Remy didn’t take it. His eyes met mine, unreadable. “Let’s hope the fae weren’t lying.”
“They weren’t,” I said quietly, clutching the vial tighter for a moment before loosening my grip. “We just have to make sure it’s enough.”
Zander reached forward and placed a hand on the door. “Then let’s do it.”
The room was dim, the thick curtains drawn to keep the light from the king’s withered form. He lay still beneath layers of gold-trimmed blankets, his once-commanding presence now reduced to shallow breaths and hollow cheeks.
We approached the bed in silence, the air thick with the scent of old herbs and faded magic. My boots barely made a sound on the stone floor as I came to the king’s side. His chest rose and fell so slowly I wasn’t sure he was still alive.
Kaelith,I whispered in my mind,drop the stasis field, just for a moment.
There was a beat of hesitation, then a surge of warmth behind my ribs as her magic pulled away. It wasn’t violent or sharp, just a gentle unraveling, a release of pressure that let time resume its crawl within the king’s frail body.
His breath hitched.
I uncorked the vial with a careful twist, the scent of the elixir rising like blooming light. Kneeling, I slid a hand beneath the king’s neck and tilted his head just enough. “Come on,” I whispered. “Just a few drops.”
I pressed the vial to his lips and let a thin stream trickle into his mouth. He coughed, just once, then swallowed.
His lips moved.
“What did he say?” I asked, eyes flicking to Zander.
Zander leaned closer, frowning in concentration. Then the king mumbled again, weak and hoarse, but unmistakably alive.
“That’s a good sign,” Zander said softly, a note of hope threading through the tension in his voice.
I let out a shaky breath and recorked the vial, clutching it in my palm like a lifeline.
Kaelith, now.Her magic surged back into the room, snapping tight like a cloak being fastened over a wound. The stasis fell back into place with a hum, the air stilling once more.
But a groan echoed from the far corner of the room.
We all turned, our hands moving to our weapons out of instinct.
From behind a velvet partition near the fireplace, a shadow stirred. A second groan followed, low and strained.
Zander stepped in front of me, hand on his sword hilt. “Who the hell is that?” he asked, his eyes narrowing.
The figure stepped from the shadows with slow, deliberate steps, the silver clasp on his cloak catching the muted candlelight. I moved instantly, fingers curling around my sword hilt, drawing it a few inches free. Zander followed suit.
But Remy’s voice cut in. “Stop. He works for the Order.”
My blade stilled just short of a draw. The man’s hood was pulled back, revealing a lean face with hard lines and the piercing gaze of someone who’d seen too much. My eyes narrowed.
“Why are you here?” I asked, not lowering my weapon just yet.
The courier looked to me first, then turned his gaze toward the king’s sleeping form. “The same reason you are. Cyran has me on protection detail.”
My brows lifted. “Cyran is protecting the king?”
He nodded once, grim. “He doesn’t like being played. And Theron…” His mouth curled into a sneer. “Theron has made an enemy of your father.”
“But Cyran has aligned with the Crimson Sigil,” I challenged, my voice laced with disbelief.
The courier shrugged one shoulder, his expression unreadable. “This isn’t about the Sigil. It’s about the king. Emlem was a fair ruler. Ruthless, when necessary, but he never broke the realm. Theron is mad. And Dorian…” he trailed off with a sigh, “Dorian seems unwilling to take the mantle. That leaves Emlem. Alive, he’s still a symbol. And symbols are dangerous things in the right hands.”
Zander stepped closer, his jaw tight. “I agree. If my father has any chance of recovery, we must give him that.”
