Page 7

7

Oberon

MY EYES CRACKED open with a groan. The infirmary was dark and quiet, save for the faint rustle of leaves outside the arched windows and the distant echo of footsteps in the castle halls. The silence settled deep into the bones of a place untouched by the chaos of the waking world. The air was fragrant with dried herbs and a subtle medicinal tang.

I tilted my head back to glance out the window above me, where the stars blazed in the sky. I still had time to report to the prince before the sun rose over the horizon.

Grimacing, I sat up, flexed my hands, and rolled my shoulders to test the tension in the muscles beneath the bandages. It wasn’t terrible. I had survived worse. However, the tight wrappings were a damn nuisance. I tugged at them, unwinding the linen and tossing it aside.

The wound was healing, though more slowly than I would have preferred. I didn’t need to be coddled like a novice recruit. The office door creaked open when I was halfway through pulling my shirt over my head.

Calder paused in the doorway with her arms crossed. Her eyes scanned me with the exasperation I had grown accustomed to from her. “I knew you would do that,” she sighed, shaking her head.

Ignoring the sting of movement, I finished fastening the ties at my wrists. “Then you should have saved yourself the effort of wasting bandages.”

She scoffed and brushed past me to the table where the discarded bandages lay. “That’s why I sent Quinn to her quarters.” She flicked a loose thread from the table. “I knew you would get up the moment you had the chance.”

I grunted. “Quinn?”

Calder sighed and turned to the infirmary desk, picking up a small, worn leather-bound book. My eyes flicked to it, and my brow twitched in recognition. The image of that young woman clutching a leather journal with white knuckles at the garden archway came to mind. That meant she had passed Calder’s examinations that night.

How long had it been since then?

Weeks?

Maybe more.

“Quinn Larkspur. She keeps records,” Calder explained, leafing through the pages, “regarding the patients she treats. But the beginning… It’s different.”

I crossed my arms. “How does this concern me, Calder?”

“She has suffered.” Calder’s voice dropped. Her eyes roamed the pages, brow furrowed. “It’s in her writing. Hesitant. As though she expects someone to be reading over her shoulder.”

I leaned back against the infirmary wall, unimpressed. “You know what I do. We both know that people have suffered at my hands, no less. Stop being cryptic and explain why you think this is my problem.”

Calder closed the book with a soft thump and glanced at me. “Perhaps it’s not,” she said, tilting her head. “But I think it might be.”

Lacking patience, I huffed. “Just get to the fucking point, Calder. I have to report to Alric.”

She held my gaze for a moment longer, then handed me the journal. “Look through it. The beginning. I believe she can help beyond healing. Her competence stems from experience. We might need her more than you realize, Sinclaire.” She paused. “Hells, you may need her.”

I snatched it from her hand with a grunt, prepared to dismiss whatever horseshit she was pushing this time. But as I flipped open the worn cover, my gaze fell upon the first few lines, and my brows furrowed.

It was overly cautious. Her words lingered on the page as if she had rewritten them several times before permitting them to remain. She omitted certain details, leaving gaps where explanations were needed. Calder was right: they weren’t just the notes of an herbalist or healer.

The still parchment crackled beneath my fingers as I flipped through a few more pages. Initially, the entries were ordinary: ingredient lists, dosages, and descriptions of effects. Yet, the way she wrote them gnawed at me.

The ointments and salves were standard enough, though the sheer number of pain-relieving mixtures stood out. Some were for muscle aches; others addressed wounds, burns, and bruising. I frowned and turned another page. Then came the poisons. A slow breath left me as I gripped the book tighter. Not just poisons.

Antidotes.

Many were common and well-documented. However, for others, the agony reflected in their listed symptoms extended beyond clinical observation. The descriptions were not detached; they weren’t authored by a healer who studied their patient from afar. They were too precise, too visceral.

They weren’t symptoms she had seen; they were symptoms she had felt. Certain toxins had notes scribbled in the margins—how long they took to set in, how the pain felt at each stage, and which body part seized first. The handwriting became tighter there, more frantic.

My jaw locked.

Had someone tested these on her?

A bitter taste rose in my throat. Poison was not a casual interest by any means. It wasn’t something one could experiment with lightly. The notes weren’t just a healer’s curiosity, but a matter of survival.

I shut the book and drummed my fingers against the leather before curling them around the edges.

Calder observed me with a stoic expression. “You see it now,” she murmured. It wasn’t a question.

Running my fingers through my hair, I tucked the book under my arm. “I don’t know what I’m looking at,” I admitted.

Calder tilted her head. “No?”

I shot her a glare. “I sense someone who is concealing something. Someone more knowledgeable than she admits.” My arm flexed against the leather binding. “Someone who has endured more than she will reveal.”

Calder nodded, as if that was what she expected to hear. “And?”

“And what? You expect me to fix it?”

“I expect you to take notice,” she corrected, her voice sharp but kind. “You’re not as blind as you pretend to be, Sinclaire. You have selective vision. You see things and choose not to care.”

“You think this changes that?”

A small, perceptive smile tugged at her lips. “I think it already has.”

I turned away before she could say more, pushing the infirmary door open with more force than necessary. This wasn’t something I had time for. I had a report to make, a job to do. But as I stalked through the castle halls, the journal’s weight under my arm bore an unexpected significance.

Quickening my pace, I walked faster as if it would shake the damn thing from my mind. The words and symptoms clawed at my thoughts, refusing to let go.

First sixty seconds: Numbness spreads from the fingertips. A slow, creeping chill. Lips tingle. Breathing remains unaffected.

It was vivid in my mind. Her fingers trembling as she gripped her charcoal, the stick pressing too hard into the page, causing her letters to appear sharp and frantic.

Two minutes: The numbness deepens, spreading up the arms and to the chest. Muscles twitch involuntarily. Heat rises in the throat but lacks actual fever.

I exhaled slowly, ignoring the rising burn in my chest.

Five minutes: Fingers curl inward. Clenching is impossible. The chill becomes fire. A paradox. Pain radiates through the limbs.

Had she experienced this? Was it something inflicted upon her? Was it intentional? A test? Punishment?

Fourteen minutes: The chest tightens—not from asphyxiation, but from the pull of the ribs being peeled apart from the inside.

My teeth ached from the intensity of my clamped jaw. Only someone familiar with those descriptions and the brutally precise pain mapping could articulate that, unless they had endured it themselves, breath by breath.

Ten minutes: Vision blurs. Ears ring. The body is now frozen, yet the pain persists. The mind stays awake. The heart stutters, but it does not stop.

I struggled against the knot in my throat. I had witnessed death, had tortured and killed, enough to know the pain in her notes was neither swift nor merciful. It was a prolonged and agonizing torment.

Fifteen minutes: Consciousness flickers. Limbs heavy. Heartbeat irregular. Lungs no longer responsive. There is nothing left to do but wait.

Then there was the last note, so dark it looked angry, scrawled beneath the entry: Doesn’t kill at once. Leaves them aware. A cruel way to die, but not the most vicious.

The pounding in my ears was so loud that I couldn’t hear my footsteps when I turned a corner. I wasn’t fond of the sensations winding through my chest; I didn’t enjoy caring, yet something told me I had little choice.

The prince’s chambers were as lavish as ever, featuring polished marble floors, heavy velvet drapes that absorbed the moonlight, and a fireplace crackling in the corner, casting flickering shadows across the room’s gold accents. A large mahogany desk stood against the far wall, topped with neat piles of parchment, maps, and an open inkwell. Alric stood near the hearth, clad in loose-fitting nightclothes; the pale linen tunic hung open at the collar. His sharp green eyes caught the firelight, and his golden hair was tousled, likely from running his hands through it. He appeared more like a young noble lounging before bed than a ruler burdened by the responsibilities of a kingdom.

He turned as I entered, and a smirk danced on his lips. “You look like death, Oberon.”

The guards closed the doors behind me, and I scoffed. “You should have seen me yesterday.”

He chuckled, his arms stretched above his head. “I take it your mission was… eventful?”

I sank into a chair by the fire, winced as my shoulder collided with the back, and stretched my legs out in front of me. “Carrow talked.”

Alric’s smirk faded, and his expression sharpened with interest. “And?”

Sighing, I ran a hand over my jaw. “The Blacksmiths’ guild. They’re the ones planning the rebellion.” Alric remained silent. His gaze was distant, and his fingers tapped against the arm of his chair. So, I raised another concern. “The poison they used on me was different.”

He sighed and rubbed his temples. “I’m not surprised.”

I frowned. “Explain.”

Alric leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “The Blacksmiths’ Guild is located in the forest to the east of the border, at its southernmost edge.”

My eyes narrowed. “That’s the Fae border.”

Alric nodded. “That’s why they had access to such a poison. Not because of you,” he waved a hand, “but because they needed to adapt their survival tactics to their environment.”

My fingers drummed against my thigh. It made sense, but it didn’t sit right.

Alric looked unconcerned. He leaned back in his chair, a slow smile tugging at his lips. “Either way, they are no longer a threat if you cleared most of their camp, as I expect you did. A weak guild of blacksmiths is nothing to worry about.”

I nodded, though the unease remained in my gut.

Silence lingered between us for several breaths until Alric’s eyes glanced at the leather-bound book under my arm. He raised a brow. “Didn’t take you for much of a reader.”

Scoffing, I shook my head. The journal landed on the small table between us with a dull thump . “This one is different.”

Alric tilted his head. “Different, how?”

Considering my words, I traced my thumb over the ridges of my knuckles. I avoided explaining things that didn’t pertain to my missions or orders. But this had been bothering me more than I cared to admit. “It’s Quinn Larkspur’s. The new herbalist,” I huffed.

His brows lifted. “Oh?”

I scowled at the accusations in his tone, but he only grinned. “I wasn’t looking for it,” I explained, ignoring his amusement. “But Calder handed it to me and told me to read the beginning.”

My fingers intertwined in my lap. “It’s not just notes on herbs; there are remedies, salves, and tinctures. And the poisons… the antidotes…” I frowned. “They are too detailed. Too personal.”

Alric’s smile disappeared, and his expression became more serious. “Personal how?”

It didn’t seem appropriate to share her writings and past with someone she hadn’t met, but Alric was the prince, her ruler, and her employer.

I knew him well enough to understand that he wouldn’t use such knowledge with hostile intentions. The Count, who found me half-dead in a ditch and raised me to be a weapon, had sent me to kill the young crown prince. He said Alric wasn’t fit to rule. Too weak. Too na?ve.

Alric’s guards caught me when I got close enough to prove him wrong. He could have had me executed, and perhaps he should have. However, he showed mercy by taking me into his service. He gave me the title of Knight on paper while still using me as an assassin in practice.

If Calder was correct and Quinn was useful for much more than we had realized, he needed to know.

Exhaling, I opened the journal and flipped to the section that had twisted my stomach. I turned it so he could see and tapped my finger on the hastily scribbled notes in the margins. “She wasn’t writing about patients,” I explained. “She was writing about herself.”

Alric’s gaze skimmed over the entries. His expression darkened as he scrutinized the frantic handwriting, the vivid descriptions of pain, and the precise timing of each symptom that revealed she had experienced them herself.

He sat back, rubbing his jaw. “So, what do you plan to do?”

I blinked and met his gaze. “What?”

He gestured to the journal. “You wouldn’t be telling me this if you didn’t care, Oberon.”

“I don’t care,” I scoffed.

“Sure. And I’m a common foot soldier,” Alric laughed.

I pressed my teeth together. “She’s hiding something.”

“No doubt.”

“She’s not my problem.”

Alric sighed and stood from his seat. “No, but she’s about to be.”

My brows furrowed as he approached his desk. “I’m not sure I understand.”

“We received letters from Silverfel while you were handling Carrow’s bandits,” he explained, picking up a paper from the desk. “Reports of an unknown sickness affecting the town have been received. Their healer is struggling, and they need assistance. I’m sure you know our border knights are there.”

I rose from my seat as he handed me the letter written in hurried, uneven strokes, as if penned by someone exhausted or frantic. Near the edges, dried bloodstains and ink smudges disfigured the parchment.

To The Courts of Aurelith,

I write with urgency, as time is not on our side. A sickness has taken hold of Silverfel, spreading faster than our healer can combat it. Fever, convulsions, bleeding from the gums and nose. These are but the beginning. Those afflicted weaken within nights, slipping into a stupor before their bodies fail.

We have tried every known remedy, including poultices, tinctures, and even the oldest of Silverfel’s herbal traditions, yet nothing halts its progression. This is no ordinary illness. It is relentless, and we are losing.

I have pleaded for aid before, but the men who oversee our forces refuse to trust the knowledge of women or herbalists, calling for a ‘proper’ physician. None have come, and none will.

Suppose the Courts do not send help soon, Silverfel will fall to this sickness, and whatever afflicts us may not stop here.

I beg you to send someone more knowledgeable. Someone who can help.

- T. Whitlow, Silverfel Healer

I traced a finger over the signature. “Why are you showing me this?”

Alric’s expression remained neutral when I glanced up from the letter. “I believe you understand why,” he sighed. “I spoke with Calder. She mentioned that Larkspur would be the best fit to handle it.” He gestured toward the journal. “And now I understand why.”

My fingers flexed against the parchment, and my expression darkened. “You’re planning to send her there.”

He nodded. “With you.”

“You expect me to be a child minder?” I scoffed.

Alric smirked. “No, I expect you to keep her safe and ensure she doesn’t get herself killed, Oberon.”

“Of course you do. And you think she will go along with that?”

Alric smirked. “She won’t be able to resist. You’ve seen her work. She won’t turn her back on those in need. Not after surviving so much to reach this point.”

I pursed my lips. It annoyed me he was right. The illness wasn’t simple; it was new and unnatural.

The decision to send Quinn Larkspur was sensible. She differed from the other herbalists dispatched to treat soldiers with scraped knees and upset stomachs. She understood things that others did not. She had experienced them. She knew exactly what they needed.

My tongue traced the inside of my lip before I looked back at Alric. “You’re sure about this?”

“You don’t think she is capable?”

“No. That isn’t the problem. I think Calder is right.”

Alric’s lips twitched. “Then, what is it that bothers you?”

I didn’t have a straightforward answer, just a feeling—a sense of wrongness that lingered in a corner of my mind. Something about her, about Silverfel, about it all.

“I’ll go,” I muttered, returning the letter to him. “When do we leave?”

Ease washed over Alric’s features. “Tomorrow. At first light. Calder is preparing what Larkspur will need, but it requires the sun’s time.” I picked up the journal from the table and moved toward the door. “Oberon.”

He folded his arms across his chest when I glanced over my shoulder. “Don’t remain oblivious to it. If magic is involved… You need to be prepared.”

I held his gaze for a moment. “Get some sleep, Alric.”