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I rock back on my heels, clutching the soldad so tightly the hard edges even cut through my glove. But it is from you.

It’s supposed to be from you.

It’s...

The attic of masks swirls, closing in to crush me. I fix my stare on Nicostratus’s obliviously smiling eyes. He has no idea.

“I wish it had come from you too,” I say, thickly.

I slam my eyes shut. All the clues have been there.

I’m closer with his majesty , Evander said.

“Amuletos?”

I open my eyes.

Nicostratus settles the mask into my free hand. “You should take this one.”

“It’s... stuffy in here, I need to...” I head for the exit; Nicostratus kills the lights with a wave and descends with me.

“You look pale,” he says when we’re outside and I’m gulping air. “I’ll take you back.”

I wave a hand. “Give me a moment.”

“With company or...”

“Alone? Please?”

“Did I—I’m sorry.”

I reach up and touch his cheek. “It’s this day that’s got to me.”

He lets me go, a dark heroic figure watching after me, wind tossing his cloak eastward.

I walk the gardens, past the fountain to the rose pavilion with its stone chess set. I slump onto the cold bench and pick up the white king. My chest clenches, a mix of anger and something I can’t name burning my throat. How can I not have seen it?

Something flashes out the corner of my eye.

I set the king down on the board. Who would be working in the gardens this late? Leaves rustle and I follow the sounds all the way to the pear orchard, where the graceful figure of an akla emerges from a line of trees, carrying a basket of white petals. The slant of her shoulders, the line of her throat...

I clutch the trunk of a pear tree. Megaera.

On King’s Island .

I recall her consumed by grief in front of the guillotine, swathed in smoky magic, devastated and angry. I recall the swish of her cloak as she left with calculated intent. Has she donned akla robes and entered the royal city to bring justice—or vengeance?

Does she know I’m still alive?

Sorrow and anxiety shiver under my skin; I slink quietly down the row of trees, following her. She cuts across the lawn towards the softly lit bathhouse, a sinister bounce in her step. The basin of rose petals—if she replaces those petals with the ones in her basket, will Quin come back late tonight or early tomorrow and bathe to his demise?

My shivers turn me to ice.

I have to stop this.

I wait in the shadows until Megaera leaves the bathhouse and when I’m sure she won’t return, I slide the door open—

A dozen redcloaks step before the door in formation, the one in front shouting for identification.

Another voice cuts over their heads. “Stand down. You may all leave.”

The redcloaks part into two lines and file out either side of me. I blink, taking in the bathwater speckled with petals and Quin, fixing his clothes into place at the other end, hair wetly framing his face. His eyes fix on me as I inch down the side of the bath to the bowl of flower petals and sniff. Spring roses. I kneel and use a protective magic filter to pull a handful of petals from the water. I inhale again.

Quin moves to my side, and my chest might as well be a firecracker the way it’s firing. I turn to look at him. “The akla who last left here may have ulterior motives.”

“I’m aware. My uncle transferred her here earlier this week.”

“You let her tend to you in the bath?”

“Keep your friends close...”

And your enemies closer.

“I’ve looked into her background,” Quin says. “Tell me, why was I not surprised when your name came up?”

I sigh. Official Temenos’s death was my mistake, a mistake that likely led Megaera to the royal city. “Maybe it’s you who was very bad in a past life, and I’m your fated comeuppance.” I eye him for any signs. His skin doesn’t seem discoloured. His eyes are clear, not bloodshot.

He lifts a brow and extends his forearm.

I grab his wrist and slide two fingers up it until I feel the familiar healthy thump of his pulse. I press harder, reading deeper to be sure. “Nothing tingled in the bath, did it?”

“Excuse me?”

“Did anything tingle, get hot, start itching?” I clutch his wrist, frowning. His pulse has quickened. “I need to do further tests on the water.” He hooks my fingers as they slide off his skin.

I turn back to face him.

“There’s nothing wrong with the water.”

I sit back, about to re-check his pulse, but he draws his arm away. “Outside.”

We leave the bathhouse and breathe in deep lungfuls of fresh air. Nervously, I follow him past a view of night-lit palaces and moon-glittery canals, to an exposed area of grass with targets lined up at the far end. Quin snaps his cane on his way to a shelf and takes a bow and quiver to a seat overlooking the training arena. He says nothing while he prepares himself, and I watch quizzically.

He has a bowman’s physique. His shoulders, back, arms, forearms, core...

Did he ever join tournaments? Had he ever competed alongside Calix Solin? Could I have seen him back then, at that very tournament, if I’d paid attention to anyone else?

He pulls the string. I reach out instinctively to his straining arm and he lets the arrow fly.

It whizzes straight past the first target.

His eyes flash and I drop my hand with a flustered whisper, “You just bathed. You’ll get sweaty again.”

He blinks at me. “And yet I still have the urge to vent.”

I smile sheepishly and Quin takes another arrow. “I asked you to leave yesterday. You’re back already.”

“I came with Nicostratus.”

Quin looks pointedly at the empty space around us.

“I—I needed to take a walk.”

“Alone?”

Slowly, I drop to my knees before him, gripping blades of grass. “You gave me my soldad.”

Quin stares hard at the targets. The slightest smile stirs at his lips and a pulse-quickening thought tugs at me.

“Why such a valuable gift?” I croak. “You don’t...”

“Don’t what?” His arrow leaves its nock, veering far right of the second target. “And you think I’m arrogant.”

I open my mouth and shut it again. What was I thinking?

“I do have feelings for you.” At my widening eyes, Quin laughs hollowly, plucking his third arrow. “Unpleasant ones.”

Relief. He doesn’t—wait, unpleasant ones? My glare hits his and neither of us is willing to lose this battle. That a person could be this infuriating. If he weren’t the king, or Nicostratus’s brother, or the person who gifted me this soldad—

I scowl. “You can’t find me that unpleasant.”

“I beg to differ. Why else am I transferring you?”

“What’s so unpleasant exactly?”

“Everything.”

“I wish you weren’t a king right now.”

“Why? Want to slap me again?”

I raise a tempted hand and curl a finger, ready to flick. “Can I? Can I please? On the forehead. The side of your ear?”

Quin bats me with the feathered end of his arrow; I dodge it and give his lower thigh a few good flicks.

He prods me away, rolling his eyes.

I stay there before him, and raise my head to meet his dark gaze. He watches me carefully.

“It’s an extraordinary gift,” I murmur.

“Don’t read too much into it.” He nocks the arrow and aims. “I overheard you and Akilah that night on the longboat. She said all your books had been burned. You did a good deed, saving a man; I wanted to give you access to books that couldn’t be taken away.” He jerks his head in dismissal. “Off you go.”

I reach under my cloak, to where I hooked the pearl mask, and sit it on his knees. He glances at it and lowers his bow.

“Why do you have one of my mother’s masks?”

“This one is my favourite; it matches the soldad. Wear it on Sunday.”

“There you go again, telling me what to do.” He pauses. “What do you mean, wear it on Sunday?”

“Nicostratus will explain as soon as you’re back.”

“Why don’t you tell me now?”

“You and he have the unconditional love between siblings, so I’ll leave it to him.”

Quin frowns curiously at me over the mask.

I flash him a grin. “I’ll go now.”

“A moment.”

I wait as his gaze rises and falls down my front.

“Is that a lemon tucked into your sash?”

I leap to my feet and scurry backwards. “It’s absolutely not from the conservatory.”

Quin shakes his head, laughing, and raises his bow. He aims at me while I skedaddle.

“Haven’t you learned your lesson?”

* * *

At six o’clock the following morning I meet Chiron in the apothecary, as promised, to announce my decision. He’s sipping tea over screeds of parchment on his desk. He doesn’t look up until I’ve been standing there for several moments.

He squints at me and strokes the stray scruff he’s been cultivating on his chin. “Will you drop out?”

“I won’t. I want to try.”

“High expectations only lead to disappointment.”

“Not trying is the bitterest of all failures.”

“I was told you’d be stubborn.” He shakes his head. “If you have indeed decided to stay...” He points upwards, to the gallery and that shadow-shrouded archway. The Crucible, Mikros had once told him. A place of punishment. He holds up the parchment he was reading. “The request came late last night.”

I squeeze the lemon I slung into a pouch at my belt. You’d better taste divine.

“Is there any room for negotiation?” I glance towards the archway and back to Chiron. “I heard the last scholar needed a hundred days.”

“With a foundation far superior to yours.”

A scuffle comes from the doorway and Makarios and Mikros fall into the classroom. Florentius follows behind them in an elegant sweep of sparkly white robes.

Chiron lifts a brow.

“We wanted to hear his decision,” Makarios says, picking himself off the floor and helping Mikros up. They face Chiron and incline their heads respectfully. “Please don’t send him to the Crucible. He’ll be stuck there forever.” Makarios looks over Mikros’s head at me with a smirk. “No offense.”

I roll my eyes. He’s right though. I’ve been struggling to keep up so far—how can I beat something that’s intentionally more difficult?

Chiron glances at Florentius, who’s hovering behind me. “Are you here to plead for him too?”

Florentius glances at me and lifts his chin. “I’d hoped he’d be leaving.” Tough nut to crack, this one. “Perhaps the prospect of the Crucible will change his mind?”

“Hardly. I’m not leaving until you’ve admitted you like me.”

He huffs, cheeks flaring with colour. “Rather wither away in the Crucible? You’re smarter than that.”

“See, you can be nice. You think I’m smart.”

Chiron halts our ‘nonsense’ and escorts me swiftly up the stairs and along the balcony.

Beyond the dark archway is a cluttered, dust-covered room with a stove and bench, a mat for sleeping, shelves crammed with jars, and a long, sturdy table big enough to hold a body.

Chiron ushers me inside. “Chamber pots behind that screen.”

I take a reluctant step into the room and the temperature immediately drops. I shiver and breathe in stale air with the mouldy taste of decaying herbs.

And I thought my windowless cell was bad.

“An intriguing case came to my attention last month,” Chiron says. “Took me three days to figure it out—” He glances past me and I turn to look—a body on a stretcher of ice, carried by a team of aklos. “Place the body on the table there. You may return in an hour.” They’re quick to leave, their footsteps fading as my gaze fixes on the preserved body—male, covered to his armpits in a white sheet. Folded clothing is stacked beside him.

“Investigate the corpse quickly—I suggest you write extensive notes; once the body is removed, I’ll seal you in here.”

I swallow. “The correct curative will open the barrier?”

Chiron nods. “How long it takes is up to you.”

“Can anyone else come in?”

“No living thing can enter, unless you or I unlock it.”

“No living thing... so, dead things?”

“Inanimate things can pass the barrier. How else do you think you’ll be fed? The chamber pots removed?”

“Wonderful.” I push back my sleeves and pointedly focus my attention on the body.

“With your limited education, you may be in here many months.”

“Mm.”

“You’ll fall behind. The winter examination will be virtually impossible for you.”

I steady my panicky breath and smile.

Chiron grunts. “As you wish.” He fishes out a roll of parchment from his cloak and passes it to me. “This is the wife’s statement of her husband’s doings before his death.”

I peel back the sheet covering the body. The man is in his late thirties. His arms and chest are blue, the skin shimmering and cracked. I shield my fingers and feel the smooth surface, the evenness of the cracks. They form a pattern. Scales .

I’ve never seen anything like this before in my life. A man, turning into a... fish?

I seep magic into him, reading the state of his insides. His blood has coagulated deep purple, heavier than it should be. Something inside it stopped oxygen flowing through his body. I jot down my findings.

Suffocation.

But what caused it?

How could his death have been prevented?

Before I’m ready, Chiron is back and ordering aklos to return the body to the ice cellars. The hour has passed. “Wait. There are more tests—”

“You’ve had time.”

“Can I have his clothes at least?”

Begrudgingly, Chiron leaves me with the victim’s clothing and backstory, and seals the archway.

I call up a spell, just for the common cold, to test on the barrier. The archway lights up crimson as it absorbs the spell and I try ramming through it, shoulder first.

I massage my aching arm, shaking my head. It’s like an invisible wall. Quin!

So creative. I swat the barrier. Wait till I get out.

But by that time who knows what would’ve happened in the royal city? Tomorrow, the high duke might prevail over the king.

My stomach drops; in a panic, I throw a complex-medius spell at the barrier and try pounding my way through it again. Eventually I’m forced to retreat, defeated, to the desk. My body aches, mind spinning.

Nicostratus will be there. He can fight. He will protect his brother.

The masks should help hide the identities of their military supporters. Save them when Quin’s uncle fails.

If his uncle fails.

I rub at the tightness in my chest and breathe in deeply. If, if Quin and Nicostratus get hurt, Chiron and the other gold-sash mages will help them. They’re the best in the kingdom, and they’ll be at the gala.

I close my eyes on the now-empty table in front of me. Focus on figuring this out. The lemon was only an excuse. Quin sent me here to challenge me.

A scuffing outside the archway has me jerking my head up. I eye the red-haired boy standing outside and the meats and pickled vegetables on the plate he carries. “You’re bringing me breakfast?”

“Isn’t it lovely?” He sets the plate on the floor and pushes it through the barrier. “Shall I pass on your thanks?”

I blink at the plate and a smile tugs at my lips. Only one person would use someone else to sneak me some food. With an amused tut-tut-tutting I pick up the plate and pop a slice of meat into my mouth.

After hours spent crafting spells for every imaginable skin ailment, I slump on a stool, scowling at the scribbled chaos of my notes and ideas. A sharp, enthusiastic throat-clearing pulls me from my thoughts. I glance up to see Makarios and Mikros standing at the archway.

I eye the two. Smart and Smarter might also have been good names for them. In fact, if I can use their knowledge to my advantage, I might solve this in half the time.

Maybe in time to be at the gala.

I give them a rundown of the case. “Here’s what’s curious. The wife states they were both healthy when they left home. When their carriage broke down, they were forced to continue their journey on foot and spent four nights in the woods. They camped under the same trees, washed in the same rivers, ate the same meals: roasted fish, wild mushroom soup.”

“You suspect something poisoned him?”

I hum. “Except the wife is fine.” I scan over her statement. “She said she even ate more of the fish. Her husband took the first bite, and she punished him for it by eating the rest in front of him.”

“You checked the stomach? She could be lying.”

“I thought that, but there was nothing worrisome about the bile. The problem seems to stem from the blood.”

Makarios and Mikros perk up. “Lacerations of the skin?”

“None I could discern under the scales. Or anywhere else on the body.”

“Could it be she was also exposed but is naturally warded?”

“Their blood is compatible. Her body should behave similarly.”

“You’ve asked the right mages.” Mikros gestures to Makarios. “He’s proficient at breaking blood down into its smallest units—his inner scales are the most fine-tuned you’ll ever see, I swear.”

“And Mikros,” Makarios says, “can take those minuscule units of blood and decode all their mysteries. From sickness a patient has had in the past, to what they ate last week.”

Mikros nods. “It all leaves a trace.”

I blink at the two mages and rush out in an amazed whisper, “So you could determine an illness before a patient showed physical signs?”

Grandfather would be astonished. He’d want to know everything. “I want to know everything.”

“It’s perilously close to some forbidden methods,” Makarios warns.

“Not right now, because this case is rather pressing, but we’ve got to talk more about this.” Over Mikros’s shoulder I spy a set of white robes ascending the stairs and sweeping down the balcony. I grin. “Makarios, bring everything on blood poisons from the library? Mikros, gather all the herbs related to cleansing the blood.”

They nod and scurry past a suspicious-eyed Florentius.

Florentius turns that tight look on me. “Asking for help is cheating.”

“You all have ideas that can contribute.”

“The solution should come from your own labour.”

I cock my head and study the earnestness of his expression. “Don’t forget the tale of the old man and his mansion.”

At his blank stare, I elaborate. “When his first son is born, the father decides to build a family mansion for his wife and child. It is to be special, perfect, lovingly hand-crafted. But this required him to give up his job. That was fine, he decided. He’d have enough for the perfect house if, meanwhile, his family could live cheaply. So they moved into a damp shack. Locals came to offer their building skills in return for a small fee, but the father refused. So first, he had to learn how to cut timber from trees, then how to forge nails, then how to use a hammer, then how to build a foundation—you see. He refused all help, determined the mansion be crafted by his own hand.”

“I suppose his family dies before he finishes?”

“From living in the damp shack too long. Then he dies from grief. The mansion never gets done.”

“What are you saying?”

“You call it cheating. I call it saving lives.”

He purses his lips. “Why do I feel your words are full of traps?”

“Do you suddenly feel like helping me?”

He lifts his chin haughtily.

“Asking for your help isn’t trickery, Florentius. It’s the professional thing to do. Let’s not have our kingdom dying of damp while we build our own mansions.”

Makarios and Mikros return with books and a tray of herbs, then drag up stools to sit outside the barrier. Florentius stands awkwardly at their side, listening as we brainstorm. I flip through books, noting Florentius’s frown deepening each time I take a book unlikely to help. Taking his expressions as cues, I rifle through the books until I land on one that has him nodding to himself.

I crack it open to the middle and pause. Then I snap it shut with a sigh. “That one’s no help.”

Florentius makes a strangled sound. “Fool. There’s a template in there for stubborn blood ailments.”

“Different from the others we’ve been discussing?”

“Far superior. It was used during the last plague.”

I hide a smile and flip to the spell. It’s a challenging one, with a warning to stack the herbal compounds carefully. Challenging enough with the sixty ingredients it requires, but one factor is still missing. “The core compound requires the spiritual source of the infection, so it can be reversed.” I grimace. “The source is still not clear.”

Mikros rubs his cold hands together, and Makarios encases them in his larger ones to help. They’re cold and tired and likely hungry.

“I’ll keep working on it,” I tell them. “Get some rest.”

Makarios and Mikros exchange a grin. “After we eat, we’ll guide you through creating the spell. You’ll be out of here within a week!” They slap hands in triumph.

“A week? I want out by tomorrow.”

“You’re dreaming,” Florentius says with a scoff. “Even my father needed three days.”

“We need to be at the gala tomorrow, especially if there’s a wyvern attack.”

Makarios and Mikros trade uneasy glances. Their discomfort mirrors my own. I’ve read enough vitalian accounts of the victims of these creatures to understand their fear. For some reason, the ones here in the royal city are deadlier than those in the wild. They don’t just attack when provoked—they strike whenever an opportunity arises. Their poison is also stronger, could taint the canals, could turn this royal city red.

If the high duke planned to unleash them in a crowd...

My stomach churns. “It’s better to be prepared,” I say firmly.

Florentius narrows his eyes at me. “I’d rather not see the apothecary blown up by sloppy spellwork. I’ll be back tomorrow morning.”

As he strides away, I murmur, “Thanks for breakfast.”

* * *

Pots and kettles hiss and whistle on the stove behind me, filling the air with steam and bitter scents. The table in front of me—large enough to lay a body on—is cluttered with teacups, half drained, the rest waiting their turn. I’m bent over the victim’s clothes when Makarios and Mikros arrive.

“You look like you’ve found something,” Makarios says, his sharp gaze narrowing on my hands.

Mikros points to a tray beside me. “Are those glowing shards... scales?”

“Yes. And this—” I hold up a cuff stained with dried blood. “No visible cuts on the skin, though.” I frown, turning the cuff over. “It doesn’t add up.”

Setting the clothing aside, I move to the herbs steeping on the stove. “We’ll come back to it. For now, the spell. I’ve prepared forty-five herbs—only fifteen more to brew.”

My tongue is numb from the bitter teas, but energy pulses thickly through my veins. I channel it to craft the outer layers of the spell, including a protective barrier for myself. Once it’s ready, I absorb it into my palms and take another sip of tea to steady myself. The final stage looms: combining the herbs into their purest compounds.

This part is tricky. Mikros wipes sweat from his brow as he mutters, “Please don’t blow up, don’t blow up.”

“Become the scales,” Makarios intones. “Feel their weight.”

I close my eyes, trying. “After a month of this, you’d think I’d have found my inner scales by now.”

“How have you crafted spells before this?” Mikros asks, sceptical.

“Intuition. What feels right.” I shrug, frustration tightening my chest. My grandfather taught me complex-medius cures, but I’ve never tackled anything this intricate. If he’d lived longer, maybe he’d have shown me how to master these combinations. Or maybe... maybe it’s because we’re only par-linea.

The thought gnaws at me. Are scales something only pure linea can have?

I grit my teeth. No. There’s always another way. Weigh outside the box. Quin’s voice echoes in my head, his words pulling me from the spiral. If you’re not good enough, get better.

I stare at my gloved hands, each holding a swirling orb of condensed energy. Outside the box...

I twist my wrists, calling up water bubbles beneath each orb. One sinks rapidly, the other bobs to the surface.

“Buoyancy,” I murmur, stacking the orbs accordingly. When I look up, Makarios and Mikros are staring, slack-jawed.

“If you can’t feel it, measure it,” I explain, pouring the last teas into cups. Smugness creeps into my tone—until I take a sip of caelumthorn and hiss as the heat sears my lips.

Makarios and Mikros burst into laughter. Fair.

The sting of the burn draws my gaze to my sleeve, and a thought strikes faster than a spell. I snatch up the victim’s clothes, inspecting the bloodstain. “He took one bite of fish before his wife stole the rest, right? What if he burned his mouth in his haste and dabbed it—like I just did?”

I whirl to face the others. “Can you verify something for me?”

They exchange wary looks. “Why do I get the feeling you want us to check the body?”

“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 are no mages 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.”

I stare vacantly through the shimmering spell as he goes. The high duke will try to depose the king today; if he can’t kill him outright, he’ll make the kingdom’s subjects question why Quin struggled to control the wyverns. He’ll make them cry out: imposter!

Aklos and aklas, redcloaks, Nicostratus, Quin. Anyone— all could be hurt.

With no mage nearby.

I kick at the barrier like my panic and frustration could be enough to tear through it.

I need to be there.

I grab the victim’s garments and soak the bloody cuff in a basin of water. Hope my theory about the source of the infection is correct—

In the distance, tasting tinny with terror, a chorus of bloodcurdling screams. My heart seizes as fear slices through me.