I look at Ezra. “Do it.”
His eyes search mine for a long beat, as if to be sure. Then he nods once. “It won’t take me long to prepare, but first, I’ll need some of his blood.”
I stiffen. “Why?”
Ezra crouches beside the bed, unfastening the clasp of his satchel. The leather creaks as he opens it, pulling out a slender, glass vial and a roll of soft cloth. “To test the elixir properly,” he says, his tone calm and deliberate, “each formulation must be attuned to the blood of the patient. I need to take a small sample and let it interact with the base, test it so there’s no chance the tonic could react badly.”
He produces a thin, curved blade that’s about a quarter the size of a dagger, delicate and wickedly sharp. “It won’t be deep,” he adds. “Just enough for a few drops.”
I nod, but the air feels tighter in my chest. I move beside him, gently taking my uncle’s arm and rolling up the sleeve of his nightshirt. His skin is hot, flushed, slick with fever-sweat. The sight of him like this—so limp, so unlike himself—sends another wave of helplessness crawling through me.
Ezra presses the edge of the blade to the inside of Uncle Kormak’s forearm, and though the motion is quick, my stomach still knots. Blood wells slowly from the shallow cut. My brow furrows when I note that it’s thick and dark, not the healthy crimson I hoped for. I steady myuncle’s wrist, holding it gently as Ezra lets the blood drip into the vial.
“Almost there,” he murmurs.
I clench my jaw, summoning my power into my palm. The moment Ezra seals the vial with a twist of its cork, I press my hand to the wound. Warmth pulses through my fingers, knitting the skin back together with a soft hiss of heat. The cut vanishes, but the worry inside me doesn’t.
“He shouldn’t have to bleed at all,” I whisper.
Ezra slips the vial into a padded slot in his satchel and places the blade back into its case. “I know,” he says quietly. “But sometimes healing takes a few steps backward first. I’ll start preparing the elixir now. It needs to steep while the blood bonds to it.”
I close my eyes for a second and swallow down the anxiety clogging my throat.
Ezra rises, giving my shoulder a light touch. “I’ll send word the moment it’s ready.”
I nod, but I don’t move. My hand remains on my uncle’s arm as Ezra turns and disappears into the corridor beyond.
I rake my fingers through my hair and inhale deeply. The silence that follows is heavier now. Every breath, every second, feels like it could tip the scale in one direction or the other.
Mylo moves to the window, his hand resting on the sill, eyes on the storm beyond.
And I stay beside my uncle, reaching out to place my hand gently over his. His skin is cool and clammy, the strength beneath it buried—hidden, not gone. Not yet.
Please, I think.Please come back to me.
Mylo scrubs at the growing hair at his jaw, tension wound tight through his frame. “The full moon’s coming. You know what that means.”
I do. The carnoraxis are never quiet for long. And if the past year has taught us anything, it’s that when the moon swells full, the beasts follow.
“I should be out there,” Mylo continues, his voice roughened by the weight of duty. “With the squad. They’ll need every sword.” He shakes his head, focus fixed beyond the window. In the direction of Delasurvia. “Sitting around while those things crawl closer, it feels wrong.”
“Itiswrong,” I murmur. “We should be with them.”
The words settle between us, heavy and unyielding. For all the king’s speeches and black mourning veils, the kingdom won’t stop bleeding while we bow our heads.
“We’ll meet our squad, then.” I give him a nod. “Both of us.”
He glances at me then, searching my face. “And the king? The mourning period?”
I let out a soft, bitter laugh. “Let him object.” My pulse thrums faster at the thought of his wrath, but I shove the fear down. “I’m the commander of the Delasurvian Royal Regiment. My duty is to the people. Not to King Silas’s reputation.”
“You don’t think he’ll punish you for defying him?”
“Let him try.” I lift my chin, though my heart slams harder against my ribs. “He can’t afford to lose me—not when his precious kingdom still needs an heir.”
For a moment, there’s only the sound of my uncle’s shallow breaths and the faint crackle of the fire in the hearth. Mylo watches me closely, the tension in his stance easing. But only slightly.
“You’re serious,” he says at last.
