Elara's POV
My legs shake with every step toward the palace gates.
This is a mistake. A terrible, deadly mistake.
But I have no choice. Behind me, Lowtown's sick and dying need medicine. Ahead, the General waits. And if I run, innocent people burn.
So I walk.
The palace rises before me like a beautiful monster. White stone walls. Towers reaching toward the sky. Gardens where I used to play as a child.
Home.
Except it's not home anymore. It's a tomb full of ghosts.
Halt. Two guards block my path, spears crossed. State your business.
I'm Ara. The healer. My voice sounds steadier than I feel. General Thornwyld ordered me to report this morning.
They look me up and down dirty dress, tangled hair, calloused hands. Just another lowborn servant. Nothing special.
One guard nods. Wait here.
They search my bag roughly. Medical supplies scatter across the ground. Herbs. Bandages. My precious vials of medicine.
Careful! I snap. Those are expensive.
A guard grabs my arm, squeezing hard enough to bruise. Watch your tone, street rat.
Pain shoots up my arm. I bite back a cry.
Then a voice cuts through the air like ice. Touch her again and lose the hand.
Everyone freezes.
General Cassian Thornwyld steps from the shadows of the gate. He's dressed in black again, no armor this time, but somehow more dangerous. His gray eyes fix on the guard holding my arm.
The guard releases me so fast I stumble.
General, II was just
Get out of my sight. Cassian's voice is deadly quiet. Before I change my mind about your hand.
The guards scatter.
Cassian turns to me. For a moment, we just stare at each other. Then he says, Come with me.
Not a request. An order.
I gather my scattered supplies and follow him through the gates.
Every step inside the palace is agony.
I know these halls. These corridors. I used to run through them as a child, laughing, playing hide-and-seek with my brothers.
Before one of them helped Mother frame me for murder.
I keep my head down, terrified someone will recognize me. But five years of dirt and starvation changed me. The soft princess is gone. Now I'm just a thin, scarred street healer.
Invisible.
We pass nobles in fine clothes. Servants carrying trays. Soldiers on patrol. No one looks at me twice.
Good.
Cassian leads me deeper into the palace. Not toward the throne room or the great hall. Toward the east wing.
The medical wing.
My heart sinks when I see it.
The place is falling apart. Broken windows. Dusty shelves. Old bloodstains on the floor. This used to be a beautiful healing center where my father taught me medicine.
Now it's a ruin.
Fix this, Cassian says, gesturing around. I need my soldiers healthy. You'll have supplies, assistants, whatever you require.
I stare at the disaster surrounding us. This will take weeks.
You have days. He steps closer. And if I refuse?
Then people die. His gray eyes bore into mine. You don't strike me as someone who lets people die when you can save them.
He's right. And he knows it.
I hate that he can read me so easily.
Fine, I say through clenched teeth. But I need a real budget. Real supplies. And people who actually know how to clean.
Done. Cassian turns to leave.
Then he stumbles.
It's barely noticeable just a slight catch in his step. His hand shoots out to grip the doorframe. His face goes pale for just a second.
My healer instincts kick in before my brain can stop them.
You're injured, I say.
He straightens immediately. I'm fine.
You're lying. I saw the way he moved. The tightness around his eyes. The careful way he breathes. You have a wound that won't heal.
His jaw clenches. That's none of your concern.
You just hired me as your medic. Your health is literally my concern. I cross my arms. Show me the wound.
No.
Then die slowly and don't waste my time. I turn back to the medical wing. I have real patients to treat.
Silence stretches between us.
Then, quietly: It's a curse wound.
I freeze. Curse wounds are rare. Deadly. Caused by dark magic that eats away at life force.
Show me, I say again, softer this time.
For a long moment, Cassian just stares at me. Measuring. Calculating. Deciding if he can trust me.
Finally, he removes his black coat.
Then his shirt.
My breath catches.
The wound is on his left side, just below his ribs. Black veins spread from it like poison, crawling across his chest. The skin around it looks dead. Gray. Wrong.
I've seen curse wounds before. In textbooks. In my father's medical journals.
They're death sentences.
How long have you had this? I ask, stepping closer.
Six months. His voice is emotionless. Got it in the battle for the Northern Pass. Enemy warlock's last strike before I killed him.
And you're still alive? That's impressive. Most people die within weeks.
I'm strong. He says it like a fact, not a boast. But it's getting worse. Faster now.
I reach out carefully, not quite touching. Heat radiates from the wound. Dark magic pulses underneath, eating away at him.
How long do you have? I whisper.
Six months. Maybe less. Cassian watches my face. Can you heal it?
Yes. My magic could burn away the curse completely. Fire to cleanse. Healing to restore.
But using that magic would expose me.
Royal magic has a signature. A feeling. Anyone trained would recognize it.
And if Cassian knows what I am, I'm dead.
No, I lie, stepping back. This is beyond my skill. You need a high mage. Someone with serious power.
Something flashes in his eyes. Disappointment? Anger?
I've tried mages, he says, pulling his shirt back on. Dozens. None could help.
Then you're going to die. I say it bluntly. Honestly. Six months if you're lucky. Three if you're not.
He finishes dressing, his face carved from stone. No fear. No panic. Just cold acceptance.
Then make yourself useful elsewhere, he says. You start work immediately. Your quarters are in the servants' wing, third floor. Don't wander the palace. Don't speak to nobles. Stay in your assigned areas.
Fine.
He walks toward the door, then pauses. And Ara?
Yes?
Don't think about running. I have guards watching every exit. And if you disappear... His gray eyes lock onto mine. I'll burn Lowtown to the ground looking for you.
He leaves.
The door closes.
I stand alone in the ruined medical wing, my hand still tingling from being so close to the curse wound.
I could save him.
My magic could burn away the darkness. Heal him completely. Give him years instead of months.
But saving him means exposing myself.
And exposing myself means death.
So I have to choose: his life or mine.
I spend the rest of the day organizing the medical wing. Servants bring supplies bandages, herbs, medicines. I sort through everything with shaking hands.
My mind keeps returning to Cassian's wound.
Six months to live. Maybe three.
The most powerful general in the Empire, dying slowly from a curse he can't cure.
Part of me the bitter, angry part thinks he deserves it. He conquered my city. Sits on my family's throne. Commands the army that destroyed everything I knew.
Let him die.
But another part the healer part, the part my father trained can't stand the thought.
I took an oath. To heal. To save. To ease suffering.
Even when the patient is my enemy.
Stupid oath, I mutter, scrubbing blood off an old examination table.
A servant girl appears in the doorway. Excuse me, miss? The General wanted me to show you to your quarters.
I follow her through the palace, up narrow servant staircases, to a small room on the third floor.
It's plain but clean. A bed. A table. A tiny window overlooking the city.
Better than my shack in Lowtown.
But it feels like a prison.
Dinner is served in the servants' hall at sunset, the girl says. Don't be late. Cook gets angry.
She leaves me alone.
I sit on the bed and stare at my hands.
These hands could save the General's life.
These hands are marked with royal magic that would get me killed.
What do I do?
That night, I lie awake, staring at the ceiling.
Down the hall, I hear footsteps. Voices. The palace settling into sleep.
Then I hear something else.
A sound like pain. Harsh breathing. A bitten-off groan.
It's coming from the floor above me.
The General's private quarters.
His curse wound is getting worse.
I should ignore it. Stay in bed. Let him suffer.
But I can't.
Against every survival instinct screaming at me to stop, I get out of bed.
I slip into the hallway, moving quietly. Guards patrol, but they're used to servants coming and going.
I reach the staircase to the fourth floor the royal residential level.
A guard stops me. No servants allowed up here.
The General is ill, I say quickly. I'm his medic. He needs me.
The guard hesitates. Then another groan echoes from above.
Go, he says. Quickly.
I run up the stairs.
The General's door is closed but not locked. I push it open.
Cassian lies on his bed, shirt off, the curse wound glowing with black light. His skin is gray. Sweat drips down his face. He's barely conscious.
This isn't just pain.
He's dying. Right now.
You, he rasps when he sees me. Get out.
Shut up and let me work.
I rush to his side, examining the wound. The black veins have spread across his entire chest. The curse is accelerating.
Without help, he has hours. Not days.
I have two choices.
Let him die and be free of his suspicion.
Or save him and risk everything.
My hands move before my brain decides.
I place my palms over the wound, close my eyes, and let the magic flow.
Heat builds in my chest. Fire and healing combined the signature of House Ashenne.
Golden-red light glows beneath my hands.
Cassian's eyes snap open.
He sees the magic.
He sees me.
What are you? he whispers.