Page 23

I barely catch a glimpse of his shadow before it slips over a rolling hill, through dense forest. Whenever I get close, he spurs his horse on, anger and hurt driving him. And I follow in desperation—somehow, someway, I must bring him back to Quin, to their loving brotherhood.

Each day, each breathless glimpse of his red cloak, feels like a step deeper into the past. We pass through Hinsard, neither of us stopping.

The city is a blur of memories—of the three of us.

This is where we broke apart. No. The truth sinks its claws in, sharper than I want to admit.

We fractured much earlier. Maybe we were never whole to begin with.

My attraction to Nicostratus had been a mask, a desperate attempt to stitch myself back together after the last time Maskios left.

I’d searched for my masked friend for so long, I’d let myself believe Nicostratus might be the answer.

Or at least someone who could help me forget.

I grip my reins tightly, steering my horse— a trade for tonics after my journey back to Lumin—into a narrowing gully.

The air grows cooler, and towering trees stretch overhead, their canopies dappling me with patches of light and shadow.

Somewhere in these woods is the crusader base.

Perhaps, if I yelled out, Lykos, Zenon, and Megaera might hear me. But this is not their fight.

In the far distance, I glimpse a flicker of red flashing through the trees. Slower, this time. My gut churns. He’s letting me catch up. He must be.

The path twists, and I realise where we are. The fortress ruins are rising at the base of Mount Crysippos. Memories flood me as I enter, this time through the creaking front gates. The clatter of hooves echoes off the courtyard stone, the sound swallowed by the stillness. My heart pounds.

This is where Quin and Nicostratus snuck off to as boys, on their travels to Hinsard.

This is where Quin and I saved Nicostratus from the crusaders.

This is where my magic was taken from me forever.

I dismount, the reins slipping through my trembling fingers. There’s a quietness in the courtyard that has me shivering. It’s still. Too still. I see a flicker of movement, a shadow, but when I turn my head it’s gone. My pulse races.

I tell myself it’s nothing. It’s fear. This sense of foreboding is trauma; my body recalling what happened to me here. I shake off a shudder and move across moss-slick stone to a broad back of red: Nicostratus waiting.

“You led me here,” I say quietly .

“You wouldn’t stop following me.” Nicostratus doesn’t turn to face me, his voice strained and sharp.

“So this place was meant to—”

“Yes. Hurt. So we can be on even ground.”

The ache in my chest rises, spreading hollow and cold around my severed meridians. “Now that we are, can you let us talk this through? Yell it through even, so long as we get it through?”

He turns, his gaze cutting through me. “I saw everything. I know your history. I know how he feels about you. And...” His gaze falters, his throat working hard as he looks toward the ruins. “I could see in your eyes how you’ve always felt about him.”

“It was never conscious—”

“Whether you realised it or not, I simply wasn’t enough. I was never enough.”

My throat tightens. “It isn’t about being enough. You are an incredible choice. Kind, loyal, always there when I needed help. You’re beautiful. But... feelings aren’t simple.”

His laugh is bitter and hollow, bouncing off the crumbled stone walls. “Then feelings should be avoided.”

I step closer, my hands trembling at my sides, one grazing Quin’s gifted dromveske hanging from my belt. “I tried. I tried very hard to do as you asked.”

“Very hard,” he says drily, his lip curling.

“I couldn’t leave him to die, and he couldn’t see me die either. Life forced us back together. ”

“Don’t put this on fate,” he snaps, his voice trembling with fury. “You wanted to be together.”

I flinch, my mouth dry. My silence hangs heavy between us.

He steps closer, his voice low and dangerous. “Or are you here to tell me from now on, you’ll leave us alone?”

I look at him, my heart pounding. There’s a rational side that says I should agree, that says that’s what I’ve been trying to do all along and should do properly final, but I cannot say those words. My stomach roils even at the thought of them.

He looms over me. “So?”

I inhale sharply. “You love your brother. Nothing is worth destroying your relationship. Hate me, not him.”

“What if I only agree if you leave his life?” His words are a threat, slicing through the air.

A sharp pain pierces my chest. My fists clench instinctively. “He needs your support for the kingdom .”

“Leave him!” he roars.

I shake my head, desperation thick in my voice. “You want me to give him up. Why won’t you give up your jealousy?”

His eyes blaze, raw and pained, as he recoils. “My brother falls for my only spark of joy, and I’m the one who has to get over it?”

Guilt twists in my gut—almost as much as the spear that plunged through my meridians. “I hate how much I’ve hurt you. I am sorry.”

“Sorry enough to give him up? ”

“Sorry enough that I will do anything I can to make it up to you. Anything, except that.”

His laugh this time is a quiet, broken thing. It doesn’t echo—it sinks into the air, heavy and unbearable. “Make it up to me?” His voice is tight, trembling. “Why bother? You’re going to do whatever you want no matter the outcome of this conversation.”

He turns toward his horse, and panic surges in my chest. I lunge forward, snagging his sleeve. He halts but doesn’t face me.

“I am grateful to you,” I whisper. “Fond of you. I owe you my life, and I would gladly give it for you.”

He turns slowly, his voice barely audible. “Do you know how painful it is to hear that platitude? I’d rather you say the truth. You don’t care for me at all.”

“You’re his beloved brother,” I say, my voice breaking. “I will treat you as if you are mine.”

“Keep digging this knife in!” His voice cracks on the words, and he pulls away from me, his face twisted with anguish.

“I’m sorry I’ve hurt you.”

“Sorry isn’t enough!”

He steps back, and I’m about to beg him not to run away again when figures slip out from behind broken stone walls.

At first, I’m slammed with panic, I see purple crusader cloaks and spears, but as I steady my breathing, I see the figures for what they are: sickly looking villagers aiming scythes and pitchforks.

But why at us? Why do they look so serious. And so sickly ?

I take in the figures surrounding us. “What’s going on?” I call out. I step backwards, closer to Nicostratus.

No one speaks, but they keep shifting closer.

I frown over a lurch of fear. I don’t know what these villagers want, but I feel like we should get away. Or at the very least, Nicostratus should. Taking me along might be asking too much. “Fly out of here,” I murmur.

“Haven’t meditated since . . .”

I glimpse a flicker of pain in his expression. Meditating might mean confronting his fight with his brother in a way he hasn’t been ready for yet.

“Are you telling me you’ve no magic right now?” I gulp.

“I still have a sword.”

He starts to draw it and I stop him. “We don’t know the situation. They look sick.”

I call out again, this time directing my question to the silver-bearded man who seems to be leading. “You’re pale. I see a damp sheen on your faces. You’re unwell.”

“Unwell?” he spits, voice hoarse. “We’re dying.”

They rush forwards, scythes and pitchforks gleaming in the daylight. Nicostratus’s sword comes out and I raise both hands. “Stop! If you’re that sick you need a healer. Why attack?”

Silver-beard halts the men. “You’re not sick. You’re like the rest of them in Kastoria. Suspicious.”

“Slow down. We’re travellers, from the south. What’s happening?”

Silver-beard squints at us, his scythe still angled at us, but he’s not moving forward .

I narrow my gaze, scrolling him for signs. “What are your symptoms?”

Silver-beard shoves at his sleeves and raises his arms. My chest seizes as I take in the familiar sheen of scales creeping over his skin. I’ve seen this before, in Kastoria. The regent should have taken care of this. At least this.

“There are scriptions to try,” I murmur shakily.

“That’s what she said, but it’s not working!”

“She?”

Silver-beard lowers his scythe, as do the others, but they continue to step closer. Nicostratus mutters a curse under his breath.

“That one seems to know scriptions,” Silver-beard calls out. “This one looks like a bleedin’ redcloak. Bring them to the luminari—”

It happens in a heartbeat.

His shoulders jerk with a sudden spasm. His breath hitches violently, and his head snaps forward.

He sneezes.

Time slows. I see the droplets shimmer in the sunlight as they arc toward Nicostratus.

“No!” My body moves before I think. I slam my hands into Nicostratus’s chest, shoving him aside—

The spray lands wetly across my profile.

My heart pounds as I swipe at my face with my cloak, but it’s no use. If this is what Grandfather’s journals described... it won’t matter.

“Nicostratus,” I say urgently. “Cover your mouth and nose, now. ”

He hears the directive in my voice and doesn’t question it, hurriedly tying a handkerchief to his head. I do the same as I address the circling men. “I’m a healer. I’ll let you take me with you, if you leave him behind.”

“We’ll take you both.”

I grab the hilt of Nicostratus’s sword and thrust it outward, its weight almost pulling me down. “Leave. Him. Behind.”

The men hesitate, their grips on scythes and pitchforks tightening. Silver-beard flinches and raises a trembling hand. “Do as he says.”

Nicostratus steps forward carefully, his gaze locked on mine as he takes back his weapon. His voice is low, sharp. “What are you doing?”

My throat tightens as I murmur, “If this is what I fear it is, you need to meditate. Shield yourself.”

“What do you fear it is?”

I don’t answer. I can’t. The words catch in my chest, and I swallow hard as I’m dragged away. My pulse hammers; I force myself to breathe steadily. Nothing will come from faltering now.

As they shove me onward, Nicostratus stands motionless, his red cloak—blood red—whips against the grey ruins. A foreboding colour that might soon stain a kingdom.

His face is unreadable, but his grip on the sword tightens.

He won’t follow. Not yet.

I’m escorted through the greens of the gully to a boat, where I’m stuck in the miasma of their wheezing as they strain against the oars.

On wet coughs, we finally glide into an eerily quiet Kastoria, not stopping until we arrive at the luminarium.

Looming against the setting sun, the reflection mimics magic the dome used to have.

Lies. There is no magic here. Instead, the truth gleams over the villager’s arms, along their deadly scales.

I press a clenched fist to my mouth against what’s been racing through my mind and heart:

This might be the thing healers—magic or not—most fear.

This might be plague.