Page 29

I chalk my dromveske with trembling, fevered fingers, and collapse into swirling depths that bloom into violet as I land with a hard thud before the hollow in the oak.

My spirit form shivers, my fingertips flickering—much like they did the last time I was in here.

I almost didn’t make it then. How can I hold on tonight, with fevers wracking my bedridden body?

With my lungs so tight I had to escape into the dromveske to have the feeling of breathing?

I must hold on.

To help his people.

To see him again.

To tell him . . .

I must.

I press into the hollow of the violet oak, breathing in bark and soil.

The rune doors hum, shimmering in the earth.

Every shared moment with Quin flickers behind my eyes.

Butterflies flutter in my chest and my heart pounds harder, but no matter how I try to nourish my spirit, it continues to flicker.

My eyes flutter from open to shut to open again.

The runes swim. Shift. Blur. I crawl toward them, but the world tips sideways.

I hit the ground, rolling. The violet leaves waver above me.

Flickering. Fading. I shut my eyes. Too long?

Then, as if I’m hearing things: Quin’s voice calling down from the treetops, sharp, commanding. “Don’t sleep. Count the leaves.”

One, two, three... twelve, thirteen... Leaves shiver and my mind plays tricks on me as Quin’s face appears between the branches. “Keep counting.”

Fourteen, fifteen, sixteen—I say the numbers on a weak, disbelieving laugh. What next? Can I make him crouch at my side? Gather me into his arms?

. . . twenty, twenty-one.

Quin looms above me, silver hair catching the moonlight. His jaw—sharp, sculpted, unyielding. His dark eyes lock onto mine. “Stay with me,” he growls.

I reach out for him, but my hands flicker. I cannot feel him. I must say my words, must. This might be the last chance. “Quintus...” My voice croaks. “I am so much in—”

“Stop!” Quin barks as he tenderly collects me in his arms. “No.” The word is soft. A plea. Then, harder: “Don’t say it. Not like this.” His arms tighten around me. “You’re only allowed when you’ve recovered. When you’re healthy. Only then will I believe you.”

Quin . . .

“So you must recover.”

The urge to say the words is overwhelming, yet he dares refuse to listen? I murmur, breathing in his familiar woodsy scent, “I have to tell you, in case—”

He shakes me, his carefully guarded mask shattered—frantic, raw. His eyes shine, pleading. His voice grows hard, demanding. “Let the words burn! Let them be the fire you need to get better!”

Quin shifts me, guiding me gently to the base of the violet oak, his hands steady despite the storm in his eyes. He props me carefully against the bark, as if I might crumble.

“Are you really here?” My hand flickers, unsteady, reaching— afraid to touch only air.

Quin moves out of my reach, casting his gaze towards the runes, until I only make out his profile and the lump in his throat as it juts out with a hard swallow. “Am I really here or is this a figment of your imagination?” He looks at me tightly. “Wake up, and you’ll have your answer.”

It feels like it takes me hours to drag my flickering limbs over damp ground to the exit. When I do, I fall into darkness and startle awake, clinging to Quin’s command.

He is the first thing I see.

We’re on my bed, my head resting on his crossed legs like he’s a pillow. The rest of him leans against the wall, arms crossed. At my stir, his head bows towards mine and his hands cradle gently around my ears. His first words come with the tight curl of his lips. “Finally.”

I stare up at him and smile. “On the brink of death, and still aggravating.”

His hair and braids drop closer, the ends touching my face. “I’m also your king, after all.”

I blow at his hair, the warmth of him under me radiating through to my bones. “If I do recover,” I murmur, “beware of more spanking.”

“Promises, promises.”

I raise a hand. It feels easier to move this morning, with Quin here. I pinch one of his jewelled fastenings and tug it off, and Quin’s eyes flash in a way that steals all my breath. My hand remains ticklish at the ends of his hair, the fastening clamped between my pinched fingers.

He lifts his hand to mine and for a moment I think he’ll steer it into his loosening braid, but his grip tightens and he draws my hand away. “Recover,” he murmurs.

Recover . . .

I lunge upright out of his lap, checking—still the faint glimmer of a working shield. I haven’t infected Quin. Yet.

I heave my achy body off the bed, almost knocking Quin’s cane to the ground, and throw on a cloak. “I need Nicostratus to shield me.”

One step toward the door and wind surges, pushing me backward. Quin catches me effortlessly, his large hand splayed against my back. A heated whisper hits my ear, “You’ve got me now.”

I turn my face towards his, and his lips skate over my cheekbone. His breath pebbles down the side of my nose and catches at my lips, and for a moment I feel a shivery rush in my bones—like a pull of light. His light. The lovelight he gifted me.

“Save your magic,” I say quietly. “You’ll need to shield yourself when—”

He presses my chest and a shielding spell stretches out of him and around me. “My brother searched through the night until he found me and my men. I’m indebted to him for helping you while I wasn’t here. But, Caelus, I’m here now. And the only magic I want covering your body is mine.”

The light swells inside me. I grab the back of his neck, pressing my forehead to his. “Quin, you must know I—”

He steals my lips—fast, bruising, gone before I can breathe. “I said, not until you’re better. Not just less fevered—fully healed. Not until then, got it?”

“You’re always goading me.”

His lips curl.

A knock at the door has me trying to pull away, but Quin holds me firmly against him and hollers.

Olyn enters with a hot broth and a startled look.

Quin doesn’t bat an eyelid, but his arm curls me even closer against his chest. And when I reach out for the broth, he bats my fingers away, takes the steaming bowl and holds it up to my lips.

My eyes cut to his, and his hook mine back with a quirk of his brow that just dares me to resist.

I sip. And sip and sip and sip until he’s tipped an entire bowl of broth down my throat. He smiles with satisfaction and I shake my head, lips twitching.

Olyn clears her throat, a pointed reminder that she’s still in the room. I push myself up from Quin’s lap and cross to the table, where my healing bag waits. “Your son and queen will be relieved to see you.”

“My son I hugged the moment I arrived.”

I glance at him, at this simple statement, and it feels like my stomach and chest drop through me suddenly. I’m left feeling... even lighter than I possibly knew I could. Quin tended to his son’s needs first.

This . . .

What a good father, what a clear-minded man. What a king.

I hold up the vial of horse pus. “Then let’s gather the crusaders and talk.”

We stand in the same hall we were first led to in the mountain stronghold. Nicostratus and Bastion, myself and Quin, Olyn and Queen Veronica holding her son, and then Lykos and Megaera, who sit close to Zenon and his father. A dozen other highly-ranked crusaders stud the hall as well.

“You’re talking about infecting healthy people!” someone cries in outrage.

“It’s forbidden,” another hisses.

“If caught, your entire family will be killed.”

“If caught crusaders like us will be guillotined regardless!”

“What if it harms the healthy?”

“What if it saves them?”

“The risks . . .”

“Horse pus! Who would?”

“I will.” The words strike like a hammer, ringing through the hall, cutting through the rising noise. Silence falls.

Quin, who had observed all this quietly, steps into the middle of the room with the snap of his cane. The air around him shimmers with authority, and even Zenon’s father, leader of the crusaders, seems to hold his breath.

Megaera watches with a glimmer of respect in her eyes, and even Lykos looks on with curious admiration at the man demanding their attention.

“And who are you?” someone rasps.

In a second, Nicostratus joins Quin in the centre of the room, prepared to fight if needed.

Two brothers, side by side. Quin looks at him—steady, searching.

A thousand words unspoken. Nicostratus inclines his head.

Quin rests a hand on his brother’s shoulder and squeezes, a quiet declaration of trust. “This is Prince Nicostratus Aetherion, general of King Constantinos Quintus Aetherion’s army, and the king’s most beloved brother. ”

Gasps ripple through the hall. Nicostratus steps forward, his grip firm on Quin’s shoulder. He turns to the room, voice ironclad. “Bow.” He lets the command settle. “This is your king.”

Shocked expressions and worried glances give way to hurried bows.

During their murmured—gritted—exhalations, Bastion sidles next to me, letting out a deep breath of appreciation. “I might have to divorce you, Husband. This prince is looking pretty.”

“Don’t you dare fool him with your wish-washy feelings,” I warn under my breath. “Or I’ll use you to practice the crude technique of prick removal.”

Bastion slinks away, gaze nevertheless riveted to Nicostratus.

Olyn snickers on my other side, muttering about lost causes, and Veronica glances at her, a bright twinkle in her eye that she quickly hides behind the kiss she drops onto her son’s head.

A small wave of fatigue rolls through me, but I brace through it as Quin speaks.

He declares his disdain for the crusaders’ past ruthless actions; says he will not tolerate harm to any of his people.

But he also promises, if they acknowledge the fault in their unmitigated violence, he will listen to the cries that have fuelled their desperate actions.

He will do his best to redress the inequality running rampant throughout the kingdom.

He will help those without magic to pursue an education.

Quin’s gaze flickers to me, holds for a beat, then sweeps over the crusaders.

“Right now, we face a crisis. This plague does not discriminate—it does not care if you are linea, par-linea, or not.

It strikes rich and poor, strong and weak, old and young.

This illness is blind to power and status. And we must be too.

“You speak of risk, of fear. I know fear well. I have struggled under the thumb of my uncle too long. I have walked death and humiliation, and have dragged myself through it, fought through it, and I have led through it. And now, I will do so again.”

He whips off his cloak, his sleeve rolled back in a single, decisive movement.

“If there is a way to protect the healthy, we must try it. But words are not enough—we must act. Do you have the courage to follow? If you fear, then let that fear rest on me. Let me lead the way.” His voice hardens. “Caelus.”

I’m about to step forwards when Queen Veronica rises, setting her child down upon the chair with a glance at me to stay close to him.

I rock back and remain at the boy’s side as she crosses the hall and yanks down the king’s sleeve.

“I will do this here. You will need to demonstrate before a much bigger audience.”

She rolls up her sleeve and glances at me. “I’ve known the healer who developed this since he was young. He has dedicated his life to helping others. I, Queen Veronica of Lumin, will stake my life on it. ”

Olyn turns to me with a questioning look as she plucks the necessary vial from my healing bag.

I blink and nod, and she takes it, along with her needles, and faces the queen before all eyes in the hall.

With careful movements and permission to touch her highness, she skims Veronica’s sleeve higher up her arm and gently holds her steady as she cuts a small cross into her skin.

As a pearl of blood begins to dribble, Olyn dabs pus over it while the crusaders catch their breath.

Veronica boldly looks around the room before landing her gaze on Olyn. “If I am well by morning, you will treat my son next.”