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I turn it over, half expecting to see a name scrawled across the front. But there’s nothing, just the unfamiliar crest pressed deep into dark wax.

I run my thumb over it, tracing the raised edges. The seal breaks beneath my finger with a soft crack. A faint warmth lingers in the wax, as if it had been pressed only moments ago.

Whoever sent this knew exactly when I would wake. A chill crawls down my spine. Slowly and carefully, I draw the letter free. The parchment whispers against the envelope as it slides out, smooth and uncreased.

And for a brief, fragile second, I hesitate, knowing that the second I read it, there’s no going back. The last time I opened one of these, it didn't end well. I look down at the parchment.

Hello, little ember.

You owe me now.

Don’t waste the life I gave you.

— R

Little ember. My heart stutters, my breath catches, and disbelief and dread bloom in the pit of my stomach. Prince Roman.

I turn the envelope upside down, and something solid slips free, landing in my palm with a dull, heavy weight.

It’s a skeleton key made of blackened metal, its surface scorched as though it’s survived a fire. Carved deep into its spine is the sigil of the Slayers Academy—two crossed daggers, the mark faded with age.

My pulse spikes. The key to the place that made me. The place that broke me. It’s mine. I curl my fingers around it, the metal cool against my skin.

Roman is a healer, a myth come to life. He holds a power that hasn’t been seen in generations, one of the rarest gifts in existence. Healing magic mends flesh, stitches arteries, and calls life back into bodies that have already begun to surrender to death. I have read about healers before, though there isn’t much known about them. His eyes should have given it away right from the start. I should have known. The legends tell of healers with glowing hands and amber eyes.

He was here. While I hovered the line between life and death, he touched me, repaired me, cleaned the blood from these stones. Erased the carnage. Removed Silas’s body as if it had never existed.

Which means he saw everything. He knows what I am. Part of me is thankful, but another part of me knows that there’s a massive target painted on my back now.

I exhale slowly, the weight of the key pressing into my palm. I set it back down on the desk. I think we just traded secrets far more dangerous than any crown or title. He knows a human couldn’t do what I did to Silas’s body, and he knows I saw his hands glowing. A healer and a shifter, pulled from myth into reality.

My eyes find the stew that still curls with steam, lazy spirals rising into the air. He must have waited until he was certain I would live before slipping away into the dark.

What the fuck is he playing at? My jaw tightens as I scan the room again, slower this time, looking for what I missed.

How did he even get onto Magda without being seen? Without being slaughtered on sight for the royal blood running through his veins? The island doesn’t forgive that kind of trespass.

All I remember are glowing hands, a dark cloak, warmth stitching me back together while I hovered in limbo.

Another flicker of movement near the desk catches my eye. Behind it sits a copper tub, half-hidden in shadow. Steam rises from its surface in ghostly ribbons, twisting and dissolving through the silver wash of moonlight.

I step closer. The air shifts around it, smelling faintly of salt and something sweet and herbal.

Carefully, I kneel and dip my fingers into the water. I was right, there’s salt. My pulse stutters. He didn’t just heal me. He prepared this for me. My mind reels, questions crashing over one another.

How does he know? Not just that I need saltwater, but how much, how warm, how often. The small, sacred details no one knows. Unless he’s been watching me or listening in on his father’s conversations.

How did he find me here? And more importantly, why the hell was he looking in the first place? Being a healer is powerful and dangerous in its own right. But this whole display—the cleanliness, the stew, the bath—isn’t about power. It’s about intention.

I shake my head, still in shock. “What the hell…?” I walk back to where I’d woken, expecting blood-soaked cushions, shredded fabric. Instead, I find a new couch, rich brown leather, soft to the touch. No wonder I stayed warm.

I lift the stew and give it a sniff. It can’t be poisoned. He worked too hard to keep me alive for gods know how long.

Fuck, how long was I out? Zorren. I need to check on him.

The thought of Maddoc hits me like a blade to the chest. Tears sting, hot and fast, before I shove them back where they belong. Nobody’s death has ever pulled such intense emotion from me before. I lost a piece of me, a piece of home and love. One I fear I will never know again.

I carry the bowl of stew toward the bath, wanting to sink into it before the steam fades. The warmth rising from the water calls to something deep in my bones.