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M orning mist clings to the valleys, our horses kicking up damp earth as we ride. My breath comes easier today; the tightness in my lungs is easing, the scales on my forearms fading. I had Quin shield me, but I believe it’s the last shield I’ll need.

On the wind comes the distant tolling of luminist bells, muffled and eerie. The capital looms ahead, still a half-day’s journey away.

We’ve left the queen and Quin’s son under the protection of the crusaders, away from sick, frightened, angry people.

Away from being forced to take their blows.

Away from the regent and his wrath. Lykos, Zenon, and Megaera vowed to protect them, and Olyn and Bastion remained as well.

Not only to treat the queen and her son, but to take responsibility for Kastoria and all their neighbouring villages.

It’s an easy goodbye. A fond one. I have absolute faith in her. And yet... I glance back. Will faith be enough?

Quin and Nicostratus flank me, silent but present. Quin’s jaw is tight, his gaze set forward, unreadable. Nicostratus glances toward him once, as if weighing a question he doesn’t ask.

We ride with purpose, the road stretching ahead, made longer as we pass burning pyres, wailing families seeing loved ones off, children orphaned, the elderly abandoned at the outskirts of the capital—waiting, hoping someone will take them in.

A knot tightens in my stomach. Skriniaris Evander.

Where is he now, amidst all of this? Is he safe? Does he have people looking after him, or is he alone—just an old man and his cat, waiting forever for us to return? Does he think we abandoned him?

The thought gnaws at me long after we’ve shared our food, used horse pus on the healthy who are willing, and made promises Quin vows to keep. It lingers as we finally reach Frederica’s estate.

She meets us in the courtyard—the very same one where, believing him to be harassing the kind woman, I leapt onto Quin’s back sparking renewed fate between us.

A fate that has led us to this critical moment.

We all must work together to help his people.

Frederica leads us into fields that are peppered with tents as far as the eye can see. Quin’s soldiers, his men.

This is the force he’s risked so much to gather, to reclaim his throne.

“We’ve separated the sick soldiers and animals,” Frederica says. “We’ve been mostly lucky so far, but the plague has reached here too. ”

Immediately, Quin summons his generals, commanders, captains, and healers to the courtyard.

There are faces I recognise among them: Commander Thalassios from Hinsard, the regent’s outcast daughter Princessa Liana, Captain Kjartan—he has Skeldar soldiers too. His negotiation in Iskaldir went exactly as planned.

Quin tells me to prepare the warding I spent the morning crafting—scraping pus from every infected horse I could find, mixing it with ground mustiva and oldeaf, and blending it into large batches of paste.

Nicostratus and I empty all the bags we rode with, the high-ranking soldiers watching on quizzically under the late afternoon sun.

Like he did in the crusader hall, Quin delivers his speech, asking his men to infect themselves for the good of the people.

The resistance is quieter this time, but still present.

When Quin kneels, gripping his cane-shaft tightly against the pain, the entire courtyard holds its breath. The king, begging his people.

“I will not ask of you what I am not willing to do myself.” Quin rolls up his sleeve and calls for me. And Nicostratus joins his brother on his knees, baring his arm alongside him.

The generals stir in their light armour. Whatever hesitation they had, by the time I’ve cut and smeared the horse pus into their skin, it’s vanished. His men are all on their knees too, shoving up their sleeves.

Princessa Liana rises to help me after she has been treated. I give the scription to the healers as well, and Quin orders one of his commanders to take charge of collecting infected horses and bringing them to Frederica’s estate.

“Convince as many of your soldiers as you can to take the treatment,” Quin orders. “Tomorrow, you’ll leave for all corners of the kingdom to convince the people too.”

I whip my gaze over the small sea of still-kneeling soldiers to Quin, now standing regally before them. My stomach flutters. He’s willing to scatter his power and men and everything he has suffered for to aid his people. This is what a ruler is. Sacrifice. People over power.

Under the flutter, though, I tense too. Will this make Quin more vulnerable?

Commander Thalassios steps forward. “We’ve finally consolidated significant numbers. You need us here, marching into the royal city to take back what’s yours.”

Quin stares at his generals and commanders and says simply, “The people are mine, too. They always have been.”

Quin and Nicostratus are busy well into the night, and so am I.

Along with all the healers and the volunteers, we treat every willing soldier—and all but a few are willing.

The news of their king kneeling and pleading has spread like wildfire, causing even the broadest, gruffest men to swallow thickly.

The families they left behind—their wives, their children, their parents—will be cared for first. Before battle.

Before the throne. Before everything else.

They raise their drinks to King Constantinos and promise even their lives in this pursuit of peace for the people.

Other stories also spread, causing outrage and disgust: how dare the regent protect only himself, hiding from responsibility. How dare he shove the four-year-old king towards volatile unrest.

Even the Skeldar section of the king’s army share praise for the king, singing songs of glory about their battle against the Wyrds.

When the soldiers start feeling sick, they band together, keeping up morale, and I remind them as I brew calming broths that their symptoms will be mild, and after, they will no longer need to fear the plague for themselves.

As I finish the last broth, my shield flickers, weakening.

I murmur an excuse and step away, my body finally demanding rest. I traipse over Frederica’s estate, breathing in the crisp, moonlit air.

Across the fields, the luminarium—once a beacon of light—stands hollow, nothing more than a silhouette in the dark.

No linea pour magic into it now; the city’s customs have crumbled beneath crisis.

No luminist bells will change the will of the people now.

I sit on the hill, beneath the tree where River’s name is carved in memory, and I speak to him as if he can hear.

I tell him everything—about Quin, the soldiers, the kingdom teetering on the edge of collapse.

I remember refusing to heal after River’s death.

How grief paralysed me. And how Quin—stubborn, infuriating Quin—made me get on that horse.

That happened here, such a pivotal moment in my healing life.

If it hadn’t happened, nothing else that followed would have either.

How impactful a single decision can be. How impactful moments are in life.

At this very tree, the regent once fell in love—with a luminist’s son, a love that ended in violence. A love that shaped his cruelty. And it was here too that Casimiria, Quin’s father, and Yngvarr met. Relationships that ended up shaping the history of a kingdom.

The soft sound of footsteps padding over grass comes from the other side of the hill. I peer around the thick base of the tree and still at the sight of Quin and Nicostratus, who pause under the branches, staring out towards the sky, their backs to me.

There’s a quiet tension pulling between them, and it has me curling back behind the trunk. I’m debating how to pick myself up and sneak away without being caught when Nicostratus speaks, and I’m rendered frozen to the tree roots.

“For those days, I hated him, Quin. Hated you.”

The words are soft and a gentle breeze carries them away.

“No,” Nicostratus says on a heavy exhale. “I hated what you took from me. What I thought you took from me.”

Quin doesn’t say anything for a few breaths, and then he speaks evenly. “We did take from you.”

Nicostratus lets out something between a groan and a sigh. “He also gave to me. He gave me back this life.”

Quin murmurs with immediate understanding. “He is sick in your stead.”

“I didn’t know at first. Not when he shoved me at the ruins.

I was too angry, outraged. All I wanted then was to hurt him as much as he hurt me.

” Nicostratus’s voice grows quiet. “I didn’t understand it in the moment, but it’s since played relentlessly in my mind.

The sneeze meant for me. The way he shielded me.

The wipe of his face. The flicker in his eyes like he knew it was already too late. ” Nicostratus’s voice breaks.

I feel the breezes calm, and though I cannot see, I feel in my bones Quin moving closer to his brother. “Did you think he’d let you die?”

“Wouldn’t that have solved everything for you both?

” Nicostratus lets out a frustrated sound and I imagine him dragging his hands over his face, scrubbing at his mind to accept .

“To have thought this at all... I’ve already failed him—him and you.

You both care for me. It’s just that I only now realise that there can be deep affection without romantic love.

You love me, Quin. I love you. And Cael.

.. He loves us both, but—” he exhales deeply “—he’s in love with you. ”

Quin hums, low and thoughtful, and I imagine his lips tipping up quietly at the edges. “He always has been. Even if he didn’t always know it.”

Nicostratus scoffs and I hear the start of an achy laugh. “I saw it all. Even I don’t think you have a choice.”

A long pause follows, and then Quin’s rumbled voice, “No, we do not. Our feelings cannot be undone.”

“Even if they could . . .” Nicostratus starts.

And Quin finishes, “I have memories of him. I can visit them forever. He can’t be taken from my mind. I can’t be taken from his. Even without living a future, he would still always be between us. ”

The weight of that truth settles deeply, a confession that tickles warmth—light, his light—through my veins.

Nicostratus curses gently. “I still hate it. But never as much I love you.”

Quin speaks, voice softened—just a little. “That is enough.” The trees rustle gently overhead like a soft cheer, and Quin adds, quieter. “I never want to lose you.”

It’s very quiet now.

The quiet that comes with embrace.

My chest clenches and I close my eyes, absorbing the tenderness permeating the air. Then without making a sound, I sneak away. This moment was not meant for me to hear, and yet. Yet witnessing it is a balm to my soul—more than a balm. Nourishment .

I take the confession to my empty tent, and despite the uncertainty the next morning will bring, I sleep deeply.