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T he entrance to Nicostratus’s Hinsard home swings wide, onto a courtyard blanketed in autumn colours. Armed guards with keen eyes patrol the shadows as attendants quickly clear leaves from the path. I drop my wrapped belongings, catching my breath at the impressive inner-city estate.

“Clearly it’s been a while since their master visited.” Nicostratus laughs, waving over an incredibly tall, thin man in an aklo’s uniform. “This is my head aklo, Petros.”

Petros. Nicostratus even respects that his aklos have actual names. I grip a handful of my cloak, comforted by the thought. A good, kind man.

Petros bows his head to me with a welcoming smile.

“Anything you need,” Nicostratus says, “he’s your man. Oh, and this.” He touches a button pinned to Petros’s—and all of his staff’s—uniform. Two circling wyverns around a sun—an emblem of unity—two brothers working together to cast brightness on the kingdom. “Anyone wearing this symbol is loyal to me and my brother. They’ve vowed to protect us, and at my word, they’ll protect you, too.”

Nicostratus, although tall, has to look up at his head aklo. “Are his rooms ready?”

I pick up my belongings as Petros leads us deeper into the house. At the closed oak doors, Nicostratus asks him to bring food and looks at me softly. “You haven’t eaten since yesterday evening...”

My hands close tightly around my things, mostly my grandfather’s books.

He swallows audibly.

I lift my hands, the gloves now useless, mocking . I rip them off, juggling my belongings, and stuff them into the bundle with the books.

“Take all the time you need,” Nicostratus murmurs. He pushes the doors open, revealing a spacious room hung all around with tapestries. They stop me cold as I follow him inside: vitalians casting, their hands aglow, as sick masses rise to their feet. In the centre, a haloed man stands among rejoicing children, his image mirrored in another panel as he kneels to accept the apex-vitalian stamp. Kyrillos. The name carries both reverence and a sharp pang, a reminder of everything I’ve lost.

“I have some last-century medicinal goblets somewhere.” Nicostratus flings open a cupboard, clattering around. He shuts it with a frown, waving it off. “Must’ve moved them.”

An akla enters and sets food on a table, tutting at us for studying the tapestries in such dim light. She lights a few candles, leaving us bathed in a warm glow. Nicostratus clears his throat and gestures to the table.

“Eat, please?”

His plea is soft, earnest. I drop into a chair beside him and force a grape into my mouth.

“I’m sorry,” he says after a while, lifting his determined gaze to mine. “I’ll provide for all your wants. I’ll see your family gets what they need.” His hand covers my cold, bare one. “Stay with me. I’ll always take care of you. Anything you need. Everything.”

I swallow thickly. “Do you think it’s impossible for my meridians to be healed?”

Nicostratus pats my hand. “I’ve never liked the word impossible. Perhaps there’s a healer out there who could help.”

My breath catches. “You really think so?”

“Hinsard is well known for having the most travelled healers in the kingdoms. Maybe one of them has seen something on their journeys.”

I pluck a few more grapes, chewing quickly.

Nicostratus chuckles. “Only . . .”

“Only?”

“Follow the healer’s orders and rest another week first.”

“I’m fully healed. The spell was... miraculous.” Yet even that healer couldn’t repair my meridians.

I shake off the disheartening thought. Hope. Stay hopeful. If I look hard enough, if I never give up, maybe the heavens will reward me. Fix me.

“Regardless,” Nicostratus says, scowling into the middle distance, “I’d feel better if we waited.” He snaps back to a smile. “That gives me time for my scouts to discern what the situation is in the city.”

Patience. I must be worthy enough.

I nod.

I wait.

I spend my days helping all over the estate—from sweeping to cooking to cleaning out privy pots. I help the aklas change the bedding, and Petros take stock of inventory. “You’re much too helpful,” he says, laughing. “Take a rest. Nicostratus should be at the training grounds, now that he’s waited out the doctor’s orders.”

I smirk and leave Petros to it, making my way to Nicostratus.

I stand at the periphery, silently observing his combat practice from the shadows. He moves with grace and fluidity, a blur of magic and motion. Then he picks up a crude sword and spars with his personal guards. Steel clashes and vibrates through the air, shivering over my skin. He is all precision, perfection. He’s lost nothing.

I swallow. If I’m a good enough person, maybe I won’t lose everything, either.

I spend the afternoon near the kitchens, grinding grains with a quern stone, hoping soon I’ll be doing this with herbs. My eyes are covered by warm fingers, and I call out Nicostratus’s name. He pulls his hands away, and the first thing I see is his grin. “I’ve something you’ll be interested in.”

I look at his sparkling eyes.

“An invitation—for afternoon tea.”

“Afternoon tea?”

“Hosted by the esteemed Eparch Valerius, high-ranking official and philanthropist. After we’ve made an appearance, we can explore the city centre.”

I stand so fast I almost knock over all my hard work. Nicostratus laughs. “Come.”

Afternoon tea is held in a lavish hall with a grand colonnaded foyer. Exotic perfumes lace the air, and musicians play for silk-robed dancers. Nobles and rich merchants enjoy the performances, drinking and eating, and smiling stiffly.

Nicostratus murmurs in my ear, “That’s the game. Revel in the extravagance while forging connections to increase profit.”

A woman in white at the periphery catches my eye. She’s a beautiful figure, in an intricate robe of white lace, but her hood is up, and she’s slinking toward the exit. She glances across the room, and as she does, I catch sight of her face and the delicate pearled mask around her eyes. “Who is that?”

“She must be Eparchess Juliana,” Nicostratus murmurs, curious. “She’s become well known here, my staff mentioned. Yet no one has seen her face.”

A middle-aged man moves to the stage and commands everyone’s attention with a few hard plucks on a nearby harp.

“Valerius,” Nicostratus tells me.

Unlike the rich fabrics and regal colours his guests are dressed in, Eparch Valerius’s tunic and fitted trousers, neat and orderly, emphasise his role as a respected official with subtlety and restraint. “I’ve invited you here today to ask for your aid in establishing an infirmary in the city. Hinsard has some of the best healers in all five kingdoms; we should use our resources to give back to the people. Support them with heavily subsidised medicinal spells and vitalian consultations.”

I stand straighter and tug at Nicostratus’s sleeve, then replace the circling wyvern button that my tugging popped off.

He chuckles and raises his voice over my head. “I’ll donate.”

Eparch Valerius graciously inclines his head, and it begins a series of hollers, businessmen and nobles trying to claw for the most generous donation.

We’re about to slip away from the hall when Eparch Valerius intercepts us with a grateful, toothy smile that emphasises a scar along his jawline. He engages Nicostratus in polite small talk, and Nicostratus introduces me as his guest, and “exceptionally talented at healing.”

“Is that so?” Eparch Valerius says. “I dabble myself. We’re lucky to have so many herb fields around the city. I see you carry a soldad—if you’re interested, there are daily workshops and weekly discussions run by the city’s most respected vitalians. And at the end of the month, I’m hosting the healing tournament.”

I grip my soldad, wishing desperately to feel any spark of magic. The Medicus Contest?

“This year we’ll have teams from every city in the kingdom,” he says. “See if you can’t join one.”

Nicostratus must feel my sudden tension. He clears his throat. “We’re actually on a quest to visit all the vitalians in the region. I imagine you’d know them all?”

Eparch Valerius calls for an aklo to make a list, and once we have it in our hands, he wishes us success and watches us go.

The Medicus Contest. What an opportunity for growth. If I can find someone who can heal me.

I whisk Nicostratus around the city with newfound eagerness. The streets pulse with life: bustling merchants bartering loudly while couriers dart between stalls with messages in hand. My gaze flits over the crowd—and snags on a constabulary uniform. My breath hitches at the distinct rhythm of a cane tapping against cobblestones, but before I can be sure, the figure vanishes into the flow of bodies, leaving me with a suddenly racing heart.

Nicostratus gestures to the third vitaliary on our list and I hurriedly sweep up the stairs.

“You’re like a pup,” he murmurs fondly.

“This opportunity... to work with vitalians, to inspire teams to grow through competition... this is where miracles happen. To be part of that, to witness that...”

“I wish you had this much sparkle in your eye when you look at me.”

My step falters over the threshold. “I . . .”

“I’m teasing,” Nicostratus says, his chuckle slightly more forced than before. “Go on in. I’ll wait.”

Inside, an older vitalian peers over his magnifying glass and greets me.

I’m a rush of words as I ask him if he knows any way to mend severed meridians. “I’ll try anything, even if it affects my lifespan. So long as I can get my magic back.”

He lifts his magnifying glass and peers at me, humming. “What you need won’t come from herbs, potions, or spells.”

“What do I need?”

He sets his magnifying glass down. “Time.”

“They’ll mend on their own?”

He shakes his head empathetically, and a shiver spikes through me, forcing me back a few steps. “Time to accept—”

I spin on my heel.

Nicostratus catches me in my flight down the stone steps. “What happened?”

My hands shake, but not as violently as I’m shaking my head. “No, I don’t believe—” I grab his forearms tightly. “It’s not impossible. I believe you.”

I drag him from apothecary to apothecary, healer to healer. Each visit adds a stone to my sinking gut. None are able to treat my severed meridians. Still, I forge on. Of course, a cure will be rare, or all the vitalians would know how to treat it. I must keep searching.

I try again. An overweight, middle-aged man greets my entry into his apothecary with a sneer. “Can’t you see I’m packing up?”

Indeed, there are none of the usual herbs found in a healer’s apothecary. Instead, baskets and boxes and jars are stacked against one wall. Some of them moving, probably with snakes or spiders, for the venom.

“Are you Vitalian Dimos?” I call out.

“Not any longer. Soldad confiscated.”

“Confiscated?”

“Taken away. Destroyed.” He scowls into the distance, then snaps his tight gaze to me. “What did you want?”

“I—”

He grabs my hand roughly and reads my pulse. “Severed meridians. Even if I could help you, what’s the point? You were only par-linea.” He drops my hand and returns to his violent sweeping; I’m chased out of his store by a broom.

Nicostratus, who has waited patiently outside at every apothecary, raises a brow.

“Don’t ask.”

He doesn’t. He gestures to the road ahead, and we continue on.

My steps grow heavier as the list gets shorter.

Only one left.

“On the outskirts of the city,” Nicostratus murmurs. “It’ll be dark soon. Better to try tomorrow.”

Paper crunches under my grip.

He tries to lighten my spirits at an inn. I thank him, but I don’t touch my drink; he downs both to stave off ill luck. He wishes me good health and a happy future, and it’s clear the drinks are unusually strong because he wobbles as he stands.

I catch him around the waist and sniff at the emptied glass. I stiffen. Sedative. Strong, but only a healer would be sensitive to this subtle smell.

I should have noticed earlier.

I call to the innkeeper, demanding an explanation, but the keeper looks confused. The server has disappeared, too. It’s not safe here; I have to get him somewhere safe.

The sun has dipped behind the rooftops, casting us and the vibrant market stalls in shadows as I support Nicostratus through narrow streets. We step onto the weedy bank, and the hum of the city fades. The air is crisper here, cold with the scent of the canal, but something else tinges the air—something sharp, metallic. I glance over my shoulder, my pulse quickening at the empty path behind us. Even Nicostratus’s stagger seems loud in the stillness—

Men in dark cloaks leap from the trees, blocking our way. I suck in a breath. We’ve been followed. He was drugged to make him weak so he could be easily dealt with under these trees.

Their eyes glint along with the metal they unsheathe.

“Run,” Nicostratus urges me, staggering sideways.

He tries to call up his magic, but it fizzles.

His sword shakes as he holds it up. I can’t make a shield. Can’t clear the effects of the drugs and return his magic. I can only...

I hit three acupoints on his neck and back, then the fourth Olyn taught me. That’ll sharpen his mind for a few minutes. Give him back some strength.

The attackers lunge forward. Prince Nicostratus charges into their assault with deft swings of his blade and neat footwork. One against three. The clash of steel rings out, the vibrations jarring through my bones to linger in my jaw. He twists, the blade thrust from his opponent’s guard, and strikes another assailant. Blood spatters on tree trunks and fallen leaves.

The attackers grow more frantic.

A shadow moves at the edge of my vision. Too late, I see the fourth man, his blade glinting as he slinks through the shadows. I scoop up a fallen branch and hold it tight. Nicostratus twists and turns, sword scraping against sword. Again, he yells at me to run, but the fourth attacker is moving, aiming for Nicostratus’s blind spot.

My heart jumps, and then so do I. I strike with my branch before the lethal blow descends.

The attacker stumbles sideways, taken by surprise.

Nicostratus whirls, his blade singing through the air as he delivers a strike that sends the man reeling into a tree trunk. The attacker whistles, and within seconds he and the others are gone, leaving us panting beneath the trees.

“You could’ve been hurt.”

“I couldn’t leave you.”

A heavy breath, a hand on my shoulder. “Thank you.”

I keep hold of my branch, scanning the shadows. “They gave up?”

“For now.”

“You didn’t use lethal force.”

“They’re my uncle’s men,” Nicostratus says. “I was worried it was a trap.”

“Wouldn’t it have been self defence?”

“It wouldn’t be spun that way.”

My throat stings. “I thought you were safe, now he’s regent.”

Nicostratus grimaces, then collapses against me, the sedative overcoming him once more.

It’s an effort to get him back to his residence. Petros takes the load off me the moment we enter the gates, hoisting Nicostratus onto his back with practiced ease. “Not my first time.”

“He gets like this often?”

“Not him.” Petros hesitates, his voice quieter. “My brother’s legs gave out years ago. Back’s used to the weight.”

We get him into bed, and I thank Petros, telling him I’ll keep watch overnight. When he’s gone, Nicostratus grabs my hand and tugs me to his side, his eyes glazed, or maybe weepy.

I wake to Nicostratus watching me sleep against the side of his bed. I hurry to my feet and wipe my mouth. “Are you alright?”

“My uncle must know I helped Quin. He’s sending a message. If I support the true king, I’m his enemy and will be treated as such.”

“What will you do?”

His jaw tightens, but only for a moment. “Get you to that last healer. But first, breakfast.”

I barely choke down some bread. Nicostratus gives up halfway through his own meal and rises, chuckling. “Come, then. Let’s go.”

I race outside into thick mist that immediately clings to my face. If this healer can fix me, I’ll give up five years of my life. Ten.

The gates open, and no sooner have Nicostratus and I stepped out than we’re met with a tight-jawed constable. He addresses Nicostratus carefully, but his voice nevertheless holds a note of authority. “Your highness, I’m Constable Michealios. I have a written order requiring you to accompany me to the constabulary.”

Nicostratus’s expression flickers, as perplexed as I feel. “What’s going on?” I ask.

The constable turns rigidly to address me. “The affair will be discussed at the constabulary.”

Is this Quin’s doing? A way to meet his brother? Not the most subtle approach.

My nape prickles; I position myself in front of Nicostratus. “What magistrate has the power to take him into the constabulary?”

Constable Michealios holds out a letter.

Something’s wrong. I don’t like it. “I’m coming with you.”

“Suit yourself,” the constable says.

We follow him through dewy streets to a sturdy stone structure with iron-clad gates. Chills scuttle over me as we step into the courtyard.

To the left, a half-dozen yards away, uniformed men are positioning three narrow carts, each holding a sheet-covered body.

A stray breeze peels off one of the sheets, and a knot tightens in my gut. I recognise that face, I saw it last night. But he’s no longer dressed in black. He’s wearing military uniform.

Killing on-duty redcloaks is treason. A crime of rebellion against the kingdom. A capital crime.

Even royalty can be convicted of this.

Horror has my step faltering. I’m about to come to a standstill when I catch sight of Quin, in constabulary uniform, seated on a nearby bench doling out firm instructions to aklos. He glances my way with an almost imperceptible shake of the head. I know instinctively he’s telling me to swallow my shock. No matter what happens in the next minutes, I must be calm.

I keep my face impassive, and only stop walking when the constable does.

Constable Michealios faces us and watches our reactions closely as he gestures towards the bodies. “These redcloaks were found at dawn, near the perimeter of their outpost. On them was evidence suggesting an alarming connection to your highness.”

Nicostratus keeps his voice steady. “What kind of connection?”

The constable orders an underling to bring him the letter, which is then handed to Nicostratus.

Nicostratus’s brow crunches a fraction. He folds the paper and returns it. “This hardly qualifies as a connection.”

“It instructs them to watch you for crimes against the regent and country. The very next morning, they’re found dead. It all feels rather convenient.”

“Doesn’t it. But convenience is not evidence.”

Constable Michealios has us follow him to the bodies as someone else is escorted into the yard—the innkeeper from last night, swinging a finger to Nicostratus and me. “They were in my inn last night. That man was drugged.” When the sheets are pulled back, his eyes grow big, afraid. “D-did he kill these men?”

“Redcloak witnesses said one of these men visited your inn. Can you identify which one?”

The keeper jerks his finger. “That one. That man was there. He disappeared—”

“Thank you, that will be all for now.”

My stomach has dropped into my feet.

I glance once more towards Quin, struggling to keep my composure. This accusation could kill Nicostratus. From all I’ve seen of this world, justice—true justice—is hard to come by. Instead, suspicion, intrigue, or someone more powerful determines guilt. Nicostratus was afraid of falling into his uncle’s trap last night. Has he fallen into it anyway?

Quin meets my gaze, unwaveringly confident, and that... comforts me. I give the smallest nod back.

“First inspection indicates the soldiers were poisoned.” The constable is grim faced. “Possibly echowisp, which is only found in West Wind fields outside Hinsard. We’ll investigate whether you’d have had access to it.”

“No need,” Nicostratus says. “I’m sure the inn I stayed at is on those fields. But I didn’t kill these men.”

Quin snaps his cane towards us and bows shallowly to the head constable, not once looking our way. “If you’ll give me permission, I’ll look over this again. See if we missed anything.”

Investigating something like this must be time consuming and tedious; Michealios looks relieved he has someone willing to do the job for him. He orders his men to escort the prince back to his manor. “You understand that for the duration of our investigation, you’ll be under house arrest.”

Two armed men flank Nicostratus. He accepts their escort docilely, but his gaze flickers when he turns to me with a calming smile. He wants me to find Quin.

I swallow and curl my hand.