Chapter 41
Q uin winces.
My fingers wrap around his wrist, seeking his pulse, but the moment I meet his gaze I forget what I’m doing. His eyes are steady, too steady, like he’s daring me to look away first. My pulse stutters traitorously, and I wonder if he can feel it.
Probably.
Damn it.
“Truth,” he says softly. “Did you miss me?”
I swallow hard, deflecting. “With your mother around? It was like having you here.”
Quin’s gaze sharpens, and his lips curl.
“You have her jawline,” I tease, desperate to break the tension. “Looks better on her.”
He rolls over me, his body pressing briefly against mine. “I dare you to say that again.”
“The curl of her lips isn’t quite so foreboding.”
Quin leans closer, voice low. “Foreboding or foreshadowing?”
“What?”
Quin’s breath grazes my nose. “If anyone’s lips are foreboding, it’s yours and what comes out of them.”
“Ah, you finally admit my wit is superior.”
“And will you finally admit you’re glad I’m here?”
I hiss, half scolding, half laughing.
“Let’s try it this way,” he murmurs, that curl deepening a dimple in his cheek. “Do you like my mother?”
I eye him with suspicion. “You’re trying to trick me.”
“It’s a simple question. Do you?”
I nod.
“A lot?”
I narrow my gaze.
“So you like her, and having her here was like having me here.” His arrogant smile is infuriating. “That means you like me a lot.”
I shove at his chest. “You’re insufferable.”
Quin catches my hands mid-shove, holding them firmly for a beat too long. His gaze flickers to mine, steady but guarded, before his voice drops to a near whisper. “Did it hurt, hearing I continued south?”
The question steals my breath. I dart my gaze away.
“It was the right move,” I manage, though my voice wavers.
Quin studies me. “I’m sorry, Cael.”
A lump rises in my throat, and I aim a few heated blows at his chest. His hand halts mine, gripping it against his breast, and I look away.
“Explain,” he murmurs.
I pull free, my voice cracking. “There’s no point. I’m trouble to you now.”
His expression stays maddeningly unreadable. “You’ve always been trouble to me.”
I look away.
“Listen,” he says, his tone resolute. “I thought acting as if you were unimportant would stop my uncle from using you. But he called my bluff. He held out on my mother’s antidote to lure me back, so that through you, he can get to me.”
“Why me, when he has your mother?”
Quin’s jaw tightens, his eyes dark. “Presumably he wants you to do something she’d rather die than do.”
My fingers tremble as they grip his cloak. “He’s threatening me. With Akilah, Lucetta—my entire family.”
“Do as he asks,” Quin says, his voice measured.
Anger flares, sharp and hot. I shove at his chest.
His gaze sharpens, but the sound of approaching footsteps halts us both. I clutch at him instinctively, half shielding myself behind him. He smirks faintly, shaking his head as if to say, You’d have no problem feeding me to the wolves.
“There you are,” Casimiria’s voice cuts through the moment, and we snap our heads toward her. She stands at the edge of the coffinweed, her gaze flicking between us. “The high duke is searching for you,” she says to me, her voice tight with urgency. “I told him you were in the kitchen and I’d send someone to fetch you, but he insisted on going himself. You need to get there first.”
A groan rises from my throat. I was really hoping not to face him today. Or any day.
Quin pushes me to my feet. “Go.”
I race to the kitchen, snatching Akilah’s bucket of well water as I pass and hauling it to the outdoor cookfire. I tip the water into the pot, stirring as though I’ve been busy for ages.
The duke’s entrance is greeted by the shuffle of fleeing prisoners and the heavy tread of his boots. I keep my head down as his crimson and gold cloak sweeps into view.
“You.”
I still immediately, keeping my gaze fixed on the rippling surface of the water.
“My scouts tell me my nephew will reach the royal city soon.”
I don’t respond.
“No doubt he’ll pay you a visit,” the duke continues, his tone deceptively casual.
I grip the edge of the pot tighter.
“This is the part where you ask what I want you to do,” he says, mirth lacing his words.
“What do you want me to do?” I manage, my voice tight.
“Convince the king to declare his heir early. The ceremony will take place at the end of next week.”
My stomach twists. “The prince isn’t even five—”
The duke waves a dismissive hand.
I grit my teeth. “I’m a lowborn vitalian. How could I possibly influence the king?”
“You’ll ensure Constantinos agrees to change the laws. Or your akla will be the first to go.”
My nails dig into my palm.
He steps closer, a slow smile spreading across his face. “The ceremony requires living members of the prince’s bloodline to attend. You will accompany Constantinos’s mother as her aklo and serve him at the ceremony. Tea.”
My chest tightens; I suck in a sharp breath.
The duke’s smile turns cruel. He leans in, his voice dropping. “It has to be you. He trusts you.”
A wave of nausea rises, and I brace myself against the table. “You’re sick.”
“And you’re smart enough to obey,” he says, straightening. “Your family’s lives depend on it.”
By the time I reach the north tower, the weight of the duke’s words feels like a physical ache.
Quin and Casimiria are meditating under the window. At the sound of my dragging footsteps, Quin’s eyes flick open.
“I’ll be right with you,” he murmurs, his voice low and steady.
Take as long as you need. Take forever.
So I don’t have to tell you . . .
I sink onto the bed mat, burying my face in my hands.
“I’m ready now,” Casimiria says softly, breaking the silence.
“You haven’t taken it yet?” I ask, startled.
She lifts the small, black capsule into the light. “I needed to gather my strength first.”
An idea sparks, cutting through the haze of despair. “May I...” I scramble toward her but trip, slamming into Quin.
He catches me, his hands warm and steady around my waist. “Did he ask you to throw me from the tower?” he quips lightly.
I jerk away, my heart pounding for reasons I can’t untangle. “Don’t joke,” I snap.
Casimiria hands me the capsule, and I clutch it tightly, focusing on the magic within. Blood—tinged with something rare and elusive.
“What if I extract half of it?” I ask, looking to her.
Quin shifts behind me. His voice is low, cautious. “Halving it will mean weeks of pain before the duke sends more.”
“Take it,” Casimiria says without hesitation.
“Mother—”
“If anyone can create an alternative, it’s him,” she says, her gaze steady.
A fierce determination flares in my chest.
Quin’s fingers graze mine, a fleeting touch that sends doubt curling through me. His eyes pin me, not with command, but with something gentler—an unspoken question, a trust I’m not sure I deserve. “Cael?” he asks, the single word warm but firm enough to steady me.
I look away. “The duke wants your son declared heir at the end of next week.”
Casimiria’s breath catches. “He’ll want you dead next.”
I can’t meet their eyes.
The room falls into a heavy silence. Quin rises slowly, his face infuriatingly unreadable.
“I’ll begin preparations for the ceremony,” he says calmly.
Something snaps inside me. I shove him hard. “That’s it? Roll over and let him have his way?”
His hand catches mine, holding it against his chest. His pulse hammers wildly, betraying the calm facade. “Do you have a better plan, or just more insults?”
“Anything would be better than accepting this,” I snap, meeting his gaze.
His eyes narrow, a flicker of something raw surfacing. “Careful, Cael. You’re forgetting who you’re speaking to.”
“And you’re forgetting who you’re supposed to be,” I fire back. “A king!”
I flee from the tower, from him, and storm into the courtyard, where pipe-smoking Lucius finds me. His face is grim.
“The duke’s visit passed like a storm,” he says.
“The storm’s barely begun,” I mutter.
“I’m sorry, Cael. They destroyed the herb bed.”
No.
I sprint to the patch, falling to my knees at the sight of crushed plants and deep gouges in the soil. The last surviving herb trembles under my fingers, fragile and defiant.
The island’s inhabitants gather silently, their heads bowed. No jeers, no laughter this time—only their quiet solidarity.
Akilah kneels beside me, her lips brushing my forehead. Her warmth steadies me, but the despair is too much.
“I need a walk,” I murmur, leaving the ruined garden behind.
The canal’s rocky edge offers little solace as I pace back and forth. On my fourth pass, a sharp call has me stilling.
I turn slowly with a frustrated, heavy heart. Quin emerges from the ever-present mist, his cloak swirling behind him like he might have descended from the heavens. But what kind of heavens could possibly have deposited him here? To this fate?
He moves towards me, lips a tight line, and I want to tear off in the other direction.
I ball my fist and lower my head.
But the admonishment I’m braced for doesn’t come. Quin’s cloak curls around me, over my own, an extra layer of warmth against all the cold. He fastens it at the throat, above the clasp he gifted me.
“You’ll need this more than me.” His knuckles brush the clasp in an almost accidental motion. For a moment, his gaze softens, like he might say something more—but the mask of the king returns, and his voice drops into its usual measured calm. “Keep it.”
I raise my head, gaze seeking his, but he says nothing more. We stand like this for a long time, fog creeping over us and his death sentence lingering between us.
I won’t. I can’t. I must find a way —
I step forwards, pleading. “Could you send Florentius here?”
Much later, a rowboat emerges from the mist and Florentius leaps out, his white robes glowing faintly under the moonlight.
Relief crashes over me, but Florentius’s weary expression quells any joy.
“Did you bring herbs?” I ask, my voice tight. But I already know he wouldn’t risk it.
He shakes his head. “They’re searching everyone. He warned me not to try.”
I grit my teeth.
“I wanted to come sooner,” Florentius says. “Father had me locked in the Crucible.”
“You got out.”
“I don’t have long. And I’d like to see...”
Lucius. He’s longed to see him. “Yes.”
“I’m sorry about what happened.” His hand balls tightly at his side.
“With your help, we’ll be alright.”
“How can I help?”
“I know you have a bigger purpose for that fake-death pill, but...” At his greying face, I know the truth. “You won’t give it to me.”
My insides take a dive. It was an exceptionally big ask.
He shakes his head. “I would. I would do anything to duplicate it and free you from here. But it’s not possible.” Anguish fills his eyes. “The duke has been suspicious of me since I saved those children from the wyverns. Bolting in during your examination made it worse.” He breathes out heavily. “They confiscated everything in my room.”
The only possibility of a way out.
Gone.
My voice is splintered, a fragile mask of forced understanding. But inside I’m a lost boy wandering a dark, tangled forest, crying out for someone to find him.
“I’m sorry, Cael.”
I hiccup and with trembling fingers pull out the two notes with my instructions. “There are still things we have to do.”
“What is this?”
I press the notes into his hands. “One is for you, and the other...” I lift onto my toes and whisper in his ear. When I step back his eyes are wide with fear, apprehension and disbelief.
“You must ,” I say.
“Cael . . .”
I laugh out my ache.
“Cael,” Florentius says again, and I blink back a sudden pooling of heat in my eyes.
I hand him the notes and the capsules—Casimiria’s antidote and a sample of her blood. “Give these to Mikros and Makarios. If anyone can create an alternative antidote, it’s them.”
Florentius hesitates, his gaze searching mine. “Cael . . .”
I laugh bitterly, the sound raw. “It’s all we have.”
In the morning, I wake to an empty gallery and find the courtyard alive with movement.
The prisoners work together, turning soil and watering the earth, and a wave of heat stings my eyes as I take them all in—the shapes, the movement, the quiet determination.
Everyone is here. Everyone.
“They’ve been waiting,” Casimiria says, approaching.
“For me?”
She laughs gently.
My chest swells.