Chapter 19
Florentius sweeps through the royal city’s maze-like corridors, his green robes a blur against the stone walls. I follow, heart pounding, dreading another of Chiron’s infamous quizzes.
We reach the intricately carved archway marking entry to Chiron’s domain—shelves brimming with jars, the air thick with mingled scents of dried herbs and old parchment.
Chiron’s sharp gaze lands on Florentius and me, entering late.
We hurriedly sit.
“Aquamintis, earthbloom, aetherpelis, mastic resin, silvarias,” Chiron lists. “What ailment can these ingredients treat?”
Makarios and Mikros rise to answer. Makarios thrives on following Mikros, and Mikros rarely misses a chance for a joke. Together, they’ve provided some comfort to the start of my studies.
Before they can speak, Chiron raises a forbidding hand. “Let’s have a green-sash answer. Cael.”
The endless ‘let’s test Cael’ drills. I suppress my sigh and mentally assemble the herbs: aquamintis and earthbloom for stomach issues; aetherpelis as an amplifier; silvarias for tissue regeneration; mastic resin for ulcers. “Gastrotrype helkosis.”
Chiron nods reluctantly. “Describe the treatment process.”
“First, sedate the patient. Then treat the lesions, followed by a sealing spell for post-care.”
Chiron’s expression is flat. “Florentius, explain the more efficient method.”
“Stack the spells to conserve energy,” Florentius answers. “Combine the herbs into basic compounds and apply them in a single, layered spell, starting with sedation—unless the patient must stay conscious.”
Florentius’s answer is quick and precise, earning a rare nod of approval. I grit my teeth.
The room hums with quiet concentration as we weigh compounds and stack spells under Chiron’s watchful eye. Makarios mutters jokes to keep the mood light, but my focus is on the scales, each adjustment feeling like a test of my worth.
“You’re behind,” Chiron’s voice cuts through my concentration, unwelcome but not unexpected. “Without improvement, you will not reach medius-complex competency in time for the fourth examination. Prepare yourself.”
I clench my hands at my sides. The warning hangs heavily. He knows I spend hours practicing. He’s telling me to give up. But I won’t. I force my mind back to its task and shut out all else.
I’m so successful that by the time the change in atmosphere reaches me, all laughter and chatter has died. The air has shifted—sharper, heavier—cutting through the apothecary’s calm like a blade.
I freeze as a limp figure, her drenched form glistening under the lamplight, is carried into the treatment room on a stretcher. Through the open doorway, I can see blood dripping from her mouth, staining the stone floor.
Chiron snaps into action, his calm precision a stark contrast to the chaos around him. But even as he works, the whispers start—the fear.
“Water wyverns,” Florentius murmurs, low enough for only me to hear. The words send a shiver down my spine.
Chiron curses.
My fingers twitch, aching to help—something—as the akla’s breaths slow, each one shallower than the last. Her chest stills.
Silence falls, smothering the apothecary like a heavy shroud. A mage draws a sheet over her, the sound unbearably soft against the deafening quiet.
My chest tightens, and the air grows thick, refusing to fill my lungs. A life lost—so quickly, so easily. Despite the spells of vitalians.
I whisper, hesitantly. “I thought royal bloods can control water wyverns?”
“Evidently not,” Florentius says grimly. “Or they won’t.”
The air carries a faint tang of salt, sharp and unnatural. I breathe in this scent of poison, unease curling in my chest. What else is the royal city hiding? “Any chance to survive an attack?”
“Angelica root and mustiva as an antidote,” Florentius says. “Then hope you can address the internal damage quickly. One in two might live.”
“One in three,” Chiron states, voice devoid of emotion.
Back to teaching his lessons as if this kind of death is a regular occurrence.
Perhaps, more often than not, people are brought to that room and never leave it.
Perhaps I’m the only one here who’s never seen such casual acceptance before.
“Let’s review the steps for neutralising the poison.
If there’s any chance of saving an akla or aklo, you’ll need to act immediately.
Only silver-sashed vitalians may heal the nobility, and gold the royal family. ”
I shiver. “What if no silver or gold vitalians are present?”
Chiron turns to face us both. “Pray that never happens.”
The apothecary’s bustle fades as the day drags on, but the akla’s lifeless form doesn’t leave my mind. My stomach churns. I’m training to save lives; what good am I if I can’t keep pace?
Chiron’s words linger: Prepare yourself. His hand had felt pointedly heavy on my shoulder.
By the time I reach the narrow underground corridor leading to my room, the weight of the day is a stone in my chest. The familiar creak of the stiff door greets me as I step inside.
A small flame flickers to life in the lamp I coax to burn, casting long shadows over the cramped, windowless space.
My gaze falls to a flower-patterned teapot on the shelf—I’d found it moulded-over when I first moved in. Now it feels like a lost item in someone else’s life—a reminder that not all who start here get to finish.
Will I follow in his footsteps?
Collapsing onto the rickety bed, I stare at the ceiling, heart pounding. The cold stone, the silence . . .
I press my hands to the soldad at my belt, hoping the weight will ground me. Coming here was meant to secure my future—to raise me to medius-complex vitalian, earn my fourth stamp. To be beside Nicostratus and help him.
But the akla’s lifeless form haunts my dreams. Her final, shallow breaths echo in my mind, and morning comes without rest.
I yawn and nudge the teapot on the shelf in unspoken solidarity. Mustn’t falter. Must forge on.
A knock pulls me from my thoughts, and I open the door to Florentius’s usual scowl.
“We’re headed to King’s Island,” he says, as if it’s a normal day’s work.
I grab my gloves and slide them on. “As ready as possible.”
Our boat glides silently under enormous archways, the air thick with the scent of old stone and stagnant water. I shiver as the chill wraps around me. High stone walls line the expansive royal canals, their sheer size enough to hold a thousand sinister secrets.
I turn a shiver into a smile aimed at Florentius. “How about we look out for each other while we’re here?”
Florentius huffs. “Studying in the same place at the same time doesn’t make us comrades.”
“It makes us associates.”
“This is the royal city. It makes us rivals.”
I laugh at how his face pinches. “We’ll grow better if we learn from each other.”
“What could you possibly teach me?”
“Tact, perhaps?”
An icy breeze whistles through the tunnel as we emerge into the inner city. I follow Florentius’s gaze, taking in the palaces, courtyards—and, somewhat incongruously, an array of festive stalls. “What’s that?”
“Spring gala,” Florentius replies. “The royal family and courtiers enjoy it first, then us.”
“We can go too?” I ask, surprised.
“The last day. To honour those who serve in the royal city.”
My eyes catch on a figure by the canal—an akla, whose profile is uncomfortably familiar. Megaera? Why would she come here? She despises the rulers that sentenced her father.
I don’t have long to dwell on it. The winding canals converge into a shimmering lake, and there, at the centre, an island rises. Terraced gardens cascade upwards to a gold-chased stone house.
King’s Island.
We have the king’s aklos and aklas to heal.
As we dock and unload, I try to shake off my unease.
“We’re working in the east and north pavilions. Medius spells only,” Florentius reminds as we ascend the steep path to the gardens. “You handle the aklas; I’ll take the aklos. Go back on your own if we finish at different times.”
The island sprawls before us, each beautiful pavilion nestled among distinct flora—grapevines to the north, pear trees in the east, and roses in the west.
“What if we meet the king?” I ask Florentius before we part ways.
“Just bow. Don’t look at him, don’t speak to him, and of course, don’t touch him.”
I make my way to the east pavilion, where the aklas are resting under the pear trees. When I’m set for check-ups, they inch shyly forward and share their complaints: swollen feet and aching joints, mostly.
“He won’t let us attend the gala,” one whispers.
“Unless the prince intervenes,” another murmurs dreamily. “The way he helped last night.”
A few aklas sigh, and I imagine Nicostratus swooping in with that charming smile. I sigh too, lost in thought.
“He went out this morning, or he’d have stepped in for little miss, too. Poor thing. She’ll be freezing cold and starving by now.”
I lift my head.
The aklas lower their eyes as I question them further. When the clinic is over, it doesn’t take long to find her kneeling at a fountain, damp and shivering, trying to retie a pink bow into her hair.
I sit by the fountain’s edge, calling flame to my fingertips. She glances up, then hurriedly looks away. I channel the warmth into her, urging her to move around to prevent her joints from seizing.
“I won’t tell. Just a quick stretch.”
She gulps and shakes her head; the bow she tried so hard to tie on slips off.
“If you stay like that, your joints will seize. It’ll take longer to recover.”
But she can’t be persuaded. I walk out my frustration in the gardens, where I spot a familiar, scarred figure.
If he’s here . . .
My legs quicken, and I reach out to tap him on the shoulder.
Quin’s aklo freezes, his gaze darting between me and the shadowed pavilion ahead. His wariness has my senses sharpening.
“He’s here, isn’t he?” I ask, feigning calm, though already my frustration from before is burning into something bouncy.
The aklo’s voice is clipped. “What business do you have with him?”