Page 20 of Only Flames Remain

I approached the door to the healer’s personal chambers, knowing he would likely have retired for the night long ago.

I had stayed in Ravenwood long enough to pacify Emrys and Valerian, but not long enough to truly get drunk off the piss they claimed was ale at the tavern. If you could even call it a tavern. It was more like a house of ill repute. I had pretended I was branching off to find a woman to warm my own bed, when in truth I had snuck out and headed back toward the castle.

I knocked on the door lightly and waited a moment before reaching for the handle. It opened easily under my touch, warm amber lantern light flickering softly within.

“Azhar, are you awake?” I called, silently latching the door behind me.

“Over here, my boy,” the gruff voice called.

What was he doing up at this hour?

I nearly asked as much when I crossed the threshold to his study and realized he was researching. He was poring over a stack of books before him, referencing one book against another, his desk entirely cluttered with parchment and ancient tomes.

He turned to me with a soft smile, his complexion pale against his parchment robes. “I didn’t expect you at this late hour.”

Azhar appeared more tired than I had ever seen him. Fae aged slowly, but we weren’t immortal. Azhar had to be at least seven or eight centuries older than me, bringing him closer to the last decades of his mortal life.

“I didn’t expect you to be awake,” I admitted, grasping the rickety wooden chair and settling down onto it across from him.

“Celebrating?” he asked, a knowing smile across his lips.

I scoffed. “Something like that.”

“What brings you here at this hour? The wound?”

I nodded, averting my gaze.

Azhar was a father to me, one of my oldest and dearest friends. He was always someone I could turn to, even when I couldn’t turn to my own father. King Mavros was too tempestuous. He had been hard on me, and our relationship had suffered for it. He had claimed it would make me a better ruler, but mostly I felt alone. I yearned for the soft affection Emrys and Valerian received from their mother, Queen Odessa.

With Melantha dead and Father colder than ever, Azhar had taken up that mantle in their stead. He was the palace healer and thus had a prominent position in the castle. He was one of my father’s favored council members. He had hidden this secret from King Mavros all these years, knowing what it would cost him if anyone ever found out. He would be punished for having helped me conceal it.

“It has gotten…worse,” I confessed.

He closed the book before him, placing his spectacles atop it and pushing away from the desk.

“Let’s see it then.”

I winced as I pulled my tunic up, revealing the tanned slice of skin on my right side and the blackened flesh sprouting up my chest and down my arm. Azhar sucked in a breath through his teeth and tutted.

“My boy, you haven’t been taking care of this, have you? When was the last time you applied the salve? Taken the tincture?”

I sucked my lower lip into my mouth and bit down guiltily. My lack of a response was answer enough.

“I know you have been busy. I know you have been preparing to take over the war council for King Mavros. But that does not change the fact that you need to stay on top of this. That you need to address this wound daily, or you won’t be able to train or attend to anything. He knows you, Sorin. He will know something is wrong. You must do everything in your power to conceal this.”

“I know.” I swallowed hard, guilt stinging the back of my throat. I had been letting my own health go in the wake of the negotiations with Myros and Ravenscar. I had been preoccupied. I couldn’t let it happen again. Losing focus in such a volatile time could end up costing me everything. “I promise, Azhar. I will make it my priority. Thank you for your help, as always. And your secrecy.”

“Always. You needn’t thank me, Sorin.” He grasped a viridescent bottle off the shelf behind him and slipped it into my grip. “Three drops under the tongue.”

I nodded, following his instructions.

My face screwed into an expression of anguish at the biting, rancid taste. No matter how many times I took this particular tonic, I would never get used to it. While it poisoned me, it also poisoned the curse. It would kill me much slower than the curse at the dosage Azhar had me administering it. The first day after taking the poison always had me bedridden. After that, the poison seemed to battle the curse alone.

It afforded me a few days with full strength and energy. It was a vicious cycle.

“Arm up,” Azhar instructed.

I did as I was told, lifting my arm to drape it over the back of the wooden chair. I inhaled sharply as Azhar applied the initial cleaning solution to the wound, glancing down at it. The skin had torn across my ribs, dark crimson ichor seeping out of the deep, horizontal cuts and down my taut abdomen. To anyone who didn’t know, it merely appeared as if I had been attacked by an animal.