Page 27

A sharp sting lances through my forearm, and my eyes snap open to a familiar room and bed.

For a moment, I think I’ve woken into a memory of my own, where Quin lay during the first Kastoria outbreak, prone, unconscious.

But now it’s me on that bed. I turn my stiff neck and my vision slowly sharpens on Olyn beside me, pulling needles from my arm.

“I thought I’d lost you there,” she whispers, sagging onto her haunches in relief.

I push myself into a sitting position, my limbs heavy, the skin of my inner arms shiny with thin scales. My nails dig into the blankets to stop from scratching. I murmur, “Where’s his dromveske?”

“I just put it there.” She gestures towards the shelf and frowns. “What’s so special about it that you wouldn’t even let me treat you until I chalked them last night?”

I sag back to my pillow with a rush of warm relief. It was real. That rune door, the memory behind it, happened .

Including the fragile grip on my life, making it back through the darkness. I pull myself clumsily out of bed, Olyn rushing to catch me. “Rest. You’re not out of the woods yet. Second-day fevers can be worse.”

I gulp over a parched throat and murmur for water.

She hands me a cup and I sip, clearing my throat. “As long as I’m breathing, I owe him. We’re going back up the mountain.”

Olyn exhales sharply. “Your stubbornness is something else.” A pause. “But... I admire it.”

She doesn’t stop me. Instead, she decocts a scription I dictate, and I drink it down. No cure, but enough to keep me on my feet. When the medicine’s hum settles in my blood, we hurry toward the luminarium. I brace myself to relinquish my belongings once again in exchange for leaving Kastoria.

But the moment we step outside, chaos meets us.

A half-dozen men stand guard, the clasps pinned on their shoulders unmistakable. Vespertine insignia. Bastion’s men.

I scan their faces. “What happened? I thought they were holding you hostage?”

The nearest meets my gaze, his expression grave. “All but one of them succumbed to the plague overnight. We escaped.”

A chill snakes down my spine.

Smoke curls into the sky in thin, dark ribbons. Beside me, Olyn murmurs, “Seven more died yesterday.”

My pulse slams against my ribs. I grab her arm and steer her toward the boat, ignoring the fire burning through my limbs. We don’t have time.

When we land at the fortress, Nicostratus doesn’t ask questions.

At my word, he shields me and summons the wind, and we soar toward the mountain farm.

The night air is a sharp whip against my skin, the ground a blur beneath us.

I barely register the ache in my joints, the exhaustion clawing up my spine.

My thoughts oscillate between two things: the pigs, and the broken rune door.

Nicostratus did that. He’d seen his brother gift me his one and only lovelight; he’d torn down that door in hurt and frustration.

He still held those feelings in his bones.

When we land, I push those thoughts aside and stumble forward, boots sinking into the damp grass. My breath catches—there, in the pen, the pigs are moving. Alive . The ones we marked, the ones that survived the horse pus, are trotting around. None have been reinfected.

Relief crashes over me so violently my knees buckle. Pegus is nodding, speaking rapidly about how he pulled twelve dead pigs away through the night—but none of the ones we treated. My hands tremble as I ask for ink and paper.

I have to write it down. The scription, the method, the proof. Pegus must convince the village to do the same. His hands tighten on the parchment. “Some won’t take the risk,” he says, voice uncertain.

I stare at the ink bleeding into the fibres of the page. Neither will my father.

The thought clenches around my ribs like a fist. I reach for another sheet and begin to write, forcing my hand steady.

Father.

I tell him everything—the pigs, the illness, the cure. The truth. My throat is dry, every scratch of the pen against parchment tightening my lungs.

This healing—such warding—is forbidden.

It is built on Grandfather’s research.

It is what got him executed.

My father stood there that day. He saw the blade fall. He saw the way the luminists made an example of him. And now I’m asking him to do the same thing—to defy them, to risk his life, not just to protect our family, but to fight for others.

My pulse thunders. My fingers shake so hard the ink blots the page. I have no right to ask this of him.

But I must.

I swallow hard and press my pen to the parchment once more. I promise him the true king will not hold him accountable. I tell him he will not be alone. I tell him—

The words catch in my throat. My hand hovers over the page.

He won’t do it. Not after what happened to Grandfather. Not after what he’s lost.

He wouldn’t even use a mere medius spell to save his grandchild from an agonising limp. How could he touch this forbidden healing?

And yet.

I have to ask. Have to plead .

The ink is still wet when I set the letter aside. My breath comes too fast. My skin prickles, my arms itching. I rub at them furiously, clawing not only at the hardening scales beneath my sleeves, but at the anxiety burning through my veins.

Olyn catches my wrist and shakes her head. I meet her gaze. Her expression is steady. A silent reminder that scratching will make this worse.

I exhale. Nod.

Then, with my heart hammering, I seal the letter and beg Nicostratus to deliver it, somehow, after he brings us back down the mountain.

Something feels wrong.

Mist smothers the fringe of the woods, thick and low, swallowing sound. We should see the river from here. We should see our boat. But the fog coils through the trees, dampening everything except the pounding in my chest.

Nicostratus moves beside me, a shadow shifting through the gloom. Olyn is a step behind. We stay close, skirting from trunk to trunk, careful. I lead, my shield casting a faint glow against the dark.

Then— crack .

Not from behind us. Not from the left or right. Ahead.

Nicostratus halts sharply, his hand locking around my arm as his other presses to his lips. Shh. Stay still. His muscles go rigid.

Something moves through the mist—many somethings. Boots scuff damp earth. A voice barks low, urgent. “Hurry up.”

A flicker of red. My gut clenches. Olyn stares at me wide-eyed, mouth forming the word we both dread.

Redcloaks.

Here, along the river leading south from the capital. The last time the royal soldiers passed through these woods, it was to barricade Kastoria—to let them rot in sickness and starvation.

A sickness that has only spread.

The mist thickens with the weight of old ghosts, and I barely get a breath before something snaps.

Too close. Above.

A black coil lashes out of the trees, snaring my waist. Before I can shout, it yanks me skyward. Olyn’s muffled shriek is swallowed by the mist as I’m lifted from the ground and plunked onto a branch.

A familiar voice greets me, smug as ever.

“We keep meeting like this.”

My breath rushes out in a laugh—stunned, startled, relieved all at once.

“Almighty Sovereign.”

“Just ‘Husband Dearest’ will do.”

His whip coils back into his grip. That playful smirk lingers, but his eyes are tight. Not a game this time.

Below, Nicostratus and Olyn materialise through the mist. Nicostratus reaches for me, but I shake my head. We’re not alone.

Bastion crosses his arms. Grim. Tense.

I swallow. “You know what the redcloaks are doing here.”

“You won’t like the answer.”

Bastion keeps his voice low. “The capital is in chaos. The last two days, the city has realised—this is everywhere. A plague.” His gaze darkens. “The people are desperate, sick, angry. They demand the vitalians provide a cure. Demand the regent take responsibility.”

“Something he should have done months ago,” I mutter, jaw tight. “What’s he doing about it?”

Bastion lets out a dry, humourless laugh. “The regent? He’s sent the silver-sash royal vitalians into the capital, but no further.” His smirk fades. “He keeps the gold ones to himself.”

Nicostratus swears under his breath. I stare into the mist, bile rising in my throat. Mikros and Makarios. He sent them to handle this alone?

Bastion’s tone sharpens. “They’re dodging rioters while scrambling for a way to help. But at least they’re grown men.”

A terrible, suffocating weight presses against my ribs. I clutch the branch harder, fingers digging into bark.

Bastion exhales. And speaks the words I fear.

“The regent should have gone himself. He should be standing in the worst-hit places, giving aid, facing his people. Instead—” A pause. A grim tilt of his head. “He sent the four-year-old king.”

A sharp inhale. Nicostratus’s face pinches in horror. “The redcloaks at the riverside. They’re guarding a royal vessel. Are you telling me—”

Bastion turns, narrows his eyes as if noticing Nicostratus for the first time. A slow, assessing tilt of his head. “Who are you?”

Nicostratus ignores him, voice tense. “Tell me who’s in that boat.”

“You already know.”

My stomach sinks. No. I close my eyes. Please, no.

“Quin’s son,” I whisper.

Bastion nods. “A mere child and his queen mother.” His jaw tightens.

“I saw them in the capital. The redcloaks shoved the her and the boy onto the public stage. The child was crying, his crown slipping over his eyes. His mother tried to reason with the people, but they didn’t want placation.

They want a cure—the one they believe is being withheld.

The queen had to shield herself and her son from hurled furniture, men with fists raised, linea wielding spells.

The redcloaks only stepped in after they had endured an hour of it.

Then marched them to the next town, where it happened again. ”

I grip the branch harder. The dread in my stomach turns to something far worse.

“The more people get sick,” Bastion murmurs, “the more violent they become. ”

Nicostratus recovers first. “You’ve been following them?”

“Not because I have respect for our true king,” Bastion says quickly—too quickly. “He’s just a boy, isn’t he? And the royals in charge—” A bitter scoff. “Even ruthless to their own.”

“Where are they taking him?” Nicostratus demands.

Bastion’s face darkens. “Hinsard.” A pause. Then, quieter, grimmer, “If the boy makes it there, he and his mother will be dead within the week.”

The bark bites into my palm. I can barely feel it.

My friend, Queen Veronica . . .

The young king . . .

Quin’s son.

I cannot let them be dragged to Hinsard. Cannot let them be hurt any more.

The thought is a fire in my chest, burning with the weight of certainty. My throat tightens, but I say the words steadily. “We need to save them.”

Nicostratus exhales sharply. “There are four of us. At least twenty-four of them.”

I turn to him, heat flashing through my veins. “What kind of uncle will you be?”

His jaw flexes. A muscle twitches. “I’ll never be like him .”

Bastion flicks his gaze to Nicostratus again, eyes assessing. “He and I can lure the bulk of them away. Start a fight, make it loud.” His smirk is all sharp edges. “But how will you get them off the boat? ”

Olyn rolls a needle between her fingers. “I can take a couple of cloaks.”

She could. But that would reveal there are more of us. Too risky. I rummage through my healing bag, fingers grazing over vials. I have something that could work—but it needs an igniter.

I pause. Then glance over at Bastion.

He raises a dark eyebrow. “What?”

I shuffle closer and pat his chest. He stiffens, a low rumbly sound vibrating from him.

I hiss and slap his arm. “Not what I meant.”

His grin is wolfish. “Shame.”

Ignoring him, I pull out the bottle I was hoping for.

His amusement vanishes. “That’s my wine.”

I tuck it into my belt. “That’s my plan.”

The plan works—at first.

Nicostratus and Bastion launch a chaotic diversion, and the redcloaks don’t hesitate to take the bait. Three remain stationed near the boat, keeping watch.

I slip through the mist.

The boat is shrouded in fog, quiet except for the occasional murmur of the soldiers. Keeping low, I crouch near the hull. Quickly, I mix an alchemic paste, Bastion’s wine acting as the burning agent. I smear the compound along the waterline.

The reaction is instant. The wood sizzles. Softens. Bubbles.

Water seeps in .

I press back into the shadows just as the boat groans. A sickly, splintering noise.

A sharp cry from within.

Queen Veronica and her son are pushed out onto the deck as the soldiers rush below.

Now.

Olyn and I step from behind the trees. I catch Veronica’s sharp breath as she sees us.

Hurry. I motion for her to come.

She hesitates—just a fraction of a second—then bundles her son into her arms and slips over the railing.

She’s not using magic. They must be sealing and unsealing her powers at will.

No time to talk. No time for the questions burning between us.

We run.

The ruins loom ahead. Safety. We actually did it.

We—

Steel flashes.

A sword slashes toward my throat.

The blade rebounds off my shield and my breath chokes in my lungs. I’d be dead if—

Men step out from the trees. More than I can count.

Two lunge for the Queen and the child—Olyn whips her needles into their acupoints. They collapse before they can touch them.

Their captain booms, “Kidnapping royalty?”

I snarl. “That would be you.”

The redcloak raises his sword again. The second impact rattles through my bones. How long will my shield hold?

Olyn twists her attacker off balance, but his hand rips her tunic as she moves, exposing the bandage binding her chest.

She stills.

A snarl of disgust. “Many reasons to die today.”

Queen Veronica hisses. “Caelus. Protect my son.”

I turn and shield the boy with my body. He trembles, clinging to me.

Veronica snaps a branch from a tree and parries a redcloak’s strike. The soldier hesitates, uncertain.

Until another voice calls.

“Only the boy needs to live.”

My shield flickers, still there—but only faintly.

Quin’s son screams for his mother.

We are truly caught. This time, there is no way out.

The next sword blow will kill me.

The redcloak lurches, gurgling. A spear is buried in his throat.

A roar. A rush of air.

The other redcloaks whirl around, facing a new threat.

Crusaders.

Purple cloaks. Spears flashing.

They tear through the redcloaks in seconds. Then their eyes land on us.

Queen Veronica, wielding a branch like a blade.

Olyn, exposed.

A child, sobbing in my arms .

Me—my shield flickering, magic draining.

The crusaders raise their spears again.

I dump my healing bag onto the ground, spilling it open. “Wait!”

They don’t lower their weapons.

I dig through the mess. My heart pounds.

A spell blasts into them. They stumble. Nicostratus lands before us, Bastion at his side.

Bastion immediately rips off his cloak to cover Olyn. Nicostratus prepares another spell.

I grab the chain and leap up, holding it high. “I am friend to Lykos and your leader’s son, Zenon.”