I press my hand hard against his chest, as if I can force the muscle beneath to remember its duty. To beat. To keep him here.
His eyes flicker open as he struggles for breath. Slowly his hand lifts and settles over mine, his fingers curl. Then his eyes close again.
15
When we reach Castle Frostwyn, there is no one waiting to help me.
No guards. No servants. No steady hands to take his weight.
For a heartbeat, panic threatens to choke me, but the sprites are already moving. Tiny bodies, wings flashing as they swarm the carriage, bracing themselves beneath Luceran’s unconscious form. Together, they can carry a hundred times their own weight.
They haul him out, one gripping an arm, the other a foot. They surge through the doors and up the first flight of stairs, wings beating furiously, but even with their combined strength they falter. Twice they nearly lose him, their small backs bowing dangerously under his weight.
We won’t make it to his chambers on the next floor.
But my room is just around the corner.
“This way,” I say, already running ahead.
I wrench the doors open, holding them wide as the sprites stagger through and lower him onto the bed. They drop him with the last of their strength and collapse beside him, groaning in unison, wings twitching weakly.
I don’t waste a second.
I sprint for the kitchens.
My hands move on instinct. Roots, dried leaves, crushed bark, the sharp tang of spirits stinging my nose. I prepare the concoction quickly, efficiently. It’s saved my father’s heart more than once.
I make a triple batch.
Luceran is… large.
I rush back upstairs, cursing under my breath every time the liquid sloshes dangerously close to the rim.
When I reach my room, I don’t hesitate.
I sit on the edge of the bed, lift his head into my lap, tilt his chin. Then I pour.
He fights me at first, gurgling, choking, trying weakly to turn away. I pinch his jaw between my fingers, forcing his mouth open, and make him swallow what’s left.
When the bottle is empty, his face twists in pain. He grimaces, a broken sound tearing from his throat, then suddenly goes limp.
I freeze.
I watch his chest, barely daring to breathe myself. Seconds stretch. A terrible, endless waiting. Then he bolts upright with a sharp inhale and collapses back onto the bed.
This time, when I press my fingers to his chest, there’s no tightness. His breathing evens out, slow and steady, soft curls of frost escaping his lips with each exhale.
My shoulders sag.
Relief crashes through me so hard I have to bury my face in my hands just to stay upright.
After a moment, I manage to pull the blankets over him, arrange his body carefully, prop his head so his airway stays clear. Only then do I sink into the chair beside the hearth.
I sit there and watch him sleep.
All I can do now is hope that I have done enough. He is Fae, after all, and I have no idea whether one of my tonics will affect a magical creature the way it would a human. It could make him worse. He could have a reaction. I am not even certain his body works like ours.
I suppose I will find out soon enough.
