Page 32

His breath hitches. He staggers once, knees buckling, and then—he bows, forehead nearly touching the stone. “Your majesty.”

Father stirs uneasily behind Quin, his breath uneven. His eyes dart around, finding me in the shadows, then snap back to Quin as if searching for the trick, the deception.

“Majesty?” he mouths.

I let out a long breath and nod my head slowly. Not an act.

His knees buckle. He stumbles back, catching himself against the stone wall.

“You—” His voice cracks. He swallows hard, blinking rapidly, his world shifting beneath his feet. “You are—”

Quin, ever patient, bends down and steers him upright before he can fully collapse.

“I sent you to serve food,” Father gasps, flushing deeply. “I once... I once made you do our dishes! ”

Quin tips his head up in an easy laugh. “You may treat me as family.”

Quin’s gaze sneaks away from Father to lock with mine, and I finally manage to make my legs work. I stumble towards them.

“Your majesty,” the luminist croaks behind him.

Quin turns, his voice even but edged with steel. “My identity remains secret. My whereabouts, unknown. Should a whisper of me reach the regent’s ear, I’ll know where it came from.”

The luminist’s throat bobs. He nods fervently, understanding the warning beneath the words.

I step forward, pulse hammering. “If you really want justice—” I pause, then push forward. “Summon the other luminists. Convince them this is the way to help the people.”

Quin’s gaze flickers to mine, sharp and thoughtful, before he nods once. “Gather them at the luminarium. We’ll meet you there in an hour.”

The luminist rises shakily to his feet and rushes away, leaving his bell behind.

I try to convince Quin to leave me tending patients and go alone—he knows what must be said—but Quin staunchly refuses and whisks me on winds to the luminarium .

Inside, the air hums with debate. There is a clear divide—some are desperate for a solution that will save lives, they are the ones willing to try this forbidden method; others stand resolute to the preachings of the Arcane Sovereign and the laws laid in words before them.

Quin quietly finds my local luminist and hands him a roll of parchment, then gestures for me to follow him. With a startled hop in my belly, I do. Before all the luminists, my local calls for order and reads the scroll Quin gave him, stamped with the king’s magical seal.

It calls for the luminists to consider the greatest good of the kingdom; to indeed infect the healthy and make them immune; to offer all luminariums as places of sanctuary for the sick.

“... Caelus Amuletos, royally accredited with six stamps on his soldad, and the king’s personal healer, is in charge of plague management along with the entire Amuletos household. ”

I blink rapidly. Six stamps. I clutch the soldad hanging from my belt and turn it—

All squares have been stamped.

Quin must have done it while I wasn’t paying attention. My gaze searches for his over the heads of the luminists, and I find him watching steadily from the shadows. I curl my fingers around my soldad, drawing in a steady breath. Later. Later, I’ll let myself think about what this means.

Now, I turn my focus back to the luminists.

Half of them are still unconvinced. “A decree from a runaway king? A king who abandoned his position?”

“We must follow the regent! ”

“The regent hides in his palace. What good is he?”

“We must focus on finding cures—vitalian spells—to end this plague.”

“I survived the plague—perhaps it’s the Arcane Sovereign’s will.”

Gasps ripple through half the room, while the other half nods fervently.

“Disgrace!” a white-haired luminist snarls. “Are you saying the fellow luminists that passed this morning were unworthy?”

“I was the only one among us who properly punished those using horse pus on the people!”

That luminist lifts his bell, as if ready to toll in condemnation.

My local shakes in his boots, glancing rapidly between Quin and the crowd.

The weight of the soldad hangs from my belt. The kingdom is burning, and they argue in circles.

I set my jaw. Enough.

I step forward, my voice ringing through the dome. “Put your bells away and listen .”

I speak simple facts. Blunt ones. If they lend their hands and luminariums, if we all work together, we can save more than a hundred thousand lives. “One. Hundred. Thousand.”

The number sinks in slowly, rendering them speechless. They attempt to argue but falter—there’s nothing to say in favour of condemning so many—so many young, old, linea, commoner, luminist... All will be affected .

The stubborn faction wavers.

And then the doors swing open with a blast of magic and bright daylight.

A bulky silhouette steps inside and it seems to be shuddering.

And then I hear the wail, the curse against the luminists—the Arcane Sovereign himself.

My eyes focus and his form sharpens. Silver sash.

I step forward and halt, a stinging dread washing over me as his anger pulses through the luminarium.

He drags himself forward; a young girl clutches his cloak beside him, and in his arms.

.. he’s holding someone. Their head rocks limply over Makarios’s arm—

It’s Mikros.

My stomach plummets toward the floor and I don’t want to believe it. I want to have seen wrong. His eyes, his one green and one blue, are not open. Are not lifeless.

He is not dead.

Makarios roars again. “Just for using pus to save this innocent, orphaned girl! Just for that—” Makarios glares across the luminarium at the glowing-white-robe who survived the plague. “That luminist thrust a spell that shattered through his shield and killed him!”

“He defied my order to stop!”

“He was doing the right thing. He was saving people.”

My hands grip my soldad, shaking hard. Mikros. Dead.

The thought doesn’t fit inside me. It stretches painfully against my ribs, against my lungs, against my pounding head. I have seen death. I have touched death. I have even caused death. But not his. Not for this. Died defying the luminists. Died using my warding .

“He died defending the right thing!” Makarios shouts, veins in his throat throbbing, tears in his one blue and one green eye—the eye from Mikros and now the only thing he has of him. “But he shouldn’t have died at all.”

I push through the luminists and catch Mikros’s body, holding alongside Makarios’s trembling arms. My hands curl under Mikros’s weight, my fingers pressing into the fabric of his robes. His warmth is fading fast. It’s already gone. A phantom.

Mikros’s arm falls and dangles against my cloak.

This arm, these hands that showed me how to find my inner scales; his sharp tongue that joked, keeping every heavy moment light—gone.

The boy who once let me practice transplantation spells on him, grinning nervously as he did. He was my vitalian brother.

Makarios’s teary eyes meet mine, searching for answers, for what he has to do next. He doesn’t have his Mikros anymore. He’s lost.

I have to keep strong for him. Have to lead the way. I look at the girl kindly. “Follow us.”

I speak quietly to Quin, who I feel has slid to my side. “Help carry him to the pyres.”

Quin’s cane slides over his back, and he uses the wind to sweep us out of the luminarium. I call to the luminists behind me as we leave.

“If any of you have conscience, you know what to do.”