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“Names.”

Fear lances through me, quick and sharp.

They release their arrows; I cry out and magic surges out of me. I force it away and it spirals before the distracted king—

The arrow meant for Quin thunks into a nest of thorny flowers.

But the second arrow whizzes past and spears into Petros’s throat. The sharp crack of it punches the air. Blood splatters the carriage wall, its metallic tang mingling with the dust my inadequate shield stirred up. Quin is grasping Petros as he gurgles and goes limp.

A haunting silence follows. I stumble. My shield flips and booms out, uncontrolled, hurling the arrow it caught towards the redcloaks, who are... who are nocking new arrows—

Panic jolts my chest, and I squeeze my fist—

Quin steps forward with a roar, pebbles lifting from the ground at his command and shooting towards the masked men. I stand frozen, caught between fear and awe as Quin’s fury shapes the winds around us and enemy bows fly from hands and smash against the rock. The masked men scramble away, into the shadows.

Madly, Quin returns to clutching Petros’s shoulders. He looks my way, desperation pinching the corners of his eyes, his lips. “Save him.”

The man is gone. No living mage in this world could revive him. I shuffle toward them, trying to calm my rampant pulse. Telling myself that at least the king is safe.

“Save him!”

I drop to my knees, shaking my head.

“Youmust, you...”

“Quin...”

“Try! How will I ever—If I don’t—... Why are you nottrying?”

His passionate plea is so strong, maybe he believes it can bring back the dead.

“He’s gone.”

Quin grips my arms, the blood from his hands seeping into my cloak in a way that makes me realise why the military wear red. I lift my head and look into his pained, frustrated eyes. I say it again. “He’s gone.”

He knows. He doesn’t want to accept.

He straightens and staggers past me. His torment echoes off walls of stone. He hurls rocks against the boulders over and over.

I let him release his frustrations and take care of Petros’s body, pulling him free, cleaning the wound, setting him inside the carriage to be taken back to his family. The sprawled lump I glimpsed earlier is, indeed, the driver, knocked out with a blow to the back of the head and presumably taken for dead.

I heal the damage and when he wakes to news of his master, he cries and begs to take the body home; I let them go and once the dust from their leaving has settled, I return to Quin’s side. Evening sun is quickly fading, but a glimmer of light is cast upon Quin’s face. The confidence he carries like a second skin has been shed, leaving behind slender, delicate lines that remind me he’s young. Not many years older than myself, and with an entire kingdom to protect. His pale complexion and solemn dark eyes are tinted with sadness.

Skriniaris Evander was right. He is struggling.

Every day pretending to be in control, pretending to have a plan, pretending it’ll all work out. He survives on make-believe.

How exhausted he must be. How scared.

He shuts his eyes and draws a deep breath. I want to help him expel it, along with all his worries, but I can’t. All I can do is...

I take his injured arm, pluck off the handkerchief, and press a stitching spell against his wound.

Quin’s gaze lingers on the rocks, his shoulders rigid, his breath uneven. The silence stretches between us, heavy with unacknowledged grief. I rub a calming hand down his arm.

He doesn’t turn, but I feel the tremor rolling through him, and I feel his immediate attempt to claw it back.

But it’s too powerful, too consuming.