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I hear the fright and anger in his voice. Blood isn’t expected. This has not happened before. Shouldn’t he be healing? Recovering? Why has his illness progressed to this?

Why, if he has Lindrhalda’s touch healing him?

“Haldr!” the king commands his stormblades as Nicostratus pulls Casimiria and me away from the banquet. “Bring him to me.”

Casimiria pulls free on a strained, “I can’t,” and plunges back into the hall, pushing through the crowd to get to the king.

Nicostratus curses under his breath, his body wavering in some decision, to chase after her or to hurry on.

He chooses to hurry on, yanking me with him, but I resist, pulling against him as my stomach tightens in knots.

The king is realising the truth: I’m not who I claim to be. He’ll never be healed.

I should run, I should run very far. What I’ve done is unforgiveable. What I’ve done will cost me my life.

But I can’t run.

My stomach is too heavy. I don’t deserve to run.

And if I do run, stormblades will chase me. I’ll implicate Nicostratus. If he’s caught aiding me, he’ll never get to his soldiers on time. If they’re not there to help Quin...

Nicostratus needs to leave now, and the only way he can go unhindered is without me. With a plummeting stomach, I push him away. “Get his men there on time. Go.”

Nicostratus tries to snag my sleeve again and grips air in a closed fist. Frustration flashes across his face, but he too can foresee the future. He too realises I’m a liability. He too chooses to leave without me.

I watch him dash into the shadows and turn to the approaching stormblades, who stop their questioning stares at the flicker of movement behind me and focus.

They escort me to the king.

Each step is dizzying. This is it. I’m found out. My aunt cries as I’m dragged forward, and Prins Lief hauls her back from lurching towards me; from giving herself up too. He drags his wife from the room, and for this at least I’m grateful. He’ll look after her .

I’m shoved to my knees before the podium. Except for a fleeting moment where his eyes close, Quin remains impassive as the king thumps his blood-splattered table.

The crowd holds its breath close behind me, and Casimira shakingly tries to dab the blood dribbling down King Yngvarr’s chin.

He pushes her hand away. “You deceived me. You promised I was blessed by Lindrhalda’s touch.”

The crowd gasps and their thickening sense of disappointment and despair is choking. It’s hard to breathe. The guests had only rushed after those runes believing them blessed by the goddess. Believing they’d give them hope during a time they need hope the most.

Green runes flash in the corner of my eye as they’re dropped, clattering to the floor.

I’m supposed to mend hearts, not shatter them.

King Yngvarr coughs blood and staggers to his feet. He rounds his table and comes down the steps. A brilliant gleam hits his sword as he slides it from its sheath and levels it on me.

Casimiria chases after him, grabbing his shoulder, pleading with him to hear me out.

She’s worried for him and worried for me, and though I tell myself not to, I glance towards Quin.

He’s stiff in his chair, unmoving. Though I can see through the disguise, though I know his heart is pounding, I hate the mask he has on. Hate how even now, as I stare down a sword, he still wears it .

I hate that in my last moments, I won’t see his truest face.

My gaze snaps back to the man behind the outstretched sword. “I hate it,” I say tightly. “I hate hiding the truth. I hate having to.”

The sword jerks shakily.

“Lindrhalda’s touch was my mask. My way of surviving.

I did it to save myself, my friends, and your own people from being burned alive.

I did it to help your son forge better healing scriptions that will aid all Skeldars, now and in the future.

I did it to stay by your side where I could protect my king’s mother. ”

“Your king—” He steps closer, his blade coming with him. I can feel the cold breath of the steel. “That’s why you fought so hard for that captive’s life? You’re a Lumin?”

“Not only a Lumin.” I force my chin up, baring my throat to him. “I am the king’s man.”

King Yngvarr regrips his sword in the following deathly silence, and I close my eyes.

“Please,” Casimiria whispers. “He won the Medicus Contest on your behalf. He saved me.”

There’s a cold wake of air at my throat where his blade shakes, and then, his voice.

“If he must die for his deception,” Quin says in an off-hand tone, “let it be a death that serves the kingdom. Send him to the fight. A healer as skilled as he’s claimed to be... could at least save some lives.”

“The fight?” King Yngvarr’s voice is pinched, but there’s an inflection that says he’s listening. Or at least, that he’s aware of his audience.

“There are few healers there as it is,” Quin says. “Perhaps he saves a husband, a brother, a son.”

The crowd murmurs.

There’s another shift of icy air against my throat, the blade still not drawing away.

I ping my eyes open. Quin is drumming a lazy hand over the arm of his chair, his gaze resolutely off me and respectfully on King Yngvarr.

“Take him!” King Yngvarr orders. He motions for his personal guards. “If he survives—”

Casimiria captures his arm and helps steady a wobble. “A thing like him?”

Quin laughs heavily. “If he should last, the gods must want him to.”

King Yngvarr coughs and lands his frightened, angry gaze on mine. “Then we’ll leave it to the gods.”