Page 3

We have the king’s aklos and aklas to heal.

As we dock and unload, I try to shake off my unease.

“We’re working in the east and north pavilions. Medius spells only,” Florentius reminds as we ascend the steep path to the gardens. “You handle the aklas; I’ll take the aklos. Go back on your own if we finish at different times.”

The island sprawls before us, each beautiful pavilion nestled among distinct flora—grapevines to the north, pear trees in the east, and roses in the west.

“What if we meet the king?” I ask Florentius before we part ways.

“Just bow. Don’t look at him, don’t speak to him, and of course, don’t touch him.”

I make my way to the east pavilion, where the aklas are resting under the pear trees. When I’m set for check-ups, they inch shyly forward and share their complaints: swollen feet and aching joints, mostly.

“He won’t let us attend the gala,” one whispers.

“Unless the prince intervenes,” another murmurs dreamily. “The way he helped last night.”

A few aklas sigh, and I imagine Nicostratus swooping in with that charming smile. I sigh too, lost in thought.

“He went out this morning, or he’d have stepped in for little miss, too. Poor thing. She’ll be freezing cold and starving by now.”

I lift my head.

The aklas lower their eyes as I question them further. When the clinic is over, it doesn’t take long to find her kneeling at a fountain, damp and shivering, trying to retie a pink bow into her hair.

I sit by the fountain’s edge, calling flame to my fingertips. She glances up, then hurriedly looks away. I channel the warmth into her, urging her to move around to prevent her joints from seizing.

“I won’t tell. Just a quick stretch.”

She gulps and shakes her head; the bow she tried so hard to tie on slips off.

“If you stay like that, your joints will seize. It’ll take longer to recover.”

But she can’t be persuaded. I walk out my frustration in the gardens, where I spot a familiar, scarred figure.

Ifhe’s here...

My legs quicken, and I reach out to tap him on the shoulder.

* * *

Quin’s aklo freezes, his gaze darting between me and the shadowed pavilion ahead. His wariness has my senses sharpening.

“He’s here, isn’t he?” I ask, feigning calm, though already my frustration from before is burning into something bouncy.

The aklo’s voice is clipped. “What business do you have with him?”

I lean closer, offering my best disarming grin. “It’s been a while since he and I bantered. I’m due a reminder I outmatch him.”

A low laugh cuts through the rose-scented air, the sound curling around me like the fragrance of crushed petals. “Still delusional, I see,” Quin calls, his voice unmistakably dry. “Let him through.”

I’m guided to the pavilion and spring up the steps, eager to see a friendly face.

Well, a face.

Quin sits bent over a chessboard, the weight of his thoughts evident in his pinched brow. His fingers hover over a black rook, and descend slowly—maddeningly always in control.

His gaze lifts as I approach, catching me mid-step. For a moment, neither of us speaks, the tension between us held taut. Then, after some deliberation, he moves the rook forward. “Took you a while,” he murmurs, as if we’d arranged this meeting and I’m late.