Elswyth’s eyes widened. “No, my lord. But I know he helps carry crates up near the ridge. But I thought . . . it was just wood.”
JingYi dipped a cloth into a basin of boiled water and wrung it out over the boy’s lips. The cool drops beaded against cracked skin. Daan’s tongue darted out, as if instinctively knowing the water would ease his suffering, even just a little. Her voice, calm and certain, cut through the hush.
“Whatever he was doing . . . it is poisoning him.”
She looked back at him, and though she didn’t say more, her eyes made the truth plain.
This wasn’t as simple as telling a boy not to work. The roots of the problem ran deeper—poverty, desperation. Though he had tried, fought, bled to restore his House’s name, it didn’t absolve him.
He was still responsible for keeping his people safe and fed.
When JingYi moved to stand, he instinctively bent and offered his hand. The brief clasp of her calloused hand sent a strange jolt through him. A reminder that strength was a form of grace, and that he wanted—needed—her steadiness more than he’d admitted.
As soon as he pulled her upright, she was already turning from him, already returning to the mother, already planning the next steps.
“Here,” she said, picking up a few ingredients from her medicine chest before handing them over to the mother. “This is goldenroot. Slice it into boiling water and steep until the liquid turns amber. It’ll ease the heat in his blood and help hisbody fight the poison. Mix it with this”—she held up a pouch— “red fox ginger. It will warm his organs and support what the goldenroot starts.”
The mother took them with shaking hands and watery eyes. “Thank you, Highness.”
JingYi turned to look at the boy’s sister, who had crept halfway behind her, wide-eyed. “You’ll need to rub warm oil behind his ears and along his ankles to help draw the poison away from his heart,” she said, her tone encouraging. “Do you understand?”
Elsa nodded, just barely.
JingYi smiled and tucked a damp curl behind the girl’s ear. “Shall I show you?”
Elsa nodded again.
Alexander watched her kneel once more beside the mattress, guiding the child’s trembling fingers to the pulse points behind her brother’s ears. Her voice was low, carrying the gentle authority of someone who’d done this a thousand times.
Guilt twisted in his gut. The villagers didn’t need a flawless ornament. They needed ahealer. In a single day, she’d answered that need. While he’d been measuring perception, she’d built substance.
Finished, JingYi faced the mother and said, gently, “Please do as I instructed. I’ll return first thing in the morning.”
Elswyth’s lips parted, but no words came at first. Her eyes brimmed with tears. When she finally managed to speak, her voice was a croak. “Thank you . . . thank you, Highness.”
JingYi only inclined her head.
He stood silent at the threshold. He wasn’t the one his people turned to.
Shewas.
They left the cottage, closing the door behind them. Alexander waited until they were halfway down the lane. “Another victim of purple limyerite poisoning?”
“It seems so,” JingYi murmured. “Yrenna helped me dispatch a Sparo to my half-sister. The more information she sends, the more we know.”
“You said your relationship with your half-siblings was strained. Will she help?”
JingYi hesitated. “LinXin is the emperor’s most favoured daughter. A beautiful Omega. A brilliant jewel among the emperor’s children. We were close, once. I used to think she distanced herself because I embarrassed her.” A beat of a pause. “But I hope she remembers what we were, and helps.”
Alexander went still.A beautiful Omega?
The phrase aligned with the court’s whispers. The legendary beauty they’d gossiped about had been her sister. A new, unsettling thought followed: If the emperor had sent that polished jewel instead, would she have been able to help Annett and Daan?
Alexander had told himself he hadn’t wanted his bride. He’d even written the words to make it so. That parchment, now hidden in his desk, was a confession of his own blindness. But the longer he watched her work, the harder it became to remember why he penned that annulment request in the first place.
“That was . . . brave, earlier,” he said at last. “I’ve seen trained physicians shrink away from less.”
She didn’t look at him. “It’s not bravery. It’s just what I know how to do.”
