Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 73154 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 366(@200wpm)___ 293(@250wpm)___ 244(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73154 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 366(@200wpm)___ 293(@250wpm)___ 244(@300wpm)
“You should be resting,” I say.
“Plenty of time for that once you’re safe.”
Quin props himself into a sitting position and takes us all in through the curtain of his dripping hair. He gives an exhausted grunt and quickly reties his braids, glancing at me.
I curl my fingers under his chin, cheekily patronising. “If you’d like lessons on how to maintain loyalty . . .”
He bares his teeth and nips at my fingers, teeth grazing my skin. I jerk them away with a startled laugh.
Azula points across the lake. “That boat has been searching too.”
Quin pushes himself onto a seat and huffs as if this was expected. “My men.”
Assured of our safety, he stills in meditation, drawing energy from the early morning air.
When he reopens his eyes, I ask, “Are you returning to Frederica’s?”
“I’ll be heading back to the capital.”
This is where we’ll part, then. “See a vitalian as soon as you can.”
He hesitates. “Thank you.”
“Th-thank you, too.”
“Was that very hard to say?”
“Yes.”
We look at one another, the long day and longer night replaying between us. He raises a hand, acknowledging the scarred aklo at the helm of the approaching boat.
“Goodbye,” Quin says to me.
“Until next time, you mean.”
He raises a brow.
“I’ve surrendered to it.” I shuffle back to give him more space. “Something about us is fated.”
“You must’ve done something exceptionally good in your previous life.”
“Or exceptionally bad.”
Quin laughs, a rare, booming sound that lingers in the air. With a final, assessing look, he kicks off, his figure cutting through the dawn light as he soars into the sky.
The pier is teeming as we approach Frederica’s estate. Akilah and I say a harried goodbye to Azula and Coralus and scramble up the steep incline, using roots for leverage. On deflating breaths, we wend through throngs of dazed and bloodied people toward the house.
Akilah drags me inside. “You can’t help anyone more unless you rest first. Also . . . there’s a luminist here—headed that way.”
Someone who might expose me to my father, Akilah doesn’t say.
Too tired to think, I change into dry clothes and collapse onto the bed. I wake soon after to Akilah’s urgent cries. “You’re needed. Now.”
I stumble downstairs, my herbal bag slung over my shoulder. I find the courtyard abuzz with panic. A man cradles a bloodied child.
Two vitalians are racing in from the field tents—one familiar, a little rough around the edges given the circumstances but still elegantly dressed. Florentius Chiron. He summons a sparkling spell to his fingertips, but the father shields his girl. “She’s allergic,” he yells.
The vitalians rock on their heels. The older man next to Florentius grimaces. “Without magic, her chances aren’t good.”
I stare at those small limbs. The same size as my littlest niece. Magic is better—faster, more likely to succeed. Clean, accurate, instant.
But if it can’t be used?
Like with Akilah in the cells . . .
I pull to the front of the gathering crowd and kneel beside the father and his child. “Let me see.”
An outraged roar comes from the crowd and out steps my local luminist, ringing his stupid bell. “You’ll kill her.”
I clench my jaw and reach out to take the poor girl’s pulse. The father flinches.
“Please,” I murmur. “I only want to help her.”
“You’re par-linea!” the luminist cries.
The older man and Florentius turn. “Is that true?”
I wish to deny it.
Despite the drooping flutters in my chest, I raise my chin.
Their lips press together in wary apprehension.
Frederica raises her voice, parting the crowd with her presence. “If he can heal, he’s qualified.”
The older vitalian bows to her. “The poor girl is disadvantaged enough. No need to worsen her chances.”
The girl’s arm flops free from her father’s hold, stained with blood.
The older vitalian bends and the father lets him take her pulse. I observe her pallor, the shaking of her fingers, the seeping blood.
“Barbed pherlies,” I murmur.
Florentius recoils, lip curling in disdain. “Such primitive methods? Barbaric.”
I meet his gaze and look away again. Primitive, yes. And yet . . . “It’s better than death.”
A tense silence hangs between us before the older vitalian slowly exhales and gives a reluctant nod of acknowledgement.
I scramble to my feet and rush towards the forest at the edge of Frederica’s estate. Roots snag at my boots, twigs pelt my face, and howling wolves have me shivering. The cave is dark. Sharp rocks bite into my hands, leaving streaks of blood on the walls, as I dig into compressed earth for the pherlies.
A little life depends on me.
I can’t lose another one.
I run back through the estate, past River’s epitaph, to the courtyard. I’m mud-caked, and breathless.
Florentius wrinkles his nose.
The older vitalian sends an akla to crush the pherlies, and I wash my hands. He leads me to the tent where they’ve moved the sick girl, carrying more herbs and clean bandages. The little girl’s father is anxiously clutching his daughter’s small hand. I kneel beside them. “Can I help your daughter live?”