8
Tomas wrung out the cloth with practiced hands, then laid it across his lord’s brow, careful not to press too hard. The fever had returned—not the burning one from before, just a low, steady heat. He moved the cloth down along the side of his face, over the hollow of his cheek, then carefully around the ruined edge of the right eye.
The healers had not come since Her Highness’s last visit. Not because their work was finished, but because his lord had turned them away. He did not raise his voice, nor offer insult—only silence. He would not meet their eyes, nor answer their questions, nor let them near him. Since that day, he had said almost nothing at all.
He spent long hours watching the window, though Tomas doubted he saw the sky. His gaze held too still, fixed on something far beyond the stones. Even when the fever rose again, he did not stir. His hand rested always at his chest, fingers curled around the amulet he never let go. Now and then, his brow would draw tight, as if troubled by some thought that would not ease. But no words came. Only the silence, and the watching.
Near midday, he spoke at last.
“Bring me a mirror.”
Tomas looked up from the folded linens. He did not answer at first, unsure he’d heard right. His eyes were open—clear this time, and heavy with something that had settled overnight.
“A mirror, my lord?”
He did not repeat himself. Only held his gaze, and waited.
Tomas fetched the mirror and set it aside for a moment. He slipped an arm behind his lord’s back and eased him upright, slow and careful. Once he was settled against the pillows, Tomas placed the mirror in his hand.
The mirror was small, old—its glass slightly warped, the frame nicked where the silver had worn thin.
His lord said nothing. He held it steady in his left hand, and turned it toward his face.
He looked for a long time.
The light from the window caught the torn flesh at his temple, the raw lines across cheek and jaw, the bruised, swollen mess around the eye that still watered in daylight. His hair had grown long and uneven, pulled back in a rough knot, with loose strands falling across the worst of it—as if even now it tried to hide what the mirror refused to soften. His mouth twitched once—not quite a smile.
Then he laughed.
Tomas froze. He had never heard his lord laugh since he returned from the south—not even a smile, save for the faintest one now and then in sleep. This sound bore no trace of that. It held no warmth, no mirth, no edge of cruelty. Only absence. As if something inside him had cracked just wide enough to let the emptiness speak.
“Go on,” He said, still laughing, eyes fixed on the mirror. “Summon them.”
The door closed behind Tomas with a soft click. The boy did not linger, and nothing more was said as he left them behind. Justin remained still, upright against the pillows, his hand resting over the amulet. The fever still clung to him, low and constant, but the ache ran deeper.
“I was told there was a choice,” he said, without lifting his gaze. “I never asked what it was.”
Vaeril answered without pause. “Save her, or die with her.”
Justin’s eyes didn’t move from the far wall. His thumb shifted against the amulet, the motion small, almost unconscious.
“Explain it,” he said. “All of it.”
Sira spoke first. “Her soul is bound to yours—not by force, but by choice. She gave it to empower the counterspell that keeps you alive.”
Vaeril continued. “The amulet holds what remains of her—not as sanctuary, but as containment. It was the only way to preserve her after the spell was cast.”
“The counterspell holds, but only just,” Sira added. “The curse is too strong for what she gave—it delays, but it cannot undo.”
Vaeril’s tone remained steady. “The danger is from you. You spent too long in the dreams. If you keep returning, your body will not hold—and if it fails, she goes with you.”
Justin’s jaw shifted, but he said nothing.
“We cut the dream-bridge to keep you from dragging her down with you,” Sira said. “But to free her safely, the ritual must be done where she was bound, with you present.”
Vaeril picked up seamlessly. “The amulet, her soul, and the one who bears the tether—all must be there.”
His fingers traced the edge of the amulet. “What does it take from me?”
Vaeril answered. “Your memory of her. All of it.”
Sira’s voice softened. “Dreams, names, feelings—everything. The link must be severed cleanly.”
“If any trace remains,” Vaeril said, “she won’t be free.”
Justin closed his eyes. A breath passed—not sharp, not deep—and he opened them again.
“And what do I become,” he said, quieter now. “After it’s done?”
Vaeril answered. “Your curse will be cleansed. The soul damage repaired. What was broken can be healed.”
Sira added, calm and certain. “We will see to it. You will not be left as you are.”
Justin said nothing.
The room held still around him—not in tension, but in waiting. His fingers remained over the amulet, unmoving. Only the shallow rise and fall of his chest marked the passage of time.
He had lived with the emptiness so long it had become shape, not pain. A hollow set beneath the ribs, steady and unyielding. No rage stirred in it. No clarity. Only absence. A wound without memory, without name.
But something had dwelled there, once. A warmth—faint, formless—curled like a coal beneath ash. He had felt it most in sleep, not in dreams he could hold, but in that hush before waking. As if something lingered near. As if something had stayed.
He did not know who she was. He never had. Yet something in him had reached toward her, without knowing why.
He did not wish for life. Not as he was. He had nothing left to return to, and no name he trusted to call his own. But the thought of her—not face, nor voice, nor name—the truth of her, held still against his chest.
She had given herself for him.
And that was reason enough to do the same.
“If that is the price,” he said at last, quiet but certain. “Then I shall pay.”
He did not look at them. His gaze stayed forward, the amulet still cradled beneath his hand.
“Set her free.”
What little remained in the room were the last things left to pack. A thick woolen blanket was folded over Justin’s legs, where he sat half-upright on the low cot, fingers loosely curled around the amulet he held without thought. The curse still clung to him—held in check, not cleansed. The dragons had done enough to steady him for the journey, no more.
They had asked for something known—a presence to hold him fast when the rite was done. The ritual would leave him disoriented, stripped of memory and shape. He would need something familiar to keep him tethered. There had been little debate. The need was clear, and the answer, in the end, had been simple. All of them had agreed.
Tomas moved through the room with quiet purpose, checking closures, setting bundles by the door. Sira passed him a satchel without a word, and he took it without hesitation. Whatever he’d been told, it was enough. He hadn’t argued, and he hadn’t asked for more.
Eliane had arranged the transport—a closed carriage, low-roofed, unmarked. Sturdy wheels, a frame thick enough to soften the jostle of uneven roads. Not royal. Not military. Just enough space for a sick man to lie down. The dragons would take the reins, cloaked and faceless beneath travel hoods, and no guards would follow. Only silence.
She stepped inside and crossed to the cot without a word. When she reached him, she drew a small, worn book from beneath her cloak and set it on the blanket at his side, its leather cover softened at the corners with age.
“I found this among your things,” she said. “They were discarding the rest. I thought you might wish to keep it.”
Justin sat in the corner of the barracks, half-hidden behind a bench and a hanging cloak, a small book on his knee and a charcoal stub moving quietly across the page.
“You’re far from the yard,” Eliane said, already leaning over his shoulder—still young enough to do so without thinking.
He shifted the book just enough to turn the page away. Not sharply, but practiced. She caught a glimpse—an open field, grass sketched in soft waves, trees in the distance.
“Only for a moment, my lady.” He kept his tone level, careful—the way he always spoke around her. As if the distance was safer, even when she leaned in closer than she should.
“You drew that?”
“Please don’t look.”
“You’re not poor at it.”
“It isn’t for anyone else.”
“Then why keep it?”
He didn’t answer.
She crouched beside him. “Will you draw one for me?”
He glanced at her, cautious. “I’d rather not.”
“One small lion. It doesn’t have to be good.”
“It wouldn’t be.”
“All the better.”
He hesitated, then, with a quiet sigh, turned to a fresh page. His hand moved slowly, sketching a small, rough lion—its mane curling unevenly, one paw raised.
When he finished, he glanced at it, unsure, then turned the book just enough for her to see.
Eliane grinned, her eyes lighting up. “See? You can do it.”
He looked away, a faint, reluctant smile pulling at his mouth.
“Please don’t tell anyone,” he mumbled.
“It’s just for me,” she promised.
Justin looked at the book, then at her. His fingers moved slightly, brushing the edge of the cover, but he did not open it.
“You did not read it.”
“No.”
He gave a faint nod. His hand remained where it was.
“You did what you believed was necessary,” he said, after a moment. His voice was quiet. Measured. “I cannot say I thank you for it.”
She did not reply.
“But neither can I condemn you.”
He turned his head slightly, not enough to meet her gaze again, only enough to mark the words.
“You remained, when no one else did,” he said. “That is not nothing.”
No more passed between them. She inclined her head—a gesture simple, without flourish—then turned to go. At the door, she paused.
“Farewell, Justin,” she said, without looking back.
He did not answer. His hand remained resting over the journal.
The door closed behind her in silence.