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W hen I return, reluctantly, in the late afternoon, Quin is still there, speaking with the manager of the neighbouring perfumery. She’s a beautifully dressed woman in her late twenties, and she’s happily seated close to Quin on the steps outside.

“...end of Cherrywood Lane. I can show you the way if you like?”

“That won’t be necessary,” I say.

Quin looks up sharply at my approach. He thanks the woman for her help, and pushes up on his cane. “Wasn’t sure you’d return.”

I wasn’t sure I would, either. But the thought of Nicostratus, imprisoned in his own home, at risk of being dragged to the prison at any moment... “We’ve more to do.”

We head towards Vitalian Dimos’s home, and my temple burns from Quin’s glances. “I walked past here with Nicostratus,” I say. “I remembered the way. It’s better not to involve too many people in our affairs.” I halt halfway down the lane. “Which house is it?”

Quin gestures to an aklo in a nearby yard. “We’ll have to involve others in our affairs.”

I slink after him to the aklo and ask if he knows Vitalian Dimos. Dark eyes look at us from under a caterpillar brow. “Haven’t been here long—what’s he look like?”

I fish in my pouch for the folded portrait and hand it to him. He opens it, frowns again, and scratches his brow. “Isn’t that—” he points a finger at Quin, and turns the picture around. At the flash of Wanted Quin’s face, I snatch the paper and stuff it back into the pouch, taking out the correct portrait this time.

My face is hot, and Quin is far too quiet beside me.

I clear my throat. “That’s the man we’re looking for.”

“I think... he’s the healer? Ah, his house is the one with the broken gable. But I haven’t seen him in a couple of days. There’s a rumour redcloaks claimed his spell was poison.”

“When did this happen?”

He turns to ask an akla carrying well water and she puts her bucket down. “Last week. A group came to his store, some with bee stings. He gave the injured men a spell but it worsened their condition. They almost died. They said he used harmful spells and reported him.”

We thank them for their help, and ask they report to the constabulary if Vitalian Dimos returns. Then we snoop—check out the herb garden he’s cultivated, poke around the property—and return to the city square as lanterns are being lit against a quickly darkening sky.

“That’s all we can do for today,” Quin says. “Tomorrow, I’ll look into the whereabouts of Paxos.”

“Do you think the commander knows something? Seems strange that he wouldn’t mention a runaway soldier. Especially one who left on the day of these deaths.”

“He’s definitely hiding things. What those things are, and the reasons for them...” Quin inclines his head, and flags for a buggy. “I’ll drop you off on the way.”

I eye the tight space inside and shake my head. “I’ll leave it to you.”

He narrows his eyes, but ultimately climbs in.

I watch until his buggy disappears around a bend, and turn away. Though the lanterns are many, and bright, none seem to help me see clearly. My chest feels tight and my head throbs. I should head back to Nicostratus’s house. Eat with him, reassure him things are progressing.

I continue trudging the city streets. Another hour, and I can skip to bed sooner.

I rub my temples and wander cobbled alleys and lanes. Sick beggars plead for help from dingy nooks, and I can’t even... not even simplex spells. My stomach sinks to my knees as I slouch past them.

I bump into Petros in the streets not far from the residence. He looks surprised, and straightens the uniform that he’s presumably had enough of and wants to take off. He smiles widely, and I try and fail to do the same. “Nicostratus sent others out to find you.”

He sees I’m not quite as lively as usual and turns on his heel to escort me back. Nicostratus, who is pacing the courtyard, rushes over the moment I step inside the gates. “I was worried.” He holds my arms and inspects me. “All in one piece. Good.”

Petros bids us good night, and Nicostratus urges him to enjoy his night off, thanking him for getting me here safely. Dinner is waiting inside for us. I force meat into my mouth while Nicostratus keeps the conversation going, and try not to think about rejecting those pleas for help. I swallow hard. Smile.

“You’re kind,” I murmur. “Consistent.”

He blinks, and a smile unfurls. Yes. I like that smile.

It leans towards me, close, closer. “Would you like—”

I push to my feet with a wince. “Sorry, I need to call it a night. Headache.”

“Do you need a vitalian? I can call one.”

My chest aches. I shake my head, and go to my room.

The next three days, I claim I’m sick and stay in bed, staring enviously at scenes of healing on the walls around me. I refuse anything but a few spoons of soup, but on the fourth day, afraid Nicostratus truly will call for a healer, I drag on clothes and walk aimlessly around the cloud-covered city.

At the canal, a dozen boats are drifting towards Thinking Hall. Eparch Valerius strides swiftly from the road to the dock, straightening his clothes, tucking away soiled cuffs, readying himself to greet some of the kingdom’s future great vitalians.

Those soldad-carrying scholars pile out at the dock and follow the eparch towards the hall, a smaller version of the one in the capital—the same ornate structure; the same promise of knowledge.

The edges of my own soldad are cutting into my palm where I’m squeezing it. A sob threatens to escape and I swallow it down painfully. Long grass snatches at my ankles as I near the edge of the canal. I hold my arm out, soldad hanging over the surface of the water.

I shut my eyes and will myself to release it. I can’t use it anymore. Why carry the weight of my lost dream? Drop it.

Drop it.

I squeeze tighter.

Drop it!

My pulse is hard and fast, echoing through the soldad like it’s a beating heart.

A heart that’s broken. Drop.

I grit my teeth. My fingers refuse to obey; I use my other hand to pry them open, one by one, until the badge shifts, and then falls—

I don’t hear the splash. Frown.

I snap my eyes open, and my breath stutters. In a small rowboat sits Quin, his stern eyes fixed on me, my soldad caught in his outstretched hand.

“Getting rid of everything I gave you?”

“What are you doing here?” I choke out.

His eyes narrow.

I shrug, laugh hollowly. “My light’s gone out.”

A sudden wind lashes around me—my hair flies, my cloak flaps, and I stand through it, head downcast, uncaring.

“Enough,” he says.

I slowly raise my head and look at him, and away again.

The winds twist and spin, propelling me off my feet and plunging me onto the seat across from him. The boat rocks and water splashes us, and then gusts are thrusting us along the canal.

He doesn’t stop until we’re at the outskirts of the city, where groups of refugees from the south are huddled, drinking handfuls of water, nursing and tending to their exhausted loved ones. My chest grows heavy; there are surface injuries and sprained ankles everywhere.

“More and more of my people are being displaced by the volatile situation at the border. They come inland, hoping for a life with more security.” He looks at me. “These are people that have truly lost everything and must start over.”

My throat is thick.

“Out of the boat.”

I climb out and follow him through throngs of quietly suffering families, young to old. In a makeshift pavilion, aklos and aklas and a group of nobles are cooking porridge, doling out blankets.

“Who are they?” I ask.

“My supporters,” he says quietly. In his constable guise, Quin heads into the pavilion; they greet him as a constable, albeit with a knowing twinkle in their eyes. “I have things to discuss with them. I’ll need a couple of hours,” he says, and leaves me with the aklos and aklas.

Hungry people crowd the pavilion, eager for food. Two flustered aklos are trying to maintain order and serve—I take a ladle in each hand and tell them to organise people into a peaceful line.

“He took two bowls!”

“One is for my nannan. She twisted her foot, can’t get up.”

“You’re just scamming for more!”

The man with two bowls flattens his lips. There’s a scar cutting his brow, and his hair is hacked short—as if he might have sold it for money or food along the way.

“There’s enough for everyone,” I say, keeping my voice firm and calm. “Sir, pass one bowl along to maintain peace. I will bring another for your nannan.”

This is reluctantly agreed to, and once everyone who can move has been doled out a bowl, I take a tray and find those who are immobile. Finally, I find the grandson who’d first taken two bowls of porridge. He’s seated at the base of a tree, an arm around his nannan, spoon feeding her from his own bowl. I crouch before them and pass him the last bowl of porridge. “Make sure to keep your strength.”

“Who are you?”

“No one. I support the true king.”

“True king? The runaway king?”

“This,” I say, gesturing to the volunteers, the food, the blankets, “is his doing.”

Nannan whines against her grandson, and instinctively I reach to take her pulse, and drop my hand again.

Hope flashes in his eyes. “Do you have medical knowledge? She hurts after every meal, for days now. Can you help?”

I stiffen and scramble back. I shake my head.

“Hurts,” she croaks.

I’m on my feet, hands trembling. “I don’t. I can’t.”

“Please.”

“No.”

A hand latches onto my upper arm forcefully, and I whirl to Quin watching me with shadowed eyes. His jaw twitches, and he tells another to help the grandmother.

I feel each thump of his cane in the ground under us until he tosses me into the boat. I can’t look at him.

“I thought Nicostratus was supposed to make you feel better. I see I have to take this into my own hands.”

Quin uses his inner force all the way to the dock closest to Nicostratus’s residence, then he uses it again to tow me along to the gates. Petros lets us in, but Quin doesn’t let him lead the way. Nicostratus is shooting arrows at distant targets in the military courtyard; a line of aklos, all buttoned with circling wyverns, are arrayed behind him and running to collect his spent arrows.

Here, Quin lets go of the scruff of my neck.

Nicostratus lowers his bow, frowning. “Constable Soterios, are you here with news on my case?”

“Another matter, today. Regarding your guest.”

Nicostratus’s gaze flickers worriedly to me, and back to his brother.

Quin continues, “I caught him destroying property carrying the royal seal.”

I straighten abruptly. That’s... a hefty accusation, if technically... accurate. “I didn’t mean it like that—”

“Silence,” Quin orders, and I shut up.

“I’m within the law to punish him with imprisonment.”

I make an objecting sound, and am silenced by Quin’s furious glare. He’s not messing about; he’s truly upset.

Nicostratus’s jaw twitches disapprovingly at his brother. He raises a hand to dismiss his staff and the brothers face off silently until they’ve all left. Then Nicostratus steps forward, lowering his voice. “This isn’t about destruction of the royal seal. What’s going on?”

“You didn’t tell him the truth. Then you gave him false hope.”

“I only want him happy—”

“How will he get that with lies? How will he overcome his grief when you feed into it, raising his hopes, only to have him crash harder?”

“That was never my intention.” Nicostratus looks from his brother to me, gaze softening. “I will take care of you, protect you. You never have to work again.”

Quin’s jaw flexes. “Nonsense. Cael, pack your things.”

Nicostratus laughs, shaking his head. “You can’t make him leave.”

“He attempted to destroy the royal seal.”

My gaze shoots between the brothers, my heart beating hard in my achy chest. “You’re being unreasonable, Quin.”

He ignores me.

Nicostratus lifts his bow. “How about this? We’ll compete. If you win, you can have your way and I won’t stop you. If I win, you forget the royal seal business and leave Amuletos with me.”

“You’ve won every time we’ve competed in archery.”

“Of course I’d choose a sport where I have an advantage.”

“If he’s that important, you’d have helped him more.”

“You can have an extra arrow,” Nicostratus says sharply, pulling another bow off a stand. “Sit anywhere you like.”

Quin takes the bow; he moves to a waist-height wall and perches himself on the ledge. “I don’t need the extra arrow.”

“Stubborn. As you wish. Same rules as always. Three arrows, three targets. No magic.”

“After you.”

Nicostratus stands tall under a cloud-darkening sky, his cloak fluttering in the wind. I’ve seen him practice with a bow many times, and never seen him miss the mark. His military skills, both magical and crude, are well known and envied. Quin, too, is highly skilled, but his leg is a constant weakness, and when it comes to wielding weapons, he has stood in his brother’s shadow.

Nicostratus nocks an arrow and pulls back the string with confidence. His arrow slices through the air and smacks the target in the reddened centre.

Quin’s turn. I’m reminded of the first time we met, when I’d thought I could tell so much about him. How arrogant I was. I knew nothing. I could go a lifetime and still not know him.

His arrow flies and lands beside his brother’s. An equally accurate shot.

Nicostratus seems unperturbed, possibly expecting as much; he sets his next arrow free. It thunks into the centre of the second target, a half-dozen yards farther away.

Quin’s expression is unreadable. He takes a long time holding his form, staring at the target before he releases—

The arrow also hits the centre. He lowers the bow and quietly flexes his hand. He’s feeling the strain.

Scattered raindrops fall from the sky.

Nicostratus’s bow creaks under his grip, the string taut and ready to sing. He takes aim at the target another dozen yards back; his third arrow slices through the rain, its path unerring.

Quin adjusts his posture, his injured leg braced at the wall. Rain drips from his hat as he draws his bowstring.

My stomach is a series of knots with more forming.

Thunder rumbles through the earth, and the sky cracks open with blinding light. Water cascades down, heavy and strong.

Nicostratus murmurs, “Even the heavens are against you—”

In a blink of an eye, a series of swift, strong movements, Quin has aimed and fired his last shot. The arrow sings through the rain and slides along Nicostratus’s, sinking deep into the centre of the target.

My breath catches. Even Nicostratus has frozen.

Nicostratus’s arrow creaks under Quin’s and falls.

“You . . .”

“I will save you, brother,” Quin says quietly. “But I must save him, too.”

“I can help him—”

“I’ll send someone for his things.” A small twister lifts me a few feet off the ground and gravity shoots through me as I’m deposited over his shoulder. My pulse quickens.

“Let me go.” I yell, but it comes out weak—broken, breathless.

Quin forges ahead with me dangling down his back. I struggle tiredly against him and the winds surrounding us, but my limbs are useless.

Nicostratus watches our retreat across the courtyard with a tight jaw; before I lose sight of him, I call, “Next full moon. The tree, from when we were boys...”