutching her lifeless hand. The warmth that had always radiated from her, the comforting presence that had been his entire world, was gone. His mother—the one who had loved him unconditionally, who had protected him—was gone.
Calen entered the room shortly after, his face pale, eyes hollow. For a moment, he stood frozen in the doorway, his gaze locked on Elara's still form. Then, without a word, he crossed the room, gently lifting Hayyan away from her. "It's time," he whispered, his voice rough with grief. "We need to prepare."
---
The village was small, and the news of Elara's death spread quickly. Hayyan remained in a daze, numb from the pain that gripped his heart. He stood beside his father at the funeral, surrounded by villagers who murmured condolences, but their words felt distant, like a dull hum he could barely register. All he could focus on was the freshly dug grave where his mother's body would soon be laid to rest.
As the priest spoke the final rites, Hayyan's tears fell freely. He didn't care that people were watching, didn't care that they might see him as weak. How could he be strong when the person he loved most in the world had been taken from him? His chest ached with every breath, his mind consumed by the memory of his mother's smile, her soft voice telling him bedtime stories, the warmth of her embrace.
She was gone. And she wasn't coming back.
After the service, as the villagers dispersed, Hayyan noticed some of them whispering to each other, casting furtive glances in his direction. He could make out fragments of their hushed conversation.
"Strange… she was always healthy…"
"I heard she was worried about something… or someone."
"Maybe…"
But Hayyan didn't care. He had no energy left to wonder what they were gossiping about. All that mattered was that his mother was gone, and nothing they said would change that. He stayed by the grave long after everyone else had left, staring at the mound of earth that now separated him from the one person who had truly understood him.
---
The days that followed were a blur. Calen threw himself into his work, barely acknowledging Hayyan's existence. He didn't speak much, didn't show the same warmth or affection that Elara had. Hayyan was left to fend for himself, spending most of his time alone, practicing his magic in secret. His mother's death weighed heavily on him, and he found solace only in the quiet moments when he could summon the wind or make the earth tremble beneath his feet.
But the absence of Elara's love left a gaping hole in his heart. He longed for her comforting touch, for the way she would stroke his hair and tell him everything would be alright. Without her, the world felt colder, emptier.
Calen's indifference only deepened the pain. Hayyan had always been close to his mother, and with her gone, he had hoped that his father might step up, might become the support he so desperately needed. But Calen remained distant, going through the motions of daily life without ever truly engaging with his son. It was as if Elara's death had driven a wedge between them, one that neither of them knew how to bridge.
---
Weeks passed, and the routine continued. Until one day, Calen came home with a group of knights trailing behind him.
Hayyan looked up from where he was sitting by the fire, confusion flickering in his eyes. "Dad… what's going on?"
Calen didn't answer right away. His face was grim, and his gaze avoided Hayyan's. The knights—five of them, clad in gleaming armor—stood silently by the door, their expressions unreadable.
Finally, Calen spoke, his voice low and strained. "Hayyan… there's something I need to talk to you about."
The air in the room felt heavy, thick with unspoken tension. Hayyan's heart began to race as he looked between his father and the knights. "What is it?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
Calen hesitated, his eyes flickering with something like regret. "They've come to… investigate. Some of the villagers… they've been talking."
Hayyan's stomach dropped. "Talking? About what?"
Calen glanced at the knights, then back at his son. "About you, Hayyan. About the strange things they've seen. They think… they think you're hiding something."
Panic surged through Hayyan's chest. He had been so careful, so meticulous in keeping his magic hidden. How could they have found out? His mind raced as he tried to make sense of it all, but nothing added up.
The lead knight, a tall man with a stern face, stepped forward. "We've heard rumors, boy," he said gruffly. "Rumors that you might be… unnatural. It's our duty to make sure those rumors aren't true."
Hayyan's blood ran cold. He knew exactly what they were talking about. If they found out he could use magic, there would be no trial, no mercy. They would execute him without hesitation, just like they did with witches and wizards.
He shot a desperate glance at his father, hoping for some kind of support, some reassurance that everything would be alright. But Calen's face was stony, his eyes fixed on the floor.
Hayyan's heart sank. He was on his own.