Before I can blink, another icy wave crashes into me, covering my hips in thick ribbons, before they also freeze.
“Cheater!” I snap, glaring at him. “We said no wielding.”
Daak is a skilled waterwielder—the best in all of Tundrayn—and captain of my father’s guard. It’s the only reason Father never sent him into battle.
“I changed my mind.” He smirks at me, palms angled to cheat some more. I lift my hands up, when—
Rap. Rap. Rap.
Three sharp knocks echo through the training room.
I drop my hands. The door flings open, and a servant barges in, panting. “Princess Mayah! The Healing Chambers. Come quickly.”
The ice holding me captive melts, crashing to the floor with a loud splash. With a wave of his hand, Daak wicks the water soaking my fur-lined tunic and leggings back into the fountain. His eyes reflect the worry that must be mirrored in my own.
“Go,” he says, brows furrowed. “I’ll check in soon.”
My dark braid swings behind me as I follow the servant through the cold palace halls, boots skidding on the ice floors. I could sprint this path blindfolded in the dead of night and notslip once. I’ve done it several times on a dare. But the urgency bracketing the servant’s posture rocks my balance.
We make it in record time.
Carved into the palace’s icy heart, the Healing Chambers have smooth, white ice walls that glisten like polished marble. Stone basins brimming with crystal-clear water sit beneath frost-rimmed shelves lined with glass jars of salves and rows of neatly stacked liniments—rarely used, but handy when healers are depleted of reserves. I’ve never touched any of the medical supplies in my entire life.
I’ve never needed to.
Usually, the air in the Healing Chambers is crisp with the scent of mint and snowroot, but today, the stench of death permeates the room.
A sharp gasp breaks loose from my chest, and I resist the urge to cover my mouth.
There are no empty cots. Every available surface is littered with broken bodies—warriors with gaping wounds and twisted limbs. Three unfortunate souls are sprawled on the cold floor between cots.
Tides have mercy.
The metallic smell of burnt flesh invades my nostrils, and I struggle to stifle my gag. I don’t know why. I should be used to it by now—I’ve treated hundreds of such injuries in this tidesdamned eternal war with Arbinj.
“What happened?” I demand, surveying the injured men and women. “We agreed to a ceasefire!”
Jennah, the head healer, snorts, the lines around her mouth etched deeper as she scowls. “Apparently, news of the alliance didn’t reach the front lines in time.” She doesn’t look up, glowing hands pressed against her patient’s bloodied arm. “Arbinj attacked a small battalion. All commons.”
My anger flares hotter at her casual use of “commons,” the derogatory term for nonwielders, but I purse my lips and hold my tongue.
Rolling up the sleeves of my tunic, I set to work.
First, I treat a warrior with horrific lightning burns covering nearly every inch of his body. His clothing is shredded, fused to his skin in some places. Tides damn whoever did this into uncharted depths. Gingerly, I peel back the fabric where I can, revealing raised, branching scars where the lightning struck.
The work of a stormwielder. A very powerful one.
I tamp down on my rage, summoning the power inside me until my hands glow with soothing white light. Slowly, painstakingly, I skim my palms over the injuries. The warrior groans, his pale face contorted with agony, sweat soaking his dark braids.
“I’m so sorry,” I whisper. He doesn’t hear me or is too consumed by pain to respond.
“There were no healers at the front lines?” I ask sharply, glancing at Jennah. “These wounds should’ve been treated immediately. Not left to fester.”
“There were,” Jennah responds slowly. The lines around her mouth deepen, her white hair blending with the ice walls. “They were overwhelmed treating the waterwielders.”
I hold my tongue. Again.
Like I’ve been doing for years.
