He looks at me then. Really looks, like he’s trying to determine if I mean it. I do.
Silence washes over us, and I’m suddenly aware of how close we’re standing, how the morning light catches gold in his hair, how easy it would be to?—
“Your Grace.”
We both step back. Commander Nael fills the doorway, spine rigid, expression carved from stone.
“There’s been an incident at the northern outpost. Casualties. You’re needed immediately.”
Lord Zevran’s entire demeanour shifts, hardening into something sharp and focused. “How many?”
“At least a dozen. The reports are still coming in.”
He’s already moving toward the door. “Assemble the officers. I want full reports within the hour.”
Then he’s gone, Commander Nael following close behind.
I stand alone in the war room, the sudden silence pressing down on me. Tonight there will be no healing session. Lord Zevran will be in the command centre until dawn, managing the crisis.
The realization hits me harder than it should.
No healing means no magic. No magic means the craving will build, unsatisfied, clawing at me until I can’t think straight.
I need a distraction … anything that keeps me moving is safer than sitting still and letting the craving crawl further through my veins.
I spend the afternoon restless, pacing my room, trying to focus on anything other than the itch beneath my skin. By evening, I can’t stand it anymore.
I slip out into the corridors, letting my feet carry me where they will. I end up in the east wing again, in the maze of servants’ quarters and storage rooms I’ve been searching for weeks.
But tonight I take a different turn, following a corridor I haven’t explored before. It’s narrower here, older, the stone walls showing their age in cracks and water stains.
At the end of the corridor, there’s a door. Unmarked, unremarkable, but something about it catches my attention.
The lock is newer than the door. Someone replaced it recently.
I try my hairpin first, working it into the mechanism the way I’ve done with other doors before, when I would need to break in somewhere to reach a patient who fell unconscious, or worse. But this lock is different – more complex, with tumblers that won’t budge no matter how I angle the pin. After ten minutes, my fingers are cramping and I’ve made no progress.
I sit back on my heels, frustrated. I need to get inside. I need toknow what’s behind a door someone thought was important enough to secure with a new lock.
I head back through the corridors, my mind working. There has to be another way.
Then I remember – the guard with the scar on his jaw. The one who nods at me when I pass. I’ve seen him making rounds through this wing in the evenings.
I find him two corridors over, standing at his post near the servants’ stair.
“Excuse me,” I say, keeping my voice light. “I think I’ve gotten myself turned around. I was looking for the old storage rooms – the steward said there might be some medical supplies stored there from years ago?”
He looks at me, his expression uncertain. “The storage rooms are mostly locked, Miss. I’m not sure?—”
“I know, I found one, but the lock is newer and I can’t seem to get it open.” I give him what I hope is a helpless smile. “I don’t suppose you have keys for this wing?”
He hesitates. I can see him weighing protocol against the fact that I’m the Lord’s healer, that I have some authority here, even if it’s unclear how much.
“I have a master key,” he says slowly. “For emergencies. But I’m not supposed to?—”
“I understand. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.” I pause. “His Grace has been asking me to review the palace’s medical inventory. Make sure we have adequate supplies in case of emergency. You know, with the incident at the northern outpost…”
The mention of the crisis tips the scale. He reaches for his belt and produces a heavy iron key.
