Chapter 25
The marble floor is definitely going to give everyone terrible back problems.
I can't stop thinking about it even though I'm tied to what appears to be an altar made entirely of bleached bone.
All that calcium just sitting here not being used for proper skeletal support.
My tailbone's already going numb, like that time I sat on the pantry floor reorganizing and couldn't feel my legs for an hour.
Also, I left dough rising. Second rise, the important one where it develops flavor. It's definitely over-proofed by now. Going to be one of those dense bricks that even the birds won't eat. I used the good flour too, the expensive kind from the mill outside the wall. What a waste.
The ropes around my wrists are hemp, I think, and whoever tied them didn't smooth them properly because I can feel splinters working their way into my skin.
That's going to need tweezers and probably that antiseptic that stings but actually works, not the stuff that smells nice but does nothing.
Do they even have proper healing supplies here?
Everything's so obsessively clean but I bet they don't have actual bandages.
"Your suffering will purify the corruption," he says, but his voice cracks on 'corruption' and I can hear the rasp that means his throat's inflamed. Probably from all the incense. The whole sanctum reeks of it—thick, cloying smoke that's making my eyes water.
"You should really sit down," I tell him. "That swaying means your blood pressure's dropping. When's the last time you had water? Actual water, not whatever ritual wine you people drink."
"Silence, corrupted one."
"I'm just saying, fainting during your own ritual would really undermine the whole thing you're going for.
" The bone altar is digging into my shoulder blades now.
Going to leave marks. "Also, your lieutenant keeps rolling her shoulders back.
Probably sleeps on a terrible mattress. You can always tell from the shoulder compensation. "
Vice stands perfectly still in her pristine white robes, but I can see the shadows under her eyes from here.
She keeps touching her stomach in that specific way that means chronic pain—pressing just below the ribs, holding for a moment, then forcing her hand back down.
Ulcer, definitely. Stress-induced from the way she keeps glancing at the door.
Her left eye twitches every time the Luminary speaks.
Nervous tic or exhaustion, hard to tell from here.
"The new moon rises," someone announces from the doorway, and oh good, another person who needs immediate medical attention.
This one's got a persistent cough that sounds wet.
Chest infection, probably. All this incense and damp marble.
He keeps blinking his left eye too—probably irritation from the smoke.
"Have you tried steam?" I ask him. "Just your head over a bowl of hot water with a towel? Also that eye needs rinsing. Clean water, not this sanctified stuff that probably has oils in it."
He stares at me like I've suggested he eat his own shoes.
The Luminary approaches with a knife that's been polished until it gleams. The handle's wrapped in white leather that some poor person is going to have to clean later. Does anyone here know how to get blood out of white leather? Because I don't think they do.
"Your light will be cleansed of shadow taint," he says, and I notice his hand trembling. Not fear—medical tremor. Plus his fingernails have those white spots that mean zinc deficiency. When's the last time any of these people had shellfish? Or pumpkin seeds? Pumpkin seeds are full of zinc.
Vice shifts behind him, and I hear her knee pop. That's not good at any age, but she can't be more than forty. Cartilage wearing down from standing on marble all day. They need those mats that kitchen workers use, the ones with the little bumps that help circulation.
"You're dying," I tell the Luminary, because someone should probably mention it. "Whatever ritual you've been attempting, it's poisoning you from the inside. Your magic's eating itself. I can see it—there are these dark veins spreading up your neck."
"Lies."
"Your fever's spiking. Your hands won't stop shaking. And you're sweating through that very expensive robe which someone's going to have to wash." I try to shift on the altar but now my left foot's going numb too. "These bones are really not ergonomic."
He raises the knife and my magic responds without permission—not trying to protect me, just cataloging what's wrong with everyone.
Golden light spills out, finding every injury and illness in the room.
The Luminary's organs are failing one by one, Vice has that ulcer plus what looks like chronic dehydration, door guard has chest infection and that eye thing, someone in the corner has an ingrown toenail they're ignoring which is going to get infected if they're not careful.
"Stop that," the Luminary hisses, but my light keeps reaching, wanting to fix everything.
"I can't help it when everyone's so obviously unwell!" The light gets brighter, warmer. "When's the last time anyone here had a proper meal? With actual vegetables? You all look like you're living on bread and religious fervor!"
The sanctum shakes. Not from my magic—from something hitting the doors with enough force to crack the marble frame.
"Finally," I mutter. "Though that's going to be expensive to fix. Marble's not cheap."
The doors explode inward in a wave of shadow and water, and there's Ruvan looking absolutely furious, his jaw clenched so tight I can actually hear his teeth grinding from here. He's going to need one of those mouth guards if he keeps this up.
Arthur's right behind him, water swirling, and he's favoring his left side—probably pulled something dramatic again. He always pulls something when he's being heroic. Remember when we were kids and he threw out his back trying to lift that beam off the cat? Same energy.
The sanctum erupts into chaos, and immediately I'm worried about the slipping hazard. Water on marble? Someone's definitely going to pull a hamstring. Ridge just threw someone and—oh, that's going to be sore tomorrow. Do we have that muscle salve? The one that smells like mint but actually works?
"The light must be—" the Luminary starts, but then he's coughing up blood. Black blood. That's not supposed to be that color.
"Internal bleeding!" I shout to anyone listening. "His organs are shutting down!"
Nobody's listening. They're all too busy with the stabbing and the magic and the dramatic declarations.
Tooth is signing something at Silent Syl while stabbing someone, which is actually very impressive multitasking, but he's going to strain his wrist doing that twisting motion. Repetitive stress injuries are no joke.
Vice is pressing harder on her stomach now, backed against the wall. That ulcer must feel terrible right about now.
My magic explodes outward, trying to reach everyone at once. The Luminary collapsing, Grimm favoring his left ankle (when did he hurt that?), someone's nose definitely broken and pointing the wrong direction which is going to need setting immediately or it'll heal wrong.
That's when Ruvan reaches me. His shadows cut through the ropes and I fall forward into him, which is embarrassing but also his shirt smells like leather and that soap he uses and there's a weird hollow sound when I hit his chest—completely empty stomach, probably hasn't had anything but that awful tea since yesterday.
"Your teeth are going to crack if you keep grinding them like that," I tell him, noticing how tight his jaw is. "Also your shirt has a rip. Right shoulder seam. Do we even have navy thread?"
"You were tied to an altar." His voice is very controlled, which means someone's about to die.
"Yes, but the real problem is their ventilation system. All this incense is basically toxic. Also, someone left candles burning unattended which is a fire hazard. Do they even have water buckets? What if someone's robe catches?"
His expression does something complicated I can't read because the Luminary is on his knees now, that beautiful white robe ruined with his own black blood. Does anyone here know about enzyme cleaners? Because that's the only thing that might save that fabric.
"Stop," Vice says suddenly, her sword at the Luminary's throat. "Just... stop."
Everyone freezes. Her knee pops again when she adjusts her stance. She really needs to get that looked at.
"Vice?" The Luminary's voice is tiny, confused. The fever's cooked his brain.
"You're destroying everything," she says quietly, and her voice shakes from exhaustion. That eye twitch is worse now. "The Court, the faith, yourself. You've become the corruption you sought to cleanse."
"But the light—"
"The light doesn't want this." She looks at me. "Show him."
I don't know what she means until my magic responds, golden light meeting Ruvan's shadows. But instead of fighting, they blend together. Not gray, not less, just... different. Like when you mix honey into tea and it swirls around before settling.
"That's not corruption," Vice says. "That's balance."
The Luminary makes this awful choking sound. Then he's falling, convulsing, his own poisoned magic finally consuming what's left. My light tries to catch him, to fix it, but there's nothing left to fix. Some things are too broken.
"Let him go," Ruvan says gently, his hand on my face. His fingers are cold—poor circulation from the shadows probably. "You can't heal someone who's choosing to die."
The Luminary stops breathing with a little sigh. The sanctum goes quiet except for various groaning and someone definitely whimpering about their hamstring—called it.
"Is everyone okay?" I call out. "Who needs healing? Raise your hand if you can't speak. Also, that one in the corner, your toenail situation needs immediate attention!"
"Olivia," Ruvan says in that tone that means I'm missing something important.
"What? People are hurt. Look, that one's definitely got whiplash from how they landed. And someone should check Finn's wrist, he's holding it weird."
"She's actually concerned about us," one of the Radiant Court survivors whispers, clutching what looks like a dislocated thumb.
"She's always concerned about everyone," Arthur says, limping over. There's a squelching sound from his left boot. "It's a problem. Livvy, you can't heal people who were just trying to purify you to death."
"But they're hurt. And look at them—when's the last time any of them had a proper meal? They're all sharp edges and dehydration."
"They're supposed to be hurt. It's called consequences."
"Consequences don't reset dislocated joints though."
Vice steps forward, sword lowered. Her stomach makes the most incredible growling sound. "The Radiant Court is dissolved. Anyone who wants to leave, leave. Anyone who wants to stay..." She looks at me. "Do you take refugees?"
"Oh, we're definitely going to need more groceries," I say, already mental cataloging. "And bedding. Does anyone have allergies? Some people can't tolerate wool. Do any of you know how to cook? Forty-seven people is a lot of eggs to manage solo."
Ruvan makes that sound that means he's given up. "You want to adopt the people who just tried to kill you?"
"They're very clean," I point out. "Look how organized everything is. Plus Vice clearly has management skills. We could use help with breakfast prep. Also she needs bland foods for that ulcer. Rice porridge, maybe some of that ginger tea that doesn't taste great but actually helps."
"She's insane," someone mutters.
"She's kind," Vice corrects, finally taking her hand off her stomach. "Which might be the same thing in this world."
My legs give out—too much magic, not enough food, the usual—and Ruvan catches me, pulling me against him. His shadows wrap around us both, warm like heated blankets.
"The oven," I mumble against his chest. "Someone needs to turn it off. Did I leave something in there? Everything's fuzzy."
"What?"
"Can't remember what I was baking. But the timer's probably going off. Someone's going to smell smoke and panic. Remember when I burned those rolls and the whole kitchen smelled like charcoal for days?"
He holds me tighter, and I feel him shake slightly. His stomach growls though, confirming the food situation.
"We need to get the injured back," Arthur says. "Olivia needs rest before she tries to heal anyone else."
"But that one's toenail—"
"Will survive the walk," Ruvan finishes. "We're going home."
Home. The estate with seven bathrooms and two kitchens and hopefully someone remembered to check the stove.
"Vice needs to come too," I insist. "Her knee keeps popping. That's early arthritis if she doesn't address it. And the ulcer. And honestly, when's the last time she slept? Look at those eye bags."
Vice stares at me. "You want to heal me? After everything?"
"Your body's falling apart from stress. You can barely eat without pain. And that eye twitch is getting worse. Of course I want to heal you. But first everyone needs actual food. Did anyone eat lunch? Nobody ever eats proper lunch when there's drama happening."
"She's serious," Arthur tells the room. "She will hunt you down with nutrients."
"It's not forcing if you need it," I protest, but I'm already falling asleep against Ruvan's chest. "Wake me when we get home. Someone needs to check the kitchen. And Tuesday is bean night. Someone better have soaked the beans."
The last thing I hear is Ruvan's voice, rough: "She was worried about dinner prep. They had her on an altar and she was worried about whether anyone remembered to soak the beans."
And then darkness, warm and safe, that smells like leather and shadow and home.