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I ’m lying on something soft.

My eyelids are heavy.

A wooden ceiling above; I turn my head. Dozens of emptied teacups and upturned books.

The Crucible.

I blink, and freeze. Across the room on a stool, a white robe chased with gold, dark head bowed over... my case notes.

Quin.

He stirs and I slam my eyes shut.

“You’re finally awake,” he drawls.

I say nothing. I’ve died, and he’s brought me back from the dead to make good on his promise.

Snick, snick, snick towards me, accompanied by a cloud of pain.

Quin settles onto the edge of my bed.

I keep my eyes closed, don’t twitch so much as a finger.

A shadow shifts over me. “Stop pretending.”

“I’m not pretending,” I murmur.

A low laugh. “Then what are you doing?”

“Indulging in vanity.” I open my eyes a fraction to peek at him. “My head looks good where it is.”

“Whether it looks good is up for debate, what’s not up for debate is how. Good. It. Functions.” He emphasises each word with a sharp tap of his finger against my temple.

I rise up onto my elbows, glaring, and he raises a brow.

The source of the earlier snicking comes into focus: his wyvern cane, now propped at the end of the bed. The pain emanating from him is fiercer than usual.

But apparently he’ll swallow that pain to climb the stairs and personally behead me.

On second thoughts, glaring might not be my best tactic. I smile at him, the most charming smile I have.

Dark eyes grow darker, and I seal my lips tight. I see flashes of floating bodies in the canal; hear Chiron’s voice in the back of my mind. No living thing can enter .

After a few false starts, and a strange hop in my stomach, I try again. “Your uncle took all the gold and silver-sashed mages.”

Quin looks away, jaw twitching.

“You told me if I could help, I should. No matter what. Why are you so angry?”

He swings his gaze back to mine. Air catches in my chest at the profound frustration in his eyes.

He draws away from me and stares across the room. “Nicostratus watched you fade in my arms. He was poisoned getting you to a mage before it was too late.”

Quin and me, plummeting to the courtyard. Nicostratus cradling me against a frantic heartbeat as he raced to Florentius. Quin exhausting the last of his strength to command the wyverns from the palace and away from his people.

My heart hammers.

“You’ve been asleep for hours,” Quin says. “In that time, we’ve made my uncle furious and recovered most of our mages.”

“Is Nicostratus—”

“He’s been called back to the barracks.”

“But he needs rest—”

“If he doesn’t obey, my uncle won’t spare him. He already suspects he helped me fight.”

Nicostratus’s bruises flash to my mind and my stomach twists. “They’re abusing him there.”

Quin says nothing.

“You know it. How could you let your brother—”

“He has to keep up a show of weakness, vulnerability. It’s better than death.”

“You should be there for him.”

“I’m exactly where I need to be.” Quin stops me when I open my mouth to speak. “My brother has been hunted for years, always moving to stay safe, never able to form friendships beyond his aklos. He recently lost his mother, and he’s stuck in the palace where to stay alive he has to let redcloaks openly hurt him.” He looks towards me, eyes glazed in deeper musing. “You are the one bit of light he’s begged me to protect.”

I swallow. That’s why Quin is here. Not to behead me (just yet). To watch over me on his brother’s behalf.

He shakes himself and delivers an admonishing glance. “You don’t make it easy.”

“You’d have died out there,” I say stubbornly. “I’d do it again.”

He rubs at his frown, displeased but resigned. “Stay in here a few more days.”

I scramble onto my knees. “What? Why?”

“Because I need you to.”

I frown questioningly.

Quin grimaces. “Our uncle is on the hunt for who dared transfuse my blood. He’ll question all the mages regarding their whereabouts. The queen and Florentius will keep your secret.”

“What about—”

“Everyone else saw only a blond man in a mask. There are many blond men about.” He pulls my mask from his cloak and studies it. “I’ll have this discovered outside the royal city. Florentius will reseal the archway. Spell your way out in front of Chiron after three days.”

He shifts and another wave of agony punches out of him.

I hiss sharply, reach under his collar, and pull out the flute.

He slaps a hand over it, crushing it against his chest. At my insistent fingers under his palm, he jerks his away. I lift the flute and shove it between his parting lips. Whatever barking words he has for me become squealed, random notes and immediately, his pain ebbs.

The same can’t be said of his glare.

“Health comes first,” I say. Then, at a lethal spark in his eye, add, “Your Majesty.”

The flute drops from Quin’s mouth and swings at his chest. He looks from it to the mask he’s still holding. “You’re shameless. But you have some clever ideas.”

“All from this priceless head.”

He flicks my priceless head. “You saved many today. Name your reward.”

I straighten eagerly. “Really?”

“Anything within my means.”

I gnaw on my lips a moment. Anything within his means... “About transferring me,” I begin. “I was strangely upset about that prospect.”

His gaze flies to mine. “You want to stay assigned to my quarters?”

“But upon reflection,” I continue, “if I never have to see pearl heart again, I’ll die happy.” I raise my hands. “Not that I’m planning to die anytime soon.”

He stares at me, blinking, then tiredly shuts his eyes.

I lean in. “Can the queen transfer me to her palace?”

“Transfers are trivial. Name another.”

Did that mean he accepted this, and would grace me another gift? “Can Nicostratus teach me some basic shielding skills?”

His eyes flash. “Is there anything you want from me?”

I blink. A reward from him ...

Quin heaves himself up with his cane and turns his back on me. I bolt off the bed and he pauses before he goes. “Take me with you the next time you sneak out.”

* * *

Florentius has streaks of red on one cheek that possibly fit the shape of my hand. I wince and throw him a smile. “I heard you brought me back from the brink of extinction.”

His hands pause, pulsing with magic. “You were lucky the king’s aklas banded together and donated blood.”

“Thank you,” I murmur.

Both cheeks flush. “You, ah, saved me too.”

I rock back on my chair, fingers linked behind my head, and look at him. “This counts as bonding.”

A shimmery layer races up the arch, and I suspect its speed is purposeful. I laugh, but deeper inside is a tender pang. How valiantly Florentius fought for those children.

He whisks around but his dramatic exit is blocked by Makarios and Mikros, racing along the balcony side by side.

“Sorry!” they cry.

Makarios says, “We were detained. But we checked the body like you asked.”

Mikros nods. “There’s a burn mark on the victim’s tongue, as you suspected.”

“Thanks,” I say, and pretend to jot down a note. “I want to review everything I have, read through these books again.”

Florentius glances at me and looks away. “With your skill, getting out of here in a few days would be considered miraculous.”

I think... I think there might be some praise in there.

“Hey,” Makarios says, clapping Florentius’s shoulder. He catches the sharp look that follows and quickly dusts at his robe instead. “A little more faith in our par-linea friend.”

“Indeed,” Mikros adds. “He has us.”

It’s quiet when they leave. Too quiet. Everywhere I look in my tight confines, I see Quin and his near-constant grimace. I still don’t know whether to commend him for trudging painfully up these stairs to be by my side in Nicostratus’s stead, or to condemn him for not being beside his brother, protecting him from abuse. He has to put on this show of weakness, vulnerability. Quin is too accustomed to putting on shows. He did it out of the royal city. He did it in front of his uncle. He expects his brother to do it too. Will there ever be a time he can simply be himself?

I close my eyes on whatever that future is supposed to look like and focus on now. Is Nicostratus training? Or resting? Or is he, perhaps, being bullied?

Three anxious evenings later, in the presence of Chiron, I recreate the cure-key and step out of the Crucible. “Five days,” Chiron says in disbelief. He frowns. “You must have had help.”

“Definitely,” I confirm, and race the last steps to freedom. Swiftly and sneakily, I follow night shadows to the barracks and slink around the outer walls to the old, overgrown dog hole. I crawl through it.

The moon hangs low in an inky sky, casting gentle light over the barracks and training grounds. I pull up the hood of my dark cloak and merge into the shadows, waiting for the change of guard.

The door creaks as I slip into a dimly lit room, heavy with the scent of sweat and woodsmoke; Nicostratus’s keen soldier senses have him springing from his straw-stuffed mattress, a silver shield unfurling between us. He’s still in armour, as if anything might happen at any moment and he has to be ready. It has my stomach knotting.

His shield dissipates when he recognises me. He strides over, clasping my arms. He checks me up and down, looks again. When he’s sure I’m in one piece, he shakes me. “Never throw yourself in front of wyverns like that again.”

I chuckle and he stops his shaking to rub his hands up and down my arms. “What are you doing here?”

“You let yourself get poisoned for me,” I whisper, sliding my fingers up his bruised wrist and feeling for his pulse. I send a gentle spell through his veins, sniffing as I feel all the parts in him that ache, that suffer. He’s been beaten, whipped. “I would’ve come sooner—”

He jerks me into an embrace. “I’m well. Truly.” He sighs into my hair. “I wish I could keep you here, but—”

At a horn blowing in the distance, he grimaces and shakes his head. “Curfew.”

He takes my hand and after he’s sure the coast is clear, he pulls me outside. “Our meetings are always so fleeting,” he murmurs.

I lift his hand and, sure we’re alone, brush a kiss on his wristband. “For while we wait.”

I crawl through the wall and just have my legs under me when a barking shout has me lurching to my feet, heart ramming. I yank my gaze around the shadowy field, expecting redcloaks to be charging towards me. There’s no one.

At least, not on this side. I suck in a sharp breath and crouch, shoulder pressed against the stone, to peer back through.

“. . . past curfew.”

A timid voice, “B-but he’s—”

A snarl. “He’s nothing in these quarters but at our mercy.”

My hands ball into fists. I want to do something—slide under the wall and confront them, force them to back off. Steal him away.

But my presence will only make this worse.

The timid one shuts up, and with nothing more than a tight expression, Nicostratus lets himself be led away.

What was I thinking, coming here?

I race through shadows to the canal, bypassing the scholar’s precinct and heading directly for King’s Island. Guards prevent my entry, so I drop to my knees and call for Quin to come out.

He does, with the aid of a cane, in elegant sleepwear and an unimpressed scowl. He waves a hand to dismiss the guards and stares down at me. “Anyone who dares disturb me at this time would be kneeling the rest of the night.”

I seek his gaze. “I’m willing to accept that. Please help Nicostratus.”

Quin stiffens, his knuckles whitening as he grips his cane. For a moment, he says nothing, his gaze narrowing.

“I went there in secret, I needed to see...”

His voice is quiet but taut with suppressed anger. “You... When will you learn?”

I bow my head.

“Everything you do here has consequences. You could have been taken for a spy. Killed on the spot.”

This... did not even cross my mind. “It was reckless. Beyond stupid. I didn’t think past my worry.”

Quin casts a tired gaze skyward and runs a hand over his eyes.

“Please,” I whisper. “He was outside after curfew—”

“What’s there to do now? He’ll have been disciplined already.”

I sag onto my haunches. “Can’t you make sure he gets medical attention?”

“The less he and I interact the better.”

“Every time I see him, he’s bruised. He always refuses treatment. What’s the use in being king if you can’t even—”

“Watch your mouth.”

I turn my clenched teeth to the ground.

“If he got treated every time, they’d torture him more. He leaves the bruises so they back off a few days.”

I sink onto my haunches, the weight of his words pressing down like a physical blow.

“Kneel until dawn.”

My legs already ache, but this? This feels deserved. Not only should my body be exhausted, guilt should gnaw at me from the inside. This is the price for being foolish. A small price compared to what others have suffered because of me. I can’t undo the harm I’ve done, but I’ll do everything I can to heal things.

Quin turns, and pauses before he heads back inside. “I don’t care how much joy you bring him. Risk my brother’s safety again, and I’ll cast you out.”

* * *

Makarios and Mikros find my hobbling baffling. They wonder why I don’t heal myself, and I tell them sometimes pain has its place.

They shrug and take an arm each, and each of their tugs has me wincing. Has me thinking of bruised Nicostratus and glaring Quin in turns. It takes an effort to focus on the details they want about the Crucible case. “Husband and wife may have done and eaten the same things, but the key point was the river water on their clothes.”

They finally stop pulling and huddle in.

“They ate fish from the river and cooked soup with its water, but heat killed the pestis. The water that soaked into their cuffs when they caught their fish and filled their cookpot was cold. When the husband burned his tongue, he dabbed the open wound against his sleeve, allowing the infection into his bloodstream. That’s why only he got sick.”

Makarios and Mikros are bursting with questions but they’re cut off by Chiron rapping his knuckles on the teacher’s desk. Class has begun: the miracles of transplantation spells.

All parts of the body can be transplanted into another’s—skin, liver, kidneys, heart... Even a person’s one and only lovelight.

I gasp, horrified.

Chiron hums. “The technique is the same, but using the spell for this purpose is rare. The lovelight is connected to the soul—we have nothing that can numb the soul, so removing a lovelight this way is an agonising process. It’s also used as a form of torture.”

Barely five minutes deeper into the foundational lesson, our heads snap up as redcloaks stride into the classroom. Chiron casts them an uneasy glance; across from me, Florentius visibly stiffens.

We’re herded into boats and ferried towards the luminarium. Its massive dome gleams in the sunlight, an incredible sight, but the beauty quickly turns ugly as the heavy bronze doors slam shut behind us.

We’re led down a short dark corridor, past a dozen stone-faced redcloaks to another arched door. Where are the luminists and their glowing cloaks? The sound of spiritual bells? The scent of incense?

I swallow and the next doors open into a vast, open nave.

Massive columns of white marble supporting the dome. Wall murals depicting the story of the Arcane Sovereign. Niches with statues of past kings.

The floor under our feet is polished and reflects the luminarium’s centrepiece: a massive violet oak, rooted deeply into the earth, bathing in light from the long windows surrounding it.

This oak is different from the one the prince and I sheltered in as children. This one glows. This one receives and stores the magic of all the linea who pay homage here.

At first, it’s a glorious sight.

And then I look down from the spindling, glowing tree, to what’s before it.

The high duke is seated on a lavishly cushioned chair, stroking his beard. He’s dressed in gold with boots up to his knees. All this gold and glare. Chiron orders us to line up, eighteen mages altogether, from green sash to gold. Three rows of six.

We all stare nervously ahead.

The high duke commands his redcloaks to pull out the mages who attended his visitors, and our rows are reduced by half. Then reduced again when those sent out on his orders are identified. Finally, Makarios and Mikros, Scamperios and Dreamios are pointed out by a hook-nosed aklo. And then it’s down to me and Florentius and our shadows on the shiny floor, our fellow mages arrayed down the nave on either side.

The high duke’s fingers dance in the air, six iron nails hovering at his palm like sinister puppets. Their sharp tips glint in the light, glowing faintly red as he heats them with a casual flick of his wrist. “They say you saved a half-dozen children, Florentius,” he murmurs, his smile curling like smoke. “Tell me, how does it feel to be a hero?”

The nails shift again. Did he use these to brand the napes of his followers? Does he use this to punish?

I shiver.

Florentius is expressionless. Lethally quiet.

“I said,” the high duke repeats, “you’re lauded as a hero.”

When Florentius doesn’t acknowledge this, Chiron rushes from the sidelines and drops to his knees. “My son was ambushed by water wyverns on his way to help Official Monomachos. The redcloak with him attempted to save the children and was killed. My son had to protect them, and himself. He’s been in shock since. Forgive his lack of courtesy.”

“But of course. In that situation, what else could you do?” The high duke looks to me and back to Florentius, the nails leaping from his palm in a lethal dance. “Did your fellow mage help you? Was he the one who saved the king in such a wildly creative manner?”

Each word is a threatening shiver down my spine.

Florentius speaks. “I don’t know the king’s saviour; he wore a mask. He had a southern accent.”

The high duke shifts his attention to me. “Was it you?”

I pull my gaze away from the menacing nails and stare at the oak above. “I was undergoing the Crucible.”

“Could you have escaped and attended the gala?”

Chiron laughs. “Your highness, I am the highest ranked mage in the kingdom. The cure that would allow his release took me three days to figure out. This boy is par-linea; his foundation is a mess. Overcoming this trial in less than two days is simply impossible .”

The high duke snaps his fingers and the nails return to inside his sleeve. He scowls and waves a dismissive hand; blindly, I follow the others out, stumbling as the truth slams into me. The king anticipated this, down to Chiron’s disbelief.

His response gave my story credibility.

Otherwise... would I have become intimately familiar with those nails?

The heavy doors slam shut behind us, but they don’t seal in the high duke’s threats. Those linger as my legs carry me away from the luminarium.

The others are already on their way down the canal, their hushed voices trailing into the distance.

Chiron and Florentius climb into a small rowboat and I quicken my stride to catch up, but slow once more as I come in range of Chiron’s hushed, angry words.

“I said no mistakes.” He glares at his son. “At this rate you’ll end up like your brother.”

Florentius turns his head away from his father and closes his eyes upon catching sight of me. No point trying to hide myself now. I slap my feet against the wet wooden boards, announcing company to Chiron. The boat is uncomfortably silent all the way back.

When Florentius opens his door once he and I have made our way wearily underground to our rooms, I sneak in behind him. He makes a small sound of surprise when I make myself at home and sling myself into his chair. The teapot he stole from me sits in the centre of his tidy desk. I run a curious finger over the lid.

Candles flare to life as Florentius sighs and shuts the door. He perches stiffly on the edge of his bed, staring at his long, elegant fingers.

“You want me to explain,” he says.

“I want you to know I’m here for you.”

He looks sharply at me. “You don’t know me.”

“I know you’re prickly and aloof.”

Florentius scoffs.

“I also know you’re intelligent, determined, and kind hearted.”

He lowers his gaze.

Also surprisingly modest.

“I don’t want you here for me.”

Aaaand honest to a fault.

“Why not?” I ask.

He’s quiet.

“Because I’m par-linea?”

“Yes.”

I open and shut my mouth. Frown.

No, this isn’t the Florentius I’ve quietly observed. He keeps using this excuse, but there is something behind it. I feel it. I lean forward and pinch his chin. “When will you learn I won’t be pushed away like that? I’m par-linea. So what?”

His sigh slides over me, spiced with fear. “Most of the kingdom’s officials are against you. You’re only safe from their schemes to get rid of you because my father believes you’re a joke. If they saw what I’ve seen...” He looks me in the eye. “You’d terrify them.”

“You don’t want me to be here for you, because you think—”

“What I want will only bring you more to their notice.”

“What do you want?”

Florentius rises from the bed and touches the teapot.

“I found a matching teacup,” he murmurs, his fingers brushing the handle as if it might shatter under his touch. “It’s part of a set I gave my older brother when he moved to the palace.”

My stomach tightens—was that the teacup I broke in the market?

Florentius hesitates, his voice dropping to a whisper. “I thought finding it was a sign he’d be alright, but...” He swallows as he stares wistfully at the pot.

I ask softly, “Why was it left in my room?”

“Because it was his room. Before he was taken away.”

I imagine his brother mid-cup of tea, focussed on his books, when redcloaks invade. “Why? What did he do?”

“He dared to suggest women be allowed to study vitalian arts. He taught the high duke’s daughter in secret.”

My chest feels heavy.

“The daughter saved a life.” Florentius’s fist squeezes around the teapot handle. “The high duke found out. He cast his daughter out of the royal city, and Lucius to that cold, sickly island. I want... to save him.”

I slump into his chair with a profoundly touching realisation. I look up at him slowly. You’ve constantly criticised my knowledge, publicly doubted my abilities... to shield me.

While also worrying about his older brother, wishing to help him.

“Florentius,” I say on a sigh.

He steps back, brows quirked with sudden discomfort.

I reach out to capture his hand and he rears back like a startled rabbit. “Whatever you’re doing, stop.”

I slide off the chair onto my knees before him. “I mean it. You have me as a friend, forever. I will help you however I can. I will—Where are you going?”

He’s a blur of swishing robes as he vanishes through the door. The thunk of it closing jolts through me, and I murmur a fond tsk-tsk-tsk. “Florentius, dearest, this is your room.”