Chapter 46
CHAPTER
Sabine
The air of the Registry infirmary, sharp with disinfectant and bodily fluids, stung the inside of Sabine’s nose.
Ellie pressed her shawl tight across her chest. The maid’s hands trembled, the shaking made more pronounced by the way her body struggled to remember how to carry itself without the ballast of her affinity.
Azrian had mentioned erasing one’s affinity was not a kind act, but Sabine had not expected it to be so violent, so much of a murder of something essential. Ellie’s entire affect was different now, as though her soul had been sanded to a shadow.
Sabine moved at a brisk but careful pace, ensuring she kept both herself and Ellie hidden from passing orderlies or the prying eyes of minor Registry staffers: a yawning clerk in cream-colored robes, an aged maintenance man carrying a basket of soiled linens.
None looked twice at them, but Sabine watched their every movement. If she’d learned anything from Azrian, it was that most people noticed only what you wanted them to. Confidence, even when manufactured, was a cloak more potent than magic.
“Petyr’s room is in the North wing,” Ellie whispered. “Second level. End of the hall.” She didn’t meet Sabine’s gaze.
“You’re certain he’ll be conscious? If we find him sedated—”
“They don’t use sedation for Fading patients.” Ellie’s lips quirked in a ghost of her old, dry wit. “Waste of resources, the Registry says.”
Sabine’s stomach tightened. In that moment, she hated the entire institution with its cold, bureaucratic triage and its willingness to heap cruelty atop tragedy if it meant sparing the use of an Ice weaver’s time and abilities on a patient marked for death.
The North wing was more spartan than the entry halls, its windows replaced by narrow slits of frosted glass. The temperature dropped by several degrees, enough even Sabine felt the urge to shiver.
Ellie stumbled once on the uneven seam of the flagstones. Sabine caught her gently by the elbow. The contact was brief, but Ellie seemed to draw a measure of resolve from it. She squared her shoulders and quickened her pace.
They passed by a series of small alcoves, each containing a cot and an occupant in varying stages of Fading, as if the rooms had not been enough to contain the horrors of the disease, and now it spilled into the corridor.
Some were cocooned in blankets, faces obscured by gauze.
Others sat upright, backs ramrod straight, eyes darting like cornered prey.
“Do you see?” Ellie whispered. “There’s not a single nurse. They leave them to die alone.”
“It’s monstrous.”
Ellie’s lips moved, as if she wanted to say more, but she snapped them shut.
They found Petyr’s chamber at the very end of the North corridor. Ellie hesitated, hand poised above the handle. Sabine stepped forward, pressed her palm over Ellie’s fingers, and squeezed.
“He will be well,” she murmured.
Ellie nodded. She shook so badly that Sabine had to guide her movement to get the latch open. The door swung inward.
Inside, the room was almost obscenely bright. The air was so thick with static that Sabine felt the hair on her arms stand upright. Three cots cramped in the small room; one was empty, though the bedding was still rumpled, one housed a man who looked closer to a cadaver, and the third—
Ellie beelined for it. Petyr sat upright, staring at the wall, clad only in the thin linen shift of a hospital ward. He looked desperately thin and emaciated, but compared to the other patients, his skin and lips held a hint of warmth.
When he noticed Ellie, his whole body convulsed. “El?” he said, the nickname a raw, half-formed hope.
Ellie released a sound somewhere between a sob and a laugh. She crossed the room in two lurching strides and knelt at the edge of his bed, clutching his hands in hers. “It’s over,” she said, her voice so full of relief it bordered on agony. “It’s really over.”
Sabine closed the door softly behind her and pressed her back to the wall, already planning how best to get them out before morning rounds.
Ellie’s hands covered her mouth. She laughed, a hiccupping thing. Petyr wrapped her in an embrace so fierce Sabine worried they might both break. Ellie wept into his shoulder, her sobs tearing loose the last threads of composure she’d managed to cling to.
“El,” Petyr said again, over and over, as if the act of naming her would prevent the universe from taking her back. She clung to him, fingers digging into his back, anchoring herself against the onslaught of relief.
After what felt like several minutes, the tears slowed. Ellie pulled back, cupped Petyr’s jaw in her hands, and kissed him. It was not pretty or poetic, but raw, born of too much time spent believing they would never get another chance to share one.
“I don’t—how did you—” His sentence faltered as the impossibility of his own recovery must’ve dawned on him. “You shouldn’t be here. They told me—”
“They told you a great many things,” Ellie said. “Most of them were lies.” She managed a weak laugh and wiped the tears from her cheek with the back of her hand. “I’m not very good at being a criminal, Pet. I was nearly caught at every turn. But I found help in the most unlikely places.”
Petyr followed her gaze to Sabine, who stood at the periphery with hands folded behind her back, back straight.
“Miss Almarien?” he said, incredulous. “Why—?”
“It’s Lady Vaelros, now, actually,” Sabine answered. “And your recovery is not my doing. Ellie gave something important so you might have your life.”
Ellie’s face crumpled, not with sadness but something closer to gratitude. “She’s being modest. Lady and Lord Vaelros, they… they took my magic, so you could live.”
Petyr’s expression collapsed, tears pooling in his eyes. “But your affinity… I know what that means to you.”
She gave a small, rueful smile. “It meant less than losing you.” Then, her expression soured. “And after everything I’ve done for the Empire, I don’t know if I could ever weave again.”
Sabine turned away from the scene and surveyed the tiny chamber: the three metal-framed beds, a narrow table with a battered pitcher and glass, a woven mat that looked more decorative than functional.
She noted the hooks on the wall—likely for patient restraints, though none were present.
The room reeked of antiseptic and the coppery tang of old blood.
She moved to the footlocker beneath Petyr’s cot and opened it. Inside, she found a spare shift, a cheap toothbrush, and a well-worn pair of shoes. She bundled the items into the shift and tied the ends into a makeshift sack.
“Time is not our friend,” Sabine said, soft but urgent. “There will be rounds at the hour’s turn. If we’re not gone by then, the whole ward will be alerted.”
Petyr nodded, still dazed. He wiped the tears and took the bundle from Sabine, clutching it to his chest.
Ellie straightened, wiping her face and smoothing her skirt. She took Petyr’s hand in hers, their fingers intertwining with the precision of old habit.
“Can you walk?” Sabine asked.
“I’ll run, if you ask it.”
She almost smiled. “Walking will suffice.”
Sabine checked the corridor. No voices, no footfalls.
They slipped out together, Petyr leaning on Ellie only when he thought Sabine wasn’t looking.
The three of them moved down the corridor, Sabine leading.
The main arteries of the building swelled with bustle at all hours, but Azrian kept maps for every single one of these buildings, and Sabine had memorized the hidden veins.
Ellie and Petyr followed closely. Petyr was upright, but the cost was written in the sweat on his brow and the way his breath rattled in his chest. He did not complain, even when Ellie had to pause and resettle his weight.
They pressed on, descending three flights of stairs into the basement and skirting the perimeter of a cold-storage chamber that still faintly reeked of formaldehyde.
By the time they reached the outer maintenance corridor, Petyr’s color had faded again.
The next obstacle was a steel-plated door, locked with an intricate triple-bar.
Breaking the lock would draw attention, and backtracking would waste precious time.
She ran her fingers along the edge of the door, feeling for a flaw.
“Step back,” she said, and Ellie guided Petyr to a safe distance.
Sabine closed her eyes, summoned the memory of Lady Delarine’s weaving lessons.
Creation magic was rare for a reason: it demanded not only will, but a sense of the world’s structure down to its finest grain.
She found the weak point, a hairline imperfection in the metal, and wove a pattern of concentric circles.
The threads of her magic, golden and brilliant, followed her movements.
Sweat beaded on her brow. The air vibrated, molecules rearranging under her command.
With a groan and a twist, a new seam appeared beside the original hinges, as if the door had always been waiting to slide sideways instead.
She yanked it open and ushered her charges through, closing it behind them. The new seam faded as soon as she released it, the door once again seamless and locked.
On the far side, the corridor ended in a ladder that dropped into the city’s old canal system—a tangle of walkways and forgotten tributaries that circled beneath the Registry like roots around a corpse.
At this hour, the lower tier was deserted except for a handful of maintenance skiffs and the mist that clung to everything, softening the world to the consistency of a half-remembered dream.
Sabine descended first, checking for movement on the water. When she was certain they were in private, she signaled Ellie and Petyr down.
Early light was just beginning to creep through the city’s narrowest alleys, painting the mist with streaks of pale saffron. The air was cold and tasted faintly of oil and river weed, but it was at least free of the Registry’s surveillance.
Sabine handed Ellie a small velvet pouch. “Take the service ramp west, then follow the embankment until you reach the city’s gates. There’s a skiff moored there. It’s unmarked and stocked for a week’s journey. From there, you’ll be on your own.”
Ellie weighed the pouch in her palm. “My lady, I—”
“Don’t waste breath on apologies.” Sabine cut her off, but not unkindly. “You acted under threat, and you’ll have to live with the nightmares of your actions for the rest of your days. The Empire makes monsters of us all when it suits its purposes.”
Petyr managed a dry laugh. “That’s the first honest thing I’ve ever heard anyone in the Gilt say about their precious Empire.”
Sabine’s lips quirked at the edge. “You must not know me very well, Petyr. I would never describe the Empire as precious.”
Then she turned to Ellie. They looked at each other for a long moment before Sabine spoke again. “I suggest you go to the Gloamreach, or possibly Keshira. Somewhere where the Empire has less reach. Wherever you go, send word.”
Ellie nodded, but then her composure broke. She reached for Sabine’s hands, clutching them desperately. “Thank you. For more than just sparing us.”
Sabine did not flinch or pull away. She let the maid squeeze her fingers as tight as she needed. “Remember the other part of our agreement,” she said softly. “If ever I send for you, you come. You speak the truth, whatever it costs.”
“I swear it,” Ellie said, and Sabine believed her.
Petyr straightened. “We owe you everything. That debt will not be forgotten.”
Sabine did not speak further. She simply nodded. She watched as they disappeared into the fog, two small figures crossing the narrow bridge that arched toward the western embankment. The canal, in its quiet majesty, swallowed them up. Sabine let herself count to fifty before turning away.