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I force the five needles in.

* * *

The instant the last needle sinks into him, the cries of pain cease. His body goes limp under me, head lolling with each shallow breath. Sunset casts an eerie glow over his sharp jaw, giving him an almost ethereal look. “If it’s any consolation,” I murmur, “if you end up a corpse, you’ll be a beautiful one.”

The faintest smirk tugs at his lips before he collapses again. “C-can’t feel...”

“I’ve paralysed you, to slow the spread of the poison. We’ve three hours, unless the Arcane Sovereign himself intervenes.”

The eparch groans. “He’s never around when I need him.”

I scan the clearing with a rapid heartbeat. We’re just two men, one incapacitated, where no carriage could come and with no horses in sight, and nowhere to go.

Unless I go home.I still have some of Grandfather’s books hidden there; I have a chance to save this man.

But back home... I shudder. “I’ll get you to an apothecary.”

“Don’t. No one can know.”

I scan the bodies around us, and believe him. I stare at him warily.

“May as well kill me now, if you’re planning to leave me anyplace official.”

Pain and fear are still etched into his face; his skin is pale and smooth under the blood and dirt. He looks young, maybe not much older than I am. Lines of strain crease his brow. A man who knows trouble. “What’s your name?”

A pause.

“Call me... Silvius.”

Right. “You’re putting me in a tough spot, Silvius. I’m supposed to be running away. Not running back.”

He murmurs an apology that twists into a pained moan.

He loses consciousness.

There’s no time for personal dilemma.

I haul him by his arms, puffing. “Do you carry the weight of the world on your shoulders or something?” I set him down again and cast a focused eye around the clearing. My gaze slides back to the soldiers... I grab some fallen branches and strip the dead—a couple of pairs of leggings, shirts, belts, cloaks.

It feels... strange. Disrespectful. I move quickly and efficiently, but gently, and let myself consider who these men might have been. Who might’ve been doing this—undressing their bodies—if they’d died another way. I’ve never been this close to a redcloak before. These all have the same hard, spare conditioning—strong and well-nourished but very lean. Scars, some barely healed; crusted grazes. Calloused hands. Their napes bear a wavy symbol. Strange. Strange enough that I check the others: they have it too. But perhaps all redcloaks do. The mark... it seems deliberate. Ceremonial. I shake off a prickling shiver. No time to play detective.

The scavenged clothing makes a sturdy stretcher and with two good rolls, the pretty eparch is lying prone atop it. I strap him in place with stolen belts, lift the two branches at one end and begin the long slog towards town.

By the time I emerge from the shadows of the trees, I’m exhausted, my palms burning, arms aching and a fine tremor vibrating through my limbs. I barely see the gangly figure running towards us in time. He’s looking over his shoulder; he doesn’t see us in his path. “Hoi!”

The boy’s head whips round and he skids to an abrupt stop. That’s when I see what he’s clutching: a bit of bread with a bite taken out. He hugs it close to his chest, and I understand.

The swish of leaves in the distance is followed by pounding footsteps.

“I g-gotta hide,” the boy says.

I’m dragging a body through the royal woods.

We share a look of unspoken understanding, and I point to a particularly dense bush. “The leaves stink, so they won’t look there too hard.”

He starts towards it and stops, coming back to help me lift the stretcher behind the putrid-smelling foliage. We tuck ourselves deep into the leaves and keep still.

A scant few seconds later, three luminists plough through the woods, their robes glowing white. When their glow is gone, I stare at the boy.