Page 22

W e followed Levi blindly into Thornwyn Forest. I tried desperately to focus on the positive. I was on my way to see a healer—but I couldn’t shake the weight of the day’s events pressing down on my mind.

I was no stranger to sadness, but this was different.

There was a new layer now, something that defied logic.

Why was I seeing spirits? Gunner, I could make sense of—but Mica?

I had no connection to that child. And his message had left more questions than answers.

“The words are buried, a tongue long turned to dust.” What did that even mean?

“Look for the flame that chose silence over glory.” He spoke in riddles, and I had no clue what he was trying to tell me.

I should’ve been focused on healing. My quest for a cure was finally within reach.

Levi had informed us that Maxfield—or ‘Medicine Max’ as the townspeople called him—preferred to remain a recluse, living deep within the woods.

He’d retired from his time serving the throne and, much to his chagrin, had become something of a local legend.

He was our best chance at finding the cure I so desperately needed.

After what felt like several hours of walking, a large glade seemed to appear out of nowhere.

Nestled among the tall grass was an unbelievably charming little cottage.

The quintessential fairytale abode. Rudimentary fencing lined the property, old and crumbling, offering no real protection.

The wattle-and-daub structure had a thatched roof cloaked in moss.

Ivy crept along its corners, and drying herbs dangled from the eaves, gently swaying in the breeze.

Barrels of rainwater stood beside woven baskets of harvested goods, ensuring its habitants were well stocked.

“This is where you’ll find Medicine Max,” Levi said, stepping through the broken fence. “He’s the best we can offer here in Thornwyn. Mind you, he can be a bit ornery.”

A stone walkway led us to a dark wooden door crowned with an impressive rack of stag horns. Levi knocked loudly.

“Go away! No one’s home!” a dry, raspy voice shouted from within.

“You just answered us, you old bastard. Open the door—it’s Levi.”

Unintelligible grumbling came from behind the wooden slab as several locks slid free from inside.

The door slowly creaked open, revealing a weathered old male.

Deep wrinkles mapped the lines of his face, emphasizing sunken cheeks.

His thick white beard complimented his hauntingly light grey eyes, giving him a wizard-like appearance.

He wore tattered linen robes and looked like he hadn’t bathed in weeks—not exactly a trait I sought in a healer, but I didn’t have many options left.

“What do you want? I’m busy.”

“Are you Medicine Max?” I asked sheepishly.

“I don’t practice medicine anymore. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m busy.” He tried to shut the door, but Lucius shoved his foot into the frame, stopping it in its tracks.

“Are you not a former healer to the throne?” Lucius questioned, pushing the door open wider.

“Former is your key word. The king I served is long dead. I’m retired, and I intend to stay that way. Now kindly remove your foot.”

My options were diminishing quickly, and my heart pounded with growing dread. How long could I hold out without a healer? The last few weeks had made it painfully clear—I wouldn’t last without intervention. “Please,” I blurted before taking a breath and regaining my composure. “I need your help.”

“Without your assistance, she’ll die,” Lucius said bluntly, but the old male showed no sympathy.

“Humans don’t belong in Hiraeth anyway. She’s better off dead.”

A low growl rumbled from Lucius’s throat. “One more comment like that, and you’ll be the one needing a healer.”

“Now, now, friends, let’s not be hasty,” Levi said, stepping in. “Maxfield, Michaela’s a worthy case. Do it as a favor to the Raven’s Hand.”

“We can reward you greatly for your service,” Lucius added.

The old male sighed. “For fuck’s sake. Come in.”

Levi stepped aside, letting Lucius and me through the doorway. “I’ll head back to camp. You two are in good hands.” He leaned in and whispered into my ear, “Give him a chance. I promise—he’s really a big softie.”

The inside of the cottage was as charming and cluttered as its exterior.

A single bed, mussed from the night’s sleep, sat across from the fireplace.

Rows of bound herbs dried above the mantle in the warm glow of the fire.

A small washing basin overflowed with dirty dishes.

A table with two chairs and a wall full of shelves packed with bottled concoctions made up the rest of the space.

I was relieved not to find a makeshift surgical suite hidden in a corner.

My mind had been bracing for something far worse in the hands of an otherworldly healer.

Not that healthcare back home had been much better.

The pain and suffering inflicted on me in the name of ‘healing,’ was nothing short of nightmarish.

“I haven’t got all day. What seems to be the problem? Is she sick with the illness? I’ve told them all before—I can’t cure malediction.”

“She’s going through the Tribulation,” Lucius said, skipping pleasantries entirely.

“Sit.” Maxfield pointed to a chair, his interest clearly piqued.

Gently, he tilted my head down and drew a deep breath, smelling the top of my head.

“Mm-hmm.” He lifted my chin with icy hands, pulled down my lower eyelids, and stared into my eyes, silent and focused.

His hot breath smelled stale. “Stick out your tongue.”

It was the most ridiculous examination of my life. He asked nothing about my history, showed no interest in my symptoms. It felt like a child playing doctor.

“She looks fine to me.”

“Respectfully, Medicine Max,” Lucius said, the condescension heavy in his voice. “We’ve been life-binding to keep her alive. Faerie dust offered some relief, but she burns through it rapidly. She’s doing well now , but it’s becoming less effective.”

“Life-binding, you say…” Maxfield scratched his brow, glancing between us. “Interesting, only?—”

“Yes,” Lucius interrupted, cutting off whatever the old male was about to say. “She needs a more permanent solution to help her transition into her magic safely.”

“The cancer—I mean, the Tribulation—has been coming on stronger. Even life-binding doesn’t last the way it used to.” I said as Lucius reached for my hand. Though my focus was on Maxfield, I could feel Lu staring at me. His concern was palpable.

“Tribulation can’t be cured. It’s not an illness.”

My heart sank. Everything I had been offered a taste of—a future, romantic love, a family of my own—was ripped away in a single breath. And I believed him. I’d heard it my entire life: your cancer is terminal. Why would Hiraeth be any different?

“You call yourself a healer?” Lucius snapped. “Dove, he doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Iver Pennington assured us she could be healed.”

“Never heard of him.” Maxfield turned his back on us, busying himself with his wall of jars. “If he can cure Tribulation, then why aren’t you seeking his help, instead of bothering me?”

“Iver died in service to the House of Bruin. He was the royal healer,” I informed him.

Maxfield’s lips parted slightly at the mention of the Bruin name, and for a brief moment, his brow furrowed.

It was so subtle that if I hadn’t been staring at him, I would have missed it.

“He was a kind, gentle soul. Unlike some others I’ve met. ”

I hadn’t thought of the old healer in some time.

Not because our time together in Neverland didn’t matter, but because remembering him hurt more than I liked to admit.

He was the first person who’d given me a real reason to believe a cure might exist—the first to look at me and see more than a lost cause.

And for that, he paid with his life. He hadn’t been a warrior, just a kind soul who happened to find himself between Tiger Lily and her obsession with ending the Darling bloodline.

He chose to protect me anyway. And she chose to kill him for it.

“Shame. He also lied to you,” Maxfield said bluntly.

“Iver had no reason to lie.” I was quickly losing patience. If Maxfield couldn’t help me, then we were wasting precious time. “Lucius, maybe we should go.”

“If a cure is what you’re looking for, then I can be of no help. True remission from the Tribulation must be earned. I can, however, offer you sprite ash.”

“What’s sprite ash?” Lu asked cautiously.

“Just a little something. Stronger than your run-of-the-mill faerie dust.”

“Last time I checked, sprites didn’t produce dust.” Lu’s head tilted, his brows pinching together. “Are you sure you’re not trying to sell us snake oil?”

“I never said sprite dust. Sprite ash is what’s left when you use a mortar and pestle on the remains of deceased sprites.”

Lu’s face contorted with disgust. “I wish I never asked. Thank you for clearing that up. I think.”

“Wait—you’re killing sprites? For medicine?” I asked, horrified. I may have been desperate to find something, anything, to extend my time here with the Bruins—but killing innocent fae and desecrating their remains? I had to draw the line somewhere. My life wasn’t worth sacrificing another.

“No one said anything about killing sprites. What kind of monster do you take me for? Sprites live very short lives. Their remains are ethically sourced. By offering their empty vessels, they inherently become everlasting.”

“So their bodies are willingly donated?” I asked for clarity.

“Yes. I told you—I’m not a monster. Do you want the medicine or not?”

“Will it help?”

“It’ll definitely help. You can expect it to act similarly to faerie dust, only its effects are more potent and last longer. The true cure will come from honing your growing magic.” Maxfield held up a jar, revealing a silvery-blue dust.