Page 8

8

Eden

WHEN I PUSHED the infirmary doors open, I expected to find him where I had left him the previous night. Instead, I stood in the doorway, dumbfounded as I stared at the empty cot. Why did I care?

Perhaps it was curiosity. He was frustrating, impossible, and far too obstinate. I couldn’t shake the image of him from last night—pale, drenched in sweat, struggling to remain conscious. No ordinary man could have walked away from that in just a few hours. No typical man could have survived.

My feet carried me toward Calder’s office. I hesitated before knocking, then pushed the door open. She glanced up from her work. “Looking for something?” She continued searching through the papers scattered across her desk, frowning at one before setting it aside. Next, she moved on to the bulky book that lay open in front of her.

“Not something. Someone.” I crossed my arms. “The knight, Sir Sinclaire. He’s gone.”

Calder hummed as if it were the most unremarkable thing in the world. “Of course he is.”

My lips parted as I stared at her, my arms lowering in defeat. “He was poisoned.”

She met my gaze with an arched brow. “And?”

I opened my mouth to speak, but the words caught in my throat. He shouldn’t have been able to move. He shouldn’t have left. I wanted to understand how he managed it.

Calder rubbed her hands on her apron. “He always acts like that. He stumbles in, half alive, and is gone before regaining his health.” She shrugged. “I would bet quince that he’s already back to work.” She cocked her head as she watched me. “If you’re so curious, then watch him when you see him. He reopens his wounds with that stubbornness of his.”

I forced a smile. “I’m not curious. I’m just concerned for his safety, as an herbalist.”

She smirked.

I turned to leave and rolled my eyes when she could no longer see my face. It wasn’t my problem. I wasn’t his keeper. If he wanted to throw himself into a fight and reopen his wounds, that was his business. Still, the thought persisted. If he collapsed during training or bled out somewhere because he was too damn proud to rest… I had to tend to him. That was it. That was the only reason I cared.

“Wait, Quinn.” The sound of a heavy book closing and papers rustling in the wind filled the hush between us.

I turned back to face her.

“Go to the greenhouse; an herb appears to be out of place. Its roots may be strangling the others.” She rubbed the bridge of her nose. “You are much better suited for this task than the other two.”

Caring for the plants had been more appealing than dealing with stubborn, deathly ill knights who vanished into the night. I nodded and left her office. With a frustrated sigh, I took my tools and gloves from the infirmary desk and walked out.

The morning air brought a slight chill against my skin, a coolness that did little to ease my deep fatigue. My limbs still felt heavy from lack of sleep, compounded by the weight of unanswered questions on my conscience. The cot had been empty. He had left. But how?

Soft shades of lavender and gold still painted the sky as the last traces of dawn clung to the horizon. I focus on the gravelly texture beneath my boots, allowing it to soothe me after the long night I spent battling the memories that clawed at me.

The instructions from Calder were straightforward—a simple task designed to give me a break from the stuffy infirmary air. I spent several days and nights cooped up there before the knight arrived. Perhaps I could have convinced him to stay and heal if I had been there when he woke.

The distinct clang of steel-on-steel cut through the quiet morning. My steps slowed when I approached the courtyard, captivated by the sparring match unfolding before me. Two figures moved with practiced motions, but my focus narrowed to just one of them.

Oberon Sinclaire moved with a grace that seemed impossible. It stunned me. His movements were precise and controlled. It wasn’t just skill; it was instinct. It was as if battle was not something he did, but something he was. Even when injured, he didn’t hesitate or falter. There was a recklessness in his movements, a quiet defiance that made it clear this was the only place he felt alive.

He was up and already moving. Already fighting. Less than a day ago, he had been half-dead in the infirmary. His fever was too high for him to stay conscious for more than a few breaths. But there he stood, swinging a sword as if he hadn’t been lying on a cot, bleeding out just hours ago.

But that wasn’t the source of the feeling that stirred in my chest. It was the distinct contours of his face, the way his dark hair fell across his forehead, damp with sweat. With his sleeves rolled up, the taut muscles in his forearms flexed as he gripped the hilt of his sword. The slight parting of his lips as he exhaled, his chest rising and falling with steady, measured breaths.

It was the way he carried himself, as if he held the weight of the world on his shoulders and refused to let it break him. He had witnessed things no one else could comprehend. He fought even when there was no battle to be won. Gods help me, that was far more dangerous. Far more thrilling.

I’ve known it since I first saw him, scowling in the infirmary with those onyx eyes. But seeing him in this state—alive, focused, and challenging his opponent with quiet intensity—evoked feelings it shouldn’t have. He was rude, grumpy, and impossible to converse with without the urge to strangle him.

I should have walked away, gone straight to the greenhouse, as Calder requested, but my feet refused to budge.

His forearm muscles tensed as he gripped his sword, and his tunic clung to his body with every precise movement. It was absurd to stare. Yet, knowing that didn’t stop me, nor did the heat creeping up my neck.

The other man was dark-haired and broad-shouldered and wore a shit-eating grin. He swung his blade in a quick arc. Sinclaire parried one-handed, his grip steady but lacking the force I imagined he should have had with both arms.

“You’re slower today,” the man taunted as he stepped back. “Thought Fae blood made you stronger, Sinclaire.”

Fae blood?

Oberon huffed. “Stronger doesn’t mean invincible.”

The man smirked. “Right, right. We wouldn’t want to strain your delicate Fae heritage too much.”

Fae .

Oberon Sinclaire had Fae blood, and my mind struggled to comprehend it. Following the uprising, Prince Alric had exiled the Fae to Valeithwyn; they were powerful and dangerous beings, often regarded as cursed. Yet he was one of them, working under the man who had banished them. It shouldn’t have surprised me. Even now, he moved with effortless grace, as if he were carved from legend.

Oberon lunged forward, driving the man back with a sharp clash of metal. “Say that again, asshole.”

The teasing earned another chuckle. “Oh, you’re still grumpy, don’t worry. That part of you is all human.”

Sinclaire huffed and shook his head. His lips twitched, and amusement flickered across his features before his expression hardened once more. When he adjusted his stance, my eyes darted to the sharp cut of his waist beneath his tunic, noting how his belt sat low and the muscles of his abdomen were visible through the fabric.

What was wrong with me? I didn’t know him, but he was a frustrating and irritable jerk and… not entirely a man. But gods help me, he was handsome.

I didn’t like the way I was drawn to him.

“Do you plan to talk all morning, Garrick? Or are you going to fight?”

Garrick .

They exchanged another sharp remark when I averted my gaze. I had actual work to do—plants to tend and things that mattered. Not this. Not him. The problem with looking away was that it only made me more aware of how badly I had been staring to begin with.

The greenhouse was enchanting, untouched by the weight of the castle’s stone walls and the people within them. Sunlight streamed through the high glass ceiling, casting golden patches over the rows of plants stretching along the wooden tables and raised garden beds. The air was warm and humid, thick with the crisp bite of mint, the soft floral sweetness of lavender, and the sharp, medicinal tang of rosemary.

I inhaled, letting the familiar scents settle my nerves.

Focus , Eden . You’re here for a reason .

Calder mentioned a misplaced herb causing trouble. This indicated that it was worth addressing if she had sent me instead of one of the other herbalists. Alternatively, she might have wanted me out of the way. Either scenario was plausible.

My gaze swept over the vibrant greenery, my fingers brushing against the leaves as I walked. The plants here were robust, untouched by the blight that crept through the castle halls. But something else stirred among them.

A vine slithered through the soil, its dark green leaves curling over the edge of a planter. Frostmoths clung to the stems of nearby herbs, their wings edged with ice crystals and their fragile bodies still as stone. An ice beetle skittered away, its iridescent shell reflecting the light in a pale, wintry sheen. The surrounding herbs sagged, their colors faded, and their energy drained.

My stomach clenched.

Bellthorn .

The cursed plant drained life from everything it touched, thriving where it shouldn’t. A frost spider with brittle legs hovered nearby, its web spun into a delicate lace of frost, strands trembling as if sensing the creeping corruption. Even the windwhispers, those tiny creatures that flitted like breath against winter glass, avoided the planter.

This wasn’t just an overgrown weed. It was a warning. But for what?

Kneeling beside the flowerbed, I traced the vine’s path with narrowed eyes. Bellthorn was stubborn and parasitic. It wrapped around other roots, stealing nutrients and choking out weaker plants. While it had its uses in specific remedies, it could be dangerous if left unchecked.

My fingers ran through the soil, feeling the depth of the roots and how they spread beneath the surface. If I weren’t careful, removing it could cause it to regrow. That was the nature of bellthorn. It clung. It endured, even when you thought you had eradicated it.

The thought left a bitter taste in my mouth.

This wasn’t an accident. It didn’t just happen. Someone placed it here, knowing exactly what it could do. The greenhouse was a space for growth and cultivation, but the individual who did this opted for destruction instead. Why? If someone poisoned the plants on which we relied, how long would it be before they turned their attention to something or someone else?

A slow, controlled breath left me as I pushed the thought aside, needing to eliminate it before it caused further damage.

I loosened the soil with my fingers, feeling how the roots wove deep and tangled around those of the struggling herbs. Bellthorn didn’t just grow; it invaded. If I pulled too hard, I risked snapping the root system, leaving parts behind to fester and grow stronger. I carved around the largest vine with my dagger, digging into the soil beneath it.

Freeing the plant was challenging; its roots resisted my efforts. But with one final tug, the vine came loose. I tossed it onto the stone path beside me and wiped the sweat from my forehead with my wrist. The herbs left behind still appeared weak, but they should recover now that the threat is gone. Reaching into my satchel, I retrieved a small bundle of sagebrush and mint, crumbling the leaves between my fingers before scattering them over the soil. Their properties helped cleanse any lingering damage the bellthorn inflicted.

Sitting back on my heels, I gazed at the space where the vine had been. Bellthorn was a survivor. It dug deep, spread wide, and made itself unnoticeable until it was too late. It was familiar . I swallowed hard and shook the thought away as a breeze blew in from the greenhouse doors, carrying the distant clash of swords from the courtyard.

After disposing of the bellthorn, I dusted the dirt from my hands and returned to the infirmary, stealing one last glance at Sinclaire and Garrick, who were still sparring as I passed. Calder would still be there, hunched over her worktable as she muttered regarding the incompetence of men who thought they could treat sword wounds with whiskey and good intentions.

Sure enough, she stood at the desk, sorting through a bundle of dried herbs. Her eyes flicked up when I entered. “You’re back sooner than I expected,” she said, tying a string around a bundle before setting it aside. “Found the problem?”

“Bellthorn,” I reply, cutting straight to the point.

Her hands froze for a moment before she turned to face me. “Are you sure?”

I nodded and crossed my arms. “It wasn’t growing wild. Someone must have planted it there. The roots were deep, and the placement was intentional. It choked the weaker plants.”

Calder sighed “Damn fools,” she muttered under her breath, rubbing at her temple. That reaction told me more than I had expected.

My eyes narrowed. “This isn’t the first time, is it?”

She gave me an intense look and sighed. “No, it’s not. This has happened before, but not for some time. Last time, it was nightshade mixed in with the mint beds. Before that, a fungal rot had spread through the thyme. I had my suspicions then, but I couldn’t prove anything.”

A slow unease pooled in my stomach. “Who would do this?”

“That’s the question, isn’t it? Not everyone values healing. Some would rather let things rot.”

Frowning, I rolled the thought over in my mind. Someone wanted to weaken the Courts’ supplies. “Whoever it is, they know plants,” I drawled. “They knew where to place the bellthorn to do the most damage.”

Calder hummed in agreement, then shook her head. “Keep an eye out. We will handle this quietly for now.”

I nodded, but remaining silent caused part of me to bristle. It hadn’t been mere sabotage, and it wouldn’t end there. Not if it had been occurring for so long.

My hand rested on the door handle when Calder spoke again. “Quinn.” I turned back and noticed the thoughtful crease in Calder’s brow. She crossed her arms and tapped her fingers against her sleeve. “We’ve received letters from Silverfel,” she announced. “Requests for aid.”

My pulse stuttered. Silverfel was one of the kingdom’s oldest settlements, tucked away in the dense forest to the south of the capital’s border. “What aid?” I asked.

Calder huffed and pushed off from the edge of her desk. “They’re vague. The healer is requesting more supplies. There’s also mention of something… strange. An illness that isn’t responding to any of their treatments. They have requested a male physician.”

“Not a healer?”

She gave me a knowing look. “Not a woman or a healer.”

Of course.

Older settlements still clung to outdated beliefs, favoring male physicians over women or trained herbalists, regardless of their skills.

“They don’t have time to be picky,” Calder continued. “Whatever is happening in Silverfel is spreading.”

I shifted my weight. “Are you sending someone?”

“Yes. I am.”

Her hesitation and her expression implied that she was urging me to go. Although I had never ridden a horse before, it couldn’t be all that bad.

But why me?

Others under Calder’s guidance had seniority. Was it because of the bellthorn? Because of what I had uncovered? That made little sense. It bore no relation to the greenhouse.

I shifted on my feet. “Why me?”

“Because you are the best suited for this.” She must have seen the doubt written on my face because she sighed and rubbed her temple. “They are asking for a male physician, but we both know that’s not what they need. You have the knowledge and the skills. Hells, you are more meticulous in your notes than half of the royal scholars. If anyone can sort this out, it is you.”

Swallowing, I looked down at my hands. “What if it’s beyond me? What if I fail?”

“I wouldn’t send you if I didn’t find you capable. Besides, you won’t be alone. A knight will accompany you,” she replied, returning to her seat.

“A knight?” I echoed. A flicker of unease crept into my voice. “Which knight?”