Page 1 of The King’s Man #5

I uncork a small vial, tip the contents down my throat, and stagger into the courtyard of our borrowed refuge.

Three steps, and the timber walls, beams, and upper balcony tilt drunkenly.

The cobbled courtyard shifts, rising in waves beneath my feet.

Lykos, the crusader who destroyed my magic, is a shadow at the well, hauling water as though the world owes him tribute.

Megaera, my former intended and near murderess, sweeps past in a flash of crimson, her movements doubled in my blurred vision.

“And you worry I’ll poison you,” she murmurs, catching my arm and guiding me to a bench. “You do a fine job of that yourself.”

“Is he mad?” A younger voice cuts through my haze, and Zenon, youthful and wide eyed, emerges carrying a steaming bowl. “This is the third time this month.”

Megaera takes the bowl, her tone breezy as she spoons the bitter concoction into my mouth. “He calls it trial and error. I call it a slow march to an early grave. ”

But only through trial and error can I heal; only through a lot of it can I forget .

The thought settles heavily in my gut, but I push it aside.

My newest desire since arriving in Ragn has been to learn every alchemic healing method possible, practice each to perfection alongside my aunt and stranded companions, and, above all, avoid any thought of Lumin royalty.

... Specifically, where they might be three months after we parted.

Or how they might be faring. Or whether one in particular has had any stray thoughts about me.

“It’s all he does,” Zenon grumbles. “He barely even sleeps.”

I swallow, my throat clenching around the foul taste, and my limbs begin to seize.

Megaera assures Zenon I’ll be fine shortly and nudges him back to his reading lessons at the courtyard table.

I silently count two minutes in my head—the time it takes for the antidote to neutralise the poison crawling through my veins.

My vision sharpens first. The courtyard snaps into focus, the distorted waves settling into stone. Lykos abandons the well, his broad shoulders tensing as he grabs his spear and prowls toward Megaera. His lips curl as he presses the tip between her shoulder blades.

Megaera, ever unruffled, tosses a cloud of pale dust over her shoulder. Lykos staggers back, coughing violently, spear falling to his side.

She spins with a mocking laugh, crimson cloak flaring. “I’ve won every round, crusader. When will you learn? ”

His dark eyes flash with frustration—and something else. Fascination. “What was that?”

“One of Cael’s poisons.” Her voice lilts. “Be a good boy, and I’ll give you the antidote.”

“You—” Lykos topples, unconscious, before he can finish.

Zenon peers over the edge of the table, shaking his head. “I can’t believe women used to swoon over him.”

Megaera smiles faintly as she kneels, tipping the antidote into Lykos’s mouth. “He has a certain brutish charm. Pity about what’s in his head.”

“Should we drag him inside?”

“Leave him. The spring air will do him good.”

They mean well, all of them. Stuck here in Iskaldir with me, longing for somewhere else—someone else. Especially Lykos and Zenon. It’s like they have a place they’re supposed to be, a person waiting for them.

As soon as I can, I’ll find a way to get us back to Lumin.

I shake my stiff arm and leg, willing sensation to return.

The town bell tolls—Arcane Sovereign! It’s quarter to five already.

I’m due at the temple in fifteen minutes.

Last time I was late, Prins Lief made me write lines by candlelight under the watchful eyes of the temple statues. I’m now certain I believe in ghosts.

My arm tingles as feeling returns, and I leap to my feet. Megaera calls lazily after me, “Your curacowl’s by the stove. You nearly cooked it.”

I snatch the white healer’s hat from its perch, inhaling a faint whiff of smoke as I cram it onto my head. Delightful. Pulling the veil down over my face, I grab my bag of remedies and bolt.

The courtyard door bangs shut behind me, and I step into the heart of Ragn, a coastal town cleaved in two by a glacier winding down from the pine-covered mountains.

I hurry along cobbled streets lined with timber houses and glance up at the peaks. Perched on one is a stone castle, its battlements silhouetted against the fading light; on the other, catching the golds of the sinking sun, stands the temple of the gods—the place I need to be.

Swinging right, I enter the town square, where a wall of celebratory music and masked dancers hits me like a wave. They whirl around enormous stone runes set into the ground—a wedding celebration.

I zigzag through the throngs of revellers. “Excuse me—sorry.”

From a balcony overhead, someone shouts, “Release the runes!”

Four massive gulls are set loose from the rooftops, their wings beating as they scatter pebbles into the crowd below. A roar of delight erupts as hands shoot skyward, scrambling for the falling stones.

Someone nudges me. “You won’t catch one standing like that.”

I suppress a laugh. The last thing I need is a love rune.

Dodging flailing arms and fervent whispers, I finally break free of the crowd. The temple’s pink-hued reflection deepens as twilight settles, urging me onward. I pick up my pace, darting through wider streets and narrow lanes until I reach the bridge—and come to an abrupt halt.

A crowd has gathered; the sharp clang of metal fills the air as two men swing and dodge, muscles straining under the lantern light.

“It’s been fifteen minutes already,” someone mutters. The crowd collectively inhales as a blade misses by a hair.

By Iskaldir etiquette, they’ve another fifteen to tie—or until one of them dies.

The town bell chimes. No time.

I spot the light guardian at the edge of the bridge, deftly swinging a lantern to light the others. Before he pulls the flame into place above the duel, I scuttle over.

“One moment!”

The guardian startles as I grab his arm.

“You want this bridge clear for the other lanterns?” I ask.

“That’d help, but how d’you plan to stop ‘em?”

I rummage in my bag, pull out a dark waxy pill, and drop it into the lantern’s flame. “Lift it above their heads—quickly.”

He obeys, and plumes of smoke billow from the lantern, drifting down toward the grunting, cursing combatants.

“What is this?” the guardian shrieks.

“Harmless,” I assure him. “Just a nap. Watch.”

The fighters’ movements slow, their swings growing sluggish before they collapse into snores.

Laughter ripples through the crowd, and I don’t wait. Leaping over the outstretched feet of the unconscious men, I sprint toward the temple doors.

The ceremonial grounds before the temple are lined with stormblades, their gleaming hilts catching the dimming light. I make the sign Prins Lief taught me, and the guards open the heavy doors into the main hall.

The vast space is dominated by towering statues along the walls and small shrines scattered at their bases. At its centre is a stone pit holding an eternal fire, and Prins Lief, his hands outstretched to the warmth as he speaks to a woman wearing a curacowl identical to mine.

She turns as I approach, her veil lifted to the brim of her hat. Her face, so like my mother’s, strikes a painful chord of longing in my chest.

I move closer, passing the stormblades flanking the fire. Prins Lief’s voice is cool. “You’re late.”

I bow my head. “Apologies, your highness.”

He gestures sharply. “What is that on your curacowl?”

I touch the brim and pluck off a small runestone, realising where it must have come from. “A wedding celebration. It must have fallen on me in the square.”

He curls a finger.

I hesitate before handing the stone over. At least he seems to have forgotten my tardiness.

Prins Lief inspects the rune, then barks a laugh. “There’ll be a disappointed wedding crowd tonight.”

“What’s wrong with it?”

“Nothing. On the contrary, this blessing is unique—one per ceremony. It’s highly sought after.” His eyes flicker toward my aunt, a wistful look crossing his face. She doesn’t notice; her gaze is fixed warmly on me.

When she finally turns back, he tosses the rune to her as though it’s an afterthought.

She examines it briefly before smiling at me. “I see.”

I gesture to the rune. “Should I return it?”

“Runes are glimpses of the gods’ will,” Prins Lief replies, his tone cryptic. “You can’t cast those away.”

“How convenient,” I mutter.

“Asta will explain later,” he says, his voice softening as he speaks her name. Clearing his throat, he straightens. “More pressing, I’ve been inundated with requests to reveal the healer with Lindrhalda’s touch. News of your work has spread, and my father has asked to meet you.”

I stiffen. “I don’t have Lindr—”

“Your aunt has been catching me up on your progress. She calls you gifted.”

“Gifted cannot be compared to the powers of a goddess .”

“I’ve put things off by declaring your whereabouts unknown, but that only buys us the time my father gives me to find you.” Prins Lief looks to my aunt. “I cannot give you longer. Will he be close enough to live up to the title?”

“His understanding of herbal properties and how they interact with one another is the most extensive I’ve seen in Iskaldir. Far broader than my own.”

Wait, wait. This is all putting the cart before the horse. Better if there was no cart at all. “What happens if you never find the one with Lindrhalda’s touch? ”

“The king must find some answer to satisfy the public. If we don’t find an actual saint, we’ll have to find any old healer, claim him a fraud, and have him disembowelled.”

So the cart has to stay. “Can I pin my hopes on you finding an actual saint?”

Prins Lief grimaces. “How skilled is he?”