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“A compelling argument,” Nyctarian concedes.

On the floor, Kelaros makes a gurgling sound.

Dark King sighs. “I suppose we require an accounting of events.”

Nyctarian snaps his fingers, and the wildling who poured his wine steps forward, her body trembling.

Gently, he cups her cheeks and places a kiss upon her furred brow. “Go, see to the Nyt’Fall.”

“Of course, Your Majesty. Thank you for allowing me to serve.” Setting the wine pitcher aside, she goes to kneel beside Kelaros’s bleeding form and takes his limp hand.

With bated breath, I wait for her to pronounce the man’s death. Instead, the wildling grows pale, her cheeks sinking inward.

Amalia tenses and goes still in my hold. “Silver King, what’s happening?”

Kelaros has gone still on the floor beneath us, staring upward with an unnatural focus for a man bleeding to death.

Then the blood pooling beneath Kelaros stops spreading and retreats, crimson threads pulling back toward the wound in his chest like water flowing uphill.

Beneath the blood-soaked tear in his shirt, flesh knits together, edges drawing toward each other until no trace of the injury remains save for the stain marking where it once was.

The wildling falls to her side, her body now an empty husk as death clouds her eyes in a milky haze.

Nyt’Fall tricks. I’d heard rumors of blood recalled to flesh, though I thought the skill long lost along with other great powers.

Amalia, though, goes rigid in my arms, her breath catching.

“That’s not possible,” she whispers, but there’s more than disbelief behind the words.

Kelaros shoves the wildling’s body aside as he rolls onto his side, one hand bracing against the polished stone. He coughs once, the sound wet and thick despite his closed wound. A final trickle of blood leaks from the corner of his mouth, then retreats back inside his body like a scarlet serpent slithering home.

“Enough.” The Dark King’s voice cuts through the stunned silence, its quiet force more commanding than a shout could ever be. “Weapons down.”

The guards obey, the ring of swords returning to their sheaths filling the room as they melt back into the shadows. Courtiers who had scattered in the chaos now draw forward again, drawn by morbid fascination.

Kelaros pushes himself to his knees, then to his feet with unnatural grace that makes my skin crawl. No one healing from a mortal wound should move so fluidly.

I have seen fae survive wounds that would kill lesser creatures. I have never seen one stand moments after bleeding out upon the floor as if death were merely an inconvenience.

“The Nyt’Fall are nothing if not dramatic,” Nyctarian drawls, and nervous laughter flutters through the gathered courtiers. “If you are finished with the theatrics, Healer Kelaros?”

Kelaros inclines his head. “Your Majesty. As I was saying before the interruption, I bring news of my research.”

“So you have mentioned.” Nyctarian settles back upon his throne. “First, you will answer the accusation against you. Did you prevent Prince Elionn from returning with you?”

For the first time since rising, Kelaros hesitates, barely for a heartbeat, but I catch it. “I did what circumstance required.”

Amalia surges in my hold, and I tighten my arm around her before she can test whether Nyt’Fall magic will save him from a severed head.

“You shoved him back!” she spits. “You left him there!”

“You could not both escape. You made your choice, as did I.” He purses his lips. “The Silver Prince would have chosen you over himself as well. And you know it.”

The answer quiets her in a way my restraint could not.

Amalia trembles within my hold. “Bullshit.”

“I assure you, I speak the truth.” Kelaros smooths a hand over the ruin of his coat. “The darkling has been altered by her journey. She may prove invaluable to understanding what has occurred.”