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The figure raises his head, and recognition jolts through me. I first met Moryth Nyt’Fall months ago in the Silver Spire, when he was too weak to heal me after I took a knife to the chest. Which was why King Nyctarian didn’t even bother to summon him when the same fate befell Kelaros.

The Dark King knows how little this healer can do. Yet he sent him here instead of allowing Kelaros to tend to my wounds.

Moryth’s pale features tighten with the same recognition.

“You’re Kelaros’s kin,” I state, the family resemblance impossible to miss in his high cheekbones and star-pale skin.

“Cousin, yes.” Moryth’s throat bobs as he swallows. “But his actions are his own and have naught to do with me.”

“Leave us,” Theron commands.

The two guards retreated to the corridor, shutting the door firmly behind them, leaving the three of us alone.

Moryth stands with his back to the wall, a bag clutched in his trembling hands, his eyes never settling in one place for long.

“Your Majesty.” He bows to Theron with none of the implied slight that the rest of the Dark fae display. “If you’ll allow me to examine the patient⁠—”

“I’ll stay,” Theron interrupts.

I turn to him, arching an eyebrow. “I’ll need to disrobe.”

He remains impassive, though his lips twitch. “I’ve seen wounded bodies before.”

“Not mine,” I challenge.

An argument plays across his face before he inclines his head. “I will be just outside.”

“Your Majesty—” Moryth begins, wringing his hands.

“If anything happens to her,” Theron cuts him off, voice dropping to a dangerous register, “I will hold you responsible.”

If possible, Moryth pales further, bobbing his head in frantic agreement.

Theron hesitates before leaving. “Call if you need anything. Anything at all.”

The moment the door seals behind Theron, my restraint snaps, and I lunge across the room, seizing Moryth by his collar before he can blink. He blanches, eyes widening to perfect circles of terror. His pulse flutters beneath my fingers, a frightened bird trapped in too-thin bones.

“Wait—” he gasps, but I’m already in motion.

I slam him backward into a display cabinet, and glass figurines topple. His healing bag spills open, herbs and bandages tumbling out to scatter beneath our feet.

“Your mirror,” I demand in a deadly whisper. “Now.”

Moryth squirms beneath my grip, his breath coming in quick, shallow gasps. “I don’t know what⁠—”

I tighten my hold, shoving him harder against the cabinet. “Don’t lie to me. I wasn’t so out of it last time that I forgot your tricks.”

His throat works beneath my grip in a series of convulsive swallows. “It won’t work for you. The mirrors require Royal Silver blood to activate, and I ran out.”

“Give. Me. The mirror.” I lean closer. “Or shall I call Theron back in, and you can explain why you have a way to reach through the veil?”

The threat hits its mark. Moryth’s resistance crumbles, his body going limp beneath my hands. “In my robe. Inner pocket. Left side.”

I maintain my grip with one hand while the other slides inside his robe. My fingers brush a solid surface, and I withdraw a palm-sized mirror of polished silver, the border etched with delicate runes.

Pushing away from him, I retreat toward the mirror. The silver surface catches the low light, throwing my reflection back at me, and I try not to flinch at the way one eye swirls with opalescent colors that never quite settle.

I lay my tattooed palm on the glass, and the blood sigils flare to brilliant life, connecting with the runes etched around the mirror’s edge.