Page 28

B eneath the mountain on the west side, a labyrinth of streets sprawls inside a vast, hollowed-out cave, its walls swallowing the light in jagged, uneven gulps. My companions and I are marched into a vine-choked hall.

We’re ordered to kneel. I comply. Olyn, Queen Veronica, and the young king do the same.

The moment my knees hit the damp stone, heat rushes beneath my skin, pressing with a throb behind my skull.

The air is thick with damp earth and something bitter—an attempt to purify the depths, perhaps—but all it does is make my already constricted lungs work harder.

I suppress the urge to exhale too sharply, forcing my hands to stay still on my thighs.

Only Bastion and Nicostratus remain upright, their jaws tight.

The crusaders don’t ask twice. The dull thunk of spear shafts forces them down onto all fours.

Nicostratus’s fingers twitch out the corner of my eye, magic stirring with his temper.

Don’t, I warn him with a glance, and he exhales with a grunt of displeasure.

Laughter slithers through the hall. A shadow sweeps forward, the weight of its presence alone commanding silence. “Gave them this, did he? Call him in.”

The man steps into view, broadly built, carrying the kind of presence that makes others step aside without a word. The resemblance to Zenon is uncanny, though where Zenon is all keen edges, his father is carved from stone.

He swings the chain idly between his fingers before catching it in his fist. His gaze cuts straight to mine, sharp, knowing. Like he could feel me watching him.

“My son wouldn’t give this to just anyone.” He grimaces, nostrils flaring at the scent of magic still clinging to me from my shield, weak, flickering. I need it replenished soon, or I risk infecting everyone around me.

But there’s something else. A scrutinising look that has me holding my breath, as if he might sense the symptoms I’m trying to hide. Dizzying warmth sneaks up my spine and intensifies. The fever. It’s coming back.

Day two can be worse.

I will myself to stay calm. No matter what happens, I have to make sure Queen Veronica and Quin’s son will be safe.

“Father!” Zenon barrels into the room, all gangly limbs and determination. “Please.” He turns to me, nodding once. “This is the man who saved Lykos and me.”

Silence holds for a beat too long. Then, laughter. Rough, unexpected. Zenon’s father waves his crusaders off and tosses the chain back to his son.

“Then they are no prisoners, but most welcome guests.”

Zenon releases a breath so deep it almost topples him.

His father chuckles, waving us away. “Prepare rooms for them. And since you and Lykos owe him so much, invite him to the wedding banquet.”

Zenon practically throws himself at his father, arms tight around his neck. For a moment, the man stiffens, but then his shoulders ease, the gruff exterior fracturing just a little. He clears his throat and shoos us off, already retreating into authority once more.

The crusaders are ruthless. They’ve destroyed families, shattered spiritual meridians—including my own. And yet, beneath the violence, they stand for equality. They love fiercely.

We’re shown to our rooms, but Zenon lingers at the doorway, grinning. “Stay put. I have a surprise for you in just a minute.” Then he’s gone.

The moment I’m alone, I grab a strip of fabric and tie it over my nose and mouth. My fingers fumble the knot—not from haste, but from the fine tremor in my hands. I shake them out. Ignore it. Then I push through the door and hurry to Nicostratus’s chamber.

The corridor swims for a few pounding heartbeats. My vision tightens at the edges, and my breathing shallows. I reach out towards the wall, steadying myself on the stone and vines before stepping away, forcing each step to land evenly. No one saw that. I keep moving.

“Please. Strengthen my shield.”

Nicostratus sets down his teacup with a quiet clink, his brows pulling together. “No one here seems sick. We’re far enough away from—”

“Hurry.”

His eyes narrow.

If he knows, he might lock me in a room until I recover, but if I’m to die of this—and my chances are fifty-fifty—I want to go doing everything I can to save Quin’s people.

I want to turn the horse pus into protective paste; I want to get it to the people; I want to head back to the capital and help spread the scription for warding there.

I add quickly, “You didn’t see anyone sick. But I think I did. I need to check.”

A beat. Then, with a sigh, Nicostratus raises his hands and strengthens the shield.

The glow brightens instantly, but for all the magic around me, it doesn’t dull the throb behind my eyes, the fever pulsing just beneath my skin. I force my shoulders to relax, schooling my features into something neutral, something that doesn’t betray the way my body is burning from the inside out.

Then—

“Using magic, here? Have some respect!”

The deep voice crashes through the doorway I forgot to close. My pulse lurches as I spin around—

The sudden movement sends a fresh wave of dizziness through me. I barely steady myself before Lykos smirks at me, shaking his head.

He doesn’t wait for a greeting. He hauls me into a hug that lifts me off my feet.

“Good to see you.” His grip tightens before he sets me down, a glint of something unreadable in his eye. “And good you made it just in time.”

I eye him warily. “In time for what?”

His grin grows, all mischief and something I’m not used to seeing on this gruff man: delight. “You’ll see.”

I see sooner than I expect. I’m barely one breath in, and Zenon joyously yells my name in the distance. I emerge from the chambers into the vined hallway only to crash into silk and gold embroidery.

My hands reflexively grip the bride’s delicate dress before I jerk shakily away.

A laugh tickles up my throat—over the heat and tightness building there—as I take her all in.

Golden silk skirts with fine jewels studding the shoulders and delicate chains dangling into sleeves.

Her hair is extravagantly braided, sparkling with pearly clasps.

Her clothes are traditional and not too dissimilar to when she was first dressed up this way, but she looks more radiant today: she’s smiling.

She’s marrying someone who wants to marry her this time.

“Megaera,” I murmur.

Her dark eyes dance, and her smiling lips open to let out a laugh. Behind her Zenon is grinning. “Good surprise, right?” he says .

I swallow. “You’re getting married today?”

“We’re aware of the plague. We decided it wasn’t worth waiting.”

Married. First my aunt during war; now Megaera during plague. Troubled times put things sharply into perspective. Love should be celebrated as much as it can be—one never knew when it could be taken away.

My hand grips the dromveske at my belt.

“We did the rites this morning,” Megaera continues, spying Lykos slipping out of the room behind me. Her eyes narrow playfully at him. “I was just hunting down my husband who left me to welcome our guests at the banquet.”

Lykos gulps audibly behind me. “I heard Cael had arrived, you see. Had to make sure he was treated right, or you’d poison me for sure.”

I pivot to see them staring with quiet smiles at one another.

Her golden chains jingle as she faces me. “Thank you for running out on our wedding. Today, I got to marry my ideal choice.”

In a blur, Lykos snatches her up over his shoulder and starts marching off. “I have business to attend,” he calls out to us, and says quieter to Megaera, “and it’s not the banquet.”

“Wait,” Megaera laughs and pulls something out of the folds of her dress. She lifts up, bracing against Lykos’s back, and throws a small vial that Zenon neatly catches. “ For Caelus,” she says, laughing. “I’ve perfected this poison!”

They round the corner out of sight and Zenon hands me the vial. Poison! How typically Megaera. Not a gift I need at all.

I roll the vial between my fingers, bemused. It’s lighter than I expect, or maybe I’m just unsteady.

The fever flushes just under my skin again, pressing harder, along with an unfathomable itch up my arms. I force myself to ignore it as I move back towards the horse pus and scription, and focus on Megaera’s vial.

She’s not the only one who gives terrible gifts.

Quin had once looked at me the same way when I pressed a vial of amorous spores into his palm.

He’d hated the spores as much as I hate poison.

But he hadn’t let me take it back. A gift was a gift after all.

I sigh softly and at the same time shiver hard.

Wait—I forgot to ask Nicostratus. I turn, but it’s too sudden. My head throbs so hard my vision turns white and I lose my balance, stumbling blindly.

I’m caught by winds before I fall, and then Nicostratus is lifting me to my feet again. “What was that? Are you—” He hisses. His palm is on my forehead. He’ll feel the fever. He’ll know. “How long?” he demands. “How long have you known?”

Another shout. Bastion.

“I’ve got him,” Nicostratus bites out.

A steady female voice trails down the hall. Olyn’s. “It’s day two. Get him to his rooms. I’ll make a broth. ”

As I expected, Nicostratus marches me straight to my chamber and paces beside my bed. “The letter,” I ask on a cough. “Can you get it to my father—”

Nicostratus snaps. “That’s all you’re concerned with?”

“It’s more important than one life.”

Magic leaks from him and he grits out, “A redcloak we met in the forest was one of Quin’s. He took the letter with him to the capital.”

I let out a long, relieved sigh, but it quickly turns into a cough.

Nicostratus bows his head. His voice trembles. And this is the real reason I couldn’t tell him I was sick. “The ruins, those farmers, that sneeze. You blocked it for me.”

When I don’t speak, he drops to his knees with a groan.

“I told you,” I say. “I owe you my life, and I would gladly give it for you. I can give you anything.” I meet his eyes. “Except for my heart.”

Silence.

His breath shudders, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. A storm brews in his expression—something raw, unreadable. He blinks hard. His voice breaks. “Give me instructions. I’ll write letters, copy scriptions, decoct them. I’ll do whatever you want.”

“Whatever?” I whisper.

His gaze hits mine with a shimmery, knowing depth. He closes his eyes and breathes in and out, slowly. Then he rises. A last lingering look. His mouth parts like he might say something—but he doesn’t. His cloak whips as he turns and walks away.