The wood is dead, Elias.

Mara stood in the doorway of the workshop, her shawl pulled tight against the draft. Her hands were bare, the knuckles swollen and red from the cold. She looked at the yew stock on the workbench, then at Elias, who was already turning his back to her, adjusting the tension on his drawknife.

It is not dead, Mara. It is resting.

It is rotting, she said. The smell is in the cellar. It is in the bread.

Elias did not look up. He tested the edge of the knife against his thumb. A bead of blood welled, dark and immediate. He wiped it on his apron, a gesture so practiced it had lost all meaning. The Grey Blight had started three weeks ago, a faint grey halo on the grain of a yew tree in the northern grove. By the time he had felled the tree, the rot had reached the heartwood. The village elders said it was a curse, a punishment for the sins of the previous generation. Silas, the old fletcher who had taught Elias the trade, said it was a mirror. But Elias knew better. Wood was wood. It was fiber, water, and tension. If you understood the structure, you could force it to yield. You could make it perfect.

He needed the bow for the solstice. It was a promise, a vow made in the heat of their early years when they had run through these highlands with the wind in their hair and the future wide open. He would carve a bow that could split a hair at two hundred paces. He would give it to Mara. And in that gift, he would prove that he could master the chaos, the decay, the inevitable end of things.

Work, he said, not turning around.

Mara lingered for a moment, her eyes fixed on the grey streaks spreading across the yew. Then she left. The door closed with a soft thud that seemed to vibrate through the floorboards.

Elias picked up the yew. It was heavier than it should have been, dense with moisture. He placed it in the vise and began to shave. The shavings curled off in long, fragrant ribbons. But beneath the scent of fresh wood, there was a sourness, a smell like wet ash. The Blight. It was moving. He could feel it in the way the wood resisted the blade, a subtle friction that was not just friction but hunger.

He worked through the night. The candles burned low, their flames flickering in the draft that came under the door. His back ached, a deep, grinding pain that radiated from his shoulders to his hips. He ignored it. He pushed the knife deeper, trying to cut past the grey zones, into the clean, golden heartwood. But the grey was everywhere. It was in the pores, in the grain, in the very cells of the tree.

By dawn, the stock was half a bow, but it was brittle. The edges crumbled under his touch. He set it down and stared at it. His hands were trembling. Not from cold, but from a rage that had nothing to do with the wood. He was angry at the Blight, at the tree, at Mara for not understanding the necessity of his work. He was angry at himself for failing.

He went to the kitchen. Mara was sitting at the table, a cup of tea untouched before her. She looked thinner than he remembered. Her cheeks were hollow, her eyes sunken.

You haven’t slept, she said. Her voice was weak, raspy.

I am finishing the work, Elias said.

You are destroying it.

I am saving it.

Mara looked at him, and for a second, he saw something in her eyes that he did not recognize. It was not anger. It was pity.

You are not saving the wood, Elias. You are saving yourself.

He stood up, his chair scraping back against the stone floor.

Go to bed, he said.

She did not move.

I am going to the city, she said.

The words hung in the air, cold and sharp.

The city, he repeated.

My lungs, she said. The damp. The cold. I need air that is not poisoned by your obsession.

Elias felt a surge of indignation. Her lungs were fine. She had coughed a few times, yes, but that was the change in the weather. It was not a sickness. It was an excuse.

You will come back, he said.

When you are ready to listen, she said.

She stood up, wrapped her shawl tighter, and walked out. The door closed.

Elias stood in the kitchen for a long time. The silence was heavy, pressing against his eardrums. He could hear the wind howling outside, a low, mournful sound. He went back to the workshop. He picked up the yew. He picked up the knife.

He cut.

The blade slipped. The wood splintered. The grey rot spread faster, as if fed by the violence of the strike.

He stopped. He looked at his hands. They were stained with wood dust and blood. He looked at the yew. The grey was pulsing, a slow, rhythmic expansion.

He went to find Silas.

The old man was in his hut, sitting by the fire. His hands were wrapped around a mug of tea, his eyes closed.

It is the soul, Silas said, without opening his eyes.

Elias set the yew on the floor. It was black now, the grey rot having consumed the heart.

I can fix it, Elias said.

You cannot fix what is already dead, Silas said. He opened his eyes. They were clear, sharp. You are trying to force life into a corpse. The Blight is not a curse, Elias. It is a truth. It shows you what you refuse to see.

I will carve a new one, Elias said. There is no time, Silas said. There is always time.

Silas shook his head. He looked at the yew, then at Elias. Mara is leaving, Silas said. Elias felt a cold shock in his chest.

What?

She is going to the city. To the hospital. Her lungs, Elias. The damp in your workshop. The cold. You have been working so hard, so angry, that you have poisoned the air around you. She is sick. And you do not see it.

Elias stared at Silas. The words made no sense. Mara was fine. She was strong. She was his partner.

You are blind, Silas said. You are so focused on the wood that you have forgotten the woman.

Elias left. He ran back to the house. The door was open. Mara was gone. There was a note on the table.

I am going to the city. I will not return until you are ready to live.

Elias read the note. His hands shook. He looked at the workshop. The yew was a pile of ash. The Blight had finished its work.

He sat on the floor. The wood dust settled on his clothes. He felt a hollow space in his chest, a void where his heart should have been.

He had wanted to conquer the Blight. He had wanted to prove his skill. He had wanted to give Mara a perfect bow. But he had only given her a reason to leave.

He looked at the iron blade on the workbench. It was clean, sharp, and cold.

He picked it up.

He went to the river.

The driftwood was there, white and bleached by the sun and water. It was dead, but it was clean. No rot. No Blight.

He picked up a piece. It was rough, splintered, and dry. He went back to the workshop. He did not try to make a bow.

He took the iron blade. He carved. He carved a spoon. It was simple. It was unadorned. It was rough.

He polished it with his thumb. The wood was smooth, stable, and dry. He left it on the table in the kitchen. He made broth. He used the spoon to stir it.

He waited.

The days passed. The winter solstice came and went. The snow fell, covering the highlands in white.

Elias sat in the kitchen. The fire was low. The spoon was on the table. The door opened. Mara stood in the doorway.

She was pale. Her face was thin. But her eyes were clear. She looked at the spoon. She walked in. She sat at the table.

She picked up the spoon. She took a sip of the broth. She looked at Elias.

She did not speak. She ate.

Elias watched her. He saw the way her hand held the spoon, steady and sure. He saw the way her eyes closed as she tasted the broth.

He reached out. He placed his hand over hers. His hand was scarred, stained with wood dust. Her hand was pale, cold.

They sat together. The fire crackled. The spoon was dry.

The winter was quiet.