Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 84840 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 424(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84840 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 424(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
His gaze cuts to the healing pouch at my belt, sharp and knowing. My fingers fly to cover it, instinctive, protective.
“Give me the cure.”
I shake my head. There isn’t one!
He lurches to his feet in fury—but the motion is too fast. His body betrays him. He stumbles, a violent cough wracking his chest. His knees hit the floor with an unrefined thud. “Chiron!” he demands, gesturing to one of the redcloaks stationed around the dome.
A healer’s oath is written into their soul, their very nature—friend or foe, it does not matter. And yet . . . I have resisted before, struggled. After River’s death. With Megaera. Each time, Quin was there, his voice sharp and steady, guiding me back to my path.
But Quin is not here.
I am alone with this choice.
And as this sick—dying man crumbles before me, the weight of my decision slithers through me like a poison.
Do I close the space between us and help my king’s enemy?
Or do I deny my oath?
Even he was once just a boy.
Ridiculed. Sidelined. Made to feel unloved.
Until he met Liandros.
His only friend. The love—the light—of his life. The one who saw him, not as the forgotten son; not as a shadow, but as someone who mattered.
And then Liandros was taken from him, leaving behind only an emptiness that festered into darkness.
Skriniaris Evander once said it: the regent is a man to be pitied.
With blood streaming down my throbbing arms, I cross towards him.
I crouch beside the regent just as Chiron arrives, his presence sweeping across the room like a blade drawn in warning.
His boots hit the floor between us—a deliberate line drawn. His gaze flickers between me and the regent, unreadable. The message is clear: I am not the healer here. He is.
A show of dominance.
And yet . . . somewhere in the sharp edges of his stance, I feel the faintest whisper of . . . protection?
I step back and let Chiron use spells to aid the regent. When the regent resumes his seat on his throne, Chiron bows. “The lovelights have extended your life. But until we find a cure, you’ll need one a day.”
“How much longer will this one last?” the regent demands, tapping his chest.
Chiron bows lower, hesitating.
“How long!”
“An hour, maybe two.”
The regent pales, but before he can speak, a redcloak approaches him. “He’s entered the royal city.”
My body sharpens with awareness. Quin is here. Now, close. Alone. In danger. Did he come with any semblance of a plan? Or only his magic blazing?
The regent waves him off with an order. “Delay him a little. Drain.”
I tense and will the Arcane Sovereign—any of Iskaldir’s gods—to help him.
The regent coughs and snaps a spell into his hand. Akilah is dragged helplessly from the oak across the floor. She gasps, her nails clawing against the polished stone, trying to stop herself—trying to resist the unseen force pulling her toward him.
“Use her light,” the regent orders Chiron.
A heartbeat of silence. Chiron hesitates.
I choke on a cry, disgust curling through me like bile. “You’ve already taken hers.”
The regent coughs violently again, then sweeps his cold gaze to me. He holds out a hand. “Then you have a choice. The cure. Or your lovelight.”
“You can’t be cured!” I hurl back.
“Chiron!”
Chiron shifts and when he turns to me, I see his expression pinch. He’s visibly disturbed, he’s even dragging his feet towards me, but a sighing resignation ripples through him: he will obey.
I step back, terror surging through my body. Severing a lovelight is worse than death. A ripping. A raw tearing of the soul—too deep to ever fully heal.
I remember Akilah’s agony. Her wails, the pain and grief of what was being torn away.
The pain will be unbearable.
But not as unbearable as the thought seizing my chest—
Quin will never feel it.
Chiron swishes his hands and I can see him stacking his transplantation spell; I’ve seen this dozens of times, when I was his student. Then, his spell glowed effortlessly; now, the same spell wavers.
The regent’s voice slices through the air, low and taunting. “Is losing one son not enough?”
Chiron flinches. A subtle, sharp inhale—almost imperceptible. But I see it. I feel it. The wound is fresh, still bleeds.
Dark, smoky magic seeps from his skin, thick with grief. His jaw locks, his fingers tightening in a telltale tremor. He forces his hands steady and turns the spell on me. It hits fast. Splicing pain through my chest. I scream, my whole body arching against the burn. I feel warmth and light dart through my body as it tries to escape the spell’s grasp, but the spell weaves and follows with its clawing touch.
Akilah is a shout in the distance, but her words are blurred under my agony and the clench in my stomach as I will myself to fight against the spell.
“Give in,” Chiron pleads. “It’ll hurt less.”