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The paper is so worn it feels as though it might dissolve beneath my touch.

Healers are most often marked by eyes of amber hue, a trait long believed to signal the presence of restorative gifts within their blood.

Roman’s eyes, that stunning molten amber.

Their hands are said to glow when the gift is summoned, a soft, radiant light that summons the presence of healing magic. With it, they may mend broken bones, close torn flesh, and still the flow of blood. Yet there are limits. A healer cannot return life once it has fully departed. They may repair what remains, but they cannot summon a soul back to its vessel.

They are menders, not saviors.

Only once has a healer been known to wield both restorative power and elemental command. This rare figure was said to bend flame to his will. He vanished before scholars could question him further. No body was ever found.

The warmth would explain the fire, but not the control he left behind. Fire is wild by nature. What he left behind was not. The chamber stayed the perfect temperature, as if the heat answered to him even in his absence.

It seems our prince holds more than healing in those careful hands.

When a healer restores another, it is not without cost. It is written that in the act of mending, a healer pours a measure of their own life into the body before them. Bone is knit, flesh is sealed, blood is stilled, but never freely.

Though some accounts describe healers as ageless, even immortal, such claims are widely contested. They can heal their own bodies. Each act of restoration diminishes them in ways unseen. If the wounded stand too close to death, the healer may be drawn toward it in their stead.

They may stave off death, but they cannot conquer it. Death, as ever, proves the stronger force.

And so the question persists:

Are healers witches?

The simplest answer is no. Yet the distinction is not without debate. There is little reliable record of their kind. What survives are merely fragmented testimonies and secondhand accounts.

Healers are masters of magic, but theirs is not the consuming darkness attributed to witches or warlocks. It is a magic that restores rather than destroys.

Roman could have died. That part is unmistakable. I was on the brink, so close that I stepped onto the bridge between life and death itself. I felt it, the pull, the edge. I was inside the realm.

So why would he risk that? Why would he pour parts of himself into me? The thought settles heavily in my chest. Roman is not careless, not impulsive. He does nothing without intention. Which means he chose me.

I close the book gently. I’ve read enough for now. My eyes skim over the red, worn book to find the author's name: Fog Throne. I only know of one Fog, the all-powerful warlock that runs the Badlands. Hardly anyone goes into that island and comes out alive. Could this be the same man?

The pillow behind me is worn thin from years of use, the red fabric faded and softened by countless afternoons spent by readers hiding between pages. I lift it and slide the book beneath it, tucking it away like a secret.

I rise and make my way through the dimly lit library, passing Silver, who is now dangerously close to falling asleep over her romance. I love that the library feels safe enough for women to fall asleep. It’s a safe haven for us; no drunken pirate will barge in to read a book. There’s no reason for them to come in here.

Downstairs, Mireille is sliding returned books back into their rightful places, each one handled with care.

I try to slip past her. “Neressa.” Her tone stops me mid-step. “Where are the books?” she asks, arching a brow.

She despises when I hide books, her books. I slowly face her, feeling like a child caught stealing sweets from a kitchen counter.

I lean casually against the nearest shelf. “Relax. I hid them. You won’t need them.” Her expression does not soften.

“I prefer to know where all my books are.”

I roll my eyes and cross my arms. “They’re upstairs. On the windowsill. Under the red pillow.” I sigh. “But I’m not done with them.”

A smile tugs at her lips despite herself. “I’ll leave them there for you. But you must start telling me where you stash these things. You have a habit of disappearing for long stretches.”

She isn’t wrong. I step toward her and pick up a book from the stack she’s returning, running my thumb along the spine before sliding it carefully into its place.

How Dangerous Are the Tides? Fitting.

“Fine,” I say lightly, glancing at the door. “I promise. I’ll see you soon.”