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Aurienne had managed her seith carefully in the wards to ensure that she would have enough left for tonight. It disgusted her to waste such a precious thing on one of this man’s ilk. Now that it was time to use it, it felt like squandering—like throwing away something dear on someone utterly unworthy.

However, preliminary diagnostics would be a first step towards understanding what was ailing the Fyren. With any luck, he was well on his way to a horrid, drawn-out death.

“Diagnostics, then,” said Aurienne. She removed her cloak and gloves.

The Fyren did not follow suit. He kept his hood up, so that all Aurienne could see was that scarred, sarcastic mouth. The rest of his face was shadow.

The shadow looked at her and said, “The sullying begins.”

It was an attempt at flippancy, but the tension in his shoulders gave the lie to it. Mordaunt was not at ease.

After disinfecting her hands, Aurienne held her palm towards him and gathered her seith to her tacn. Its white light joined the yellow of the lantern.

She waited for the Fyren to free up a patch of skin for her to proceed, but he merely sat there.

“What are you waiting for?” asked Aurienne.

“What areyouwaiting for?” came Mordaunt’s response, both wary and annoyed.

“This requires contact,” said Aurienne, holding her tacn at him. “Obviously.”

“Oh,” said Mordaunt.

“If you can bear to shed the cloak-and-dagger look for a minute, kindly undo this,” said Aurienne, with a gesture to Mordaunt’s neckline. “Clavicle or chest works best for general diagnostics.”

Mordaunt suffered the hardship with evident irritation. He undid the clasp of his cloak and began to work at the cravat and collar underneath.

His hood fell back, exposing silver-white hair, winsomely tousled, and pale skin. His features, Aurienne decided, suited him: insolent (the grey eyes) and sardonic (the cut of the eyebrows, the mouth). The various scars that pitted his face weren’t surprising, given his profession. They added something savage to a countenance that was otherwise patrician.

The sardonic mouth said, “Rude to stare.”

“Assessment requires observation,” said Aurienne. “Or would you like me to attempt it blindfolded?”

Mordaunt looked as though he had a retort ready, but decided to hold his tongue. He pulled his shirt open and exposed a bit of his chest to Aurienne.

Aurienne had touched a great many unpleasant things in the course of her career—secretions, purulent exudates, effusions of every description—but none were as loathsome as a Fyren.

As she pressed her tacn to the Fyren’s skin, his brows pulled together. He twitched under her touch. She could feel the tension in him—a desire to recoil, a disgust. He didn’t want to be touched by her as much as she didn’t want to touch him. Aurienne was pleased that they were jointly suffering in this regard.

Her preliminary diagnostics resulted in unsurprising findings: evidence of many years’ worth of physical trauma, mostly healed; an epithelium crisscrossed by scar tissue; a high heart rate; elevated cortisol and adrenaline.

The scarring was something. The man was branded by years of fights. She could confirm that he had never been worked on by a Haelan. None of her Order would’ve left such a war zone behind.

Her attention was drawn to a mess at Mordaunt’s cervical spine. Burst fractures, poorly healed, had compromised his seith system, which was now headed towards putrefaction. He was indeed on his way to a horrid, drawn-out death.

No. Mordaunt was a Fyren. A drawn-out death wasn’t on the cards. A Fyren without his seith was useless. His own kind would make short work of him well before the disease did.

Which meant one less killer for hire terrorising the populace. Excellent.

Aurienne flicked diagnostic images into being. They floated, pallid white, between her and the Fyren.

She pointed at the largest image. “Tell me about the bodged surgery at your neck. Was it done in a bush?”

“Yes. Literally. Field medic.”

“What happened?”

“A training injury.”