“It was …” Yrene brushed off the memory of the echo still held within that scar. “It was not any magic-wound I had encountered before.”

“Will it impact the healing of his spine?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t tried to probe with my power yet, but … I’ll let you know.”

“I’m at your disposal.”

“Even if this is my final test?”

“A good healer,” Hafiza said with a smile, “knows when to ask for help.”

Yrene nodded absently. And when she sailed back home, to war and bloodshed, who would she turn to then?

“I’ll go back,” Yrene said at last. “Tomorrow. I want to look into spinal injuries and paralysis in the library tonight.”

“I’ll let Cook know where to find you.”

Yrene gave Hafiza a wry grin. “Nothing escapes you, does it?”

Hafiza’s knowing look wasn’t comforting.

The healer didn’t return that day. Nesryn waited for another hour, then two, Chaol filling his time with reading in the sitting room, before she finally declared she was going to see her family.

It had been years since she’d seen her aunt and uncle and their children. She prayed they were still in the house where she’d last visited.

She’d barely slept. Had barely been able to think or feel things like hunger or exhaustion thanks to the thoughts wreaking havoc within her.

The healer with her lack of answers hadn’t soothed her.

And with no formal meeting scheduled with the khagan or his children today …

“I can entertain myself, you know,” Chaol said, setting his book on his lap as Nesryn again looked to the foyer door. “I’d join you, if I could.”

“You soon will be able to,” she promised. The healer had seemed skilled enough, despite her refusal to even give them a shred of hope.

If the woman couldn’t help them, then Nesryn would find another. And another. Even if she had to beg the Healer on High to help.

“Go, Nesryn,” Chaol ordered. “You’ll get no peace until you do.”

She rubbed her neck, then rose from her spot on the golden couch and strode over to him. Braced her hands on either arm of his chair, currently positioned by the open garden doors. She brought her face close to his, closer than it’d been in days. His own eyes seemed … brighter, somehow. A smidge better than yesterday. “I’ll come back as soon as I can.”

He gave her a quiet smile. “Take your time. See your family.” He had not seen his mother or brother in years, he’d told her. His father … Chaol did not talk about his father.

“Perhaps,” she said quietly, “we could get an answer for the healer.”

He blinked at her.

She murmured, “About the completion.”

That fast, the light winked out from his eyes.

She withdrew quickly. He’d stopped her on the boat, when she’d practically leaped atop him. And seeing him without his shirt earlier, those muscles rippling along his back, his stomach … She’d almost begged the healer to let her do the inspecting.

Pathetic. Though she’d never been particularly good at avoiding her cravings. She’d started sleeping with him that summer because she didn’t see the point in resisting where her interest tugged her. Even if she hadn’t cared for him, not as she did now.

Nesryn slid a hand through her hair. “I’ll be back by dinner.”

Chaol waved her off, and was already reading his book again when she left the room.

They had made no promises, she reminded herself. She knew his tendencies drove him to want to do right by her, to honor her, and this summer, when that castle had collapsed and she’d thought him dead … She had never known such fear. She had never prayed as she had in those moments—until Aelin’s flame spared her from death, and Nesryn had prayed that she had spared him, too.

Nesryn shut out the thoughts of those days as she strode through the palace halls, vaguely remembering where to find the gates to the city proper. What she’d thought she wanted, what was most important—or had been. Until the khagan had uttered the news.

She had left her family. She should have been there. To protect the children, protect her aging father, her fierce and laughing sister.

“Captain Faliq.”

Nesryn halted at the pleasant voice, at the title she was still barely accustomed to answering. She was standing at one of the palace crossroads, the path ahead to take her to the front gates if she kept going straight. She had marked every exit they’d passed on the way in.

And at the end of the hallway that bisected hers was Sartaq.

Gone were the fine clothes of yesterday. The prince now wore close-fitting leathers, the shoulders capped with simple yet sturdy armor, reinforced at the wrists, knees, and shins. No breastplate. His long black hair had been braided back, a thin strap of leather tying it off.

She bowed deeply. Lower than she would have for the other children of the khagan. But for a rumored Heir apparent, who might one day be Adarlan’s ally—

If they survived.

“You were in a hurry,” Sartaq said, noting the hall she’d been striding down.

“I—I have family in the city. I was going to see them.” She added halfheartedly, “Unless Your Highness has need of me.”

A wry smile graced his face. And she realized she’d replied in her own tongue. Their tongue. “I’m headed for a ride on Kadara. My ruk,” he clarified, falling into his language as well.

“I know,” she said. “I’ve heard the stories.”

“Even in Adarlan?” He lifted a brow. A warrior and a charmer. A dangerous combination, though she could not recall any mention of a spouse. Indeed, no ring marked his finger.

“Even in Adarlan,” Nesryn said, though she did not mention that the average person on the street might not know such tales. But in her household … Oh, yes. The Winged Prince, they called him.

“May I escort you? The streets are a maze, even to me.”

It was a generous offer, an honor. “I would not keep you from the skies.” If only because she did not know how to talk to such men—born and bred to power, used to fine ladies and scheming politicians. Though his ruk riders, legend claimed, could come from anywhere.

“Kadara is accustomed to waiting,” Sartaq said. “At least let me lead you to the gates. There is a new guard out today, and I will tell them to mark your face so you may be let back in.”