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“I want you to check the body.”

“We’d have to sneak into the ice cellars,” Makarios says.

Mikros lights up. “I know how to do that.”

“Check his mouth and tongue.”

They nod. “We’ll be back soon.”

They aren’t back soon. I’ve prepared all layers of the blood-curing spell except for the spiritual source of the infection, which I only have one shot at inserting into the spell. If I forge ahead with my assumption and I’m wrong, I’ll have to start over completely.

No time for that. I may not be able to help Nicostratus and Quin fight the wyverns, but I can help keep the aklos and aklas safe. Give them a chance to heal if they’re hurt.

I need to solve this fast. Makarios and Mikros will be back with confirmation in time. They have to be.

Hours pass. It’s almost dawn when I acknowledge they won’t be returning before the gala. I worry myself to sleep over parcels of dried herbs.

“Wake up.”

The sharp call has me bolting upright, my blurry gaze slowly sharpening on pristine robes. Florentius, as promised.

I yawn, stretching my limbs overhead. “Bringing me breakfast again?”

He ignores me. “Call up the spell. I’ll proof it, then I have to go.”

“What’s the hurry?”

His expression is grim, and my senses prickle.

I plant myself before him, making the barrier shimmer in warning. “What is it?”

“All gold-sash mages were called to the high duke’s quarters this morning.”

“The high duke is sick?”

“A dozen of his guests fell ill during the night.”

Cold steals over me. All mages qualified to administer spells to royalty conveniently busied.

“What about silver sashes?” It comes out a rasp. That’s why...

“Ordered to various parts of the royal city. There’s never been so many medical emergencies at once. It’s unprecedented.”

More like contrived.

“Are you telling me there arenomages attending the gala?”

“I’m being pulled away too,” Florentius says.

“Of course.” He’s Chiron’s son. His skills are superior. A possible threat to the high duke’s plan.

“I said I needed to grab some books, but I only have a minute. Show me your spell.”

I call it to my palm, expanding each layer for him to analyse. “Better than expected,” he says. “Inserting the spiritual source of the infection will be the hardest part. You mustn’t release it until it reaches the correct layer. It will hurt. Keep your fingers steady.”

At the sounds of heavy footsteps downstairs, I grab some spell books and slide them to Florentius.

“I don’t know what’s going on,” he says in hushed, serious tones, “but something is.”