Elara's POV
The child is dying in my arms.
His skin burns like fire. His breath comes in short, painful gasps. Black veins spread across his neck the fever's final stage. Without help, he has minutes. Maybe less.
Hold on, I whisper, pressing my hands against his tiny chest.
My fingers tingle. Warmth flows from my palms into his body. For a moment, golden light flickers beneath the dirty bandages wrapped around my hands. I close my eyes and push harder, willing the fever to break.
The boy gasps. His eyes flutter open. The black veins fade.
He'll live.
Next! I call out, voice hoarse from exhaustion.
The line of sick people stretches out the door of Master Torin's clinic. Old men. Pregnant women. Children with hollow eyes. The Unmarked people so low in society they don't even have caste tattoos. People nobody cares about.
People like me now.
A woman shoves her daughter forward. The girl can't be older than seven, shaking with fever. But before I can touch her, the mother spits at my feet.
You're unnatural, she hisses. Touched by darkness. But you're all we have.
I've heard worse. Five years of living in Lowtown taught me that desperate people will take help from anyone even someone they hate.
I ignore her and reach for the child.
That's when Lyric bursts through the door.
My best friend's face is pale, her dark hair wild. She's breathing hard like she's been running.
Elara, she gasps. They're coming.
My heart stops. Who?
The General's soldiers. They're sweeping through Lowtown, checking every building. Lyric grabs my arm. They're three streets away.
The clinic goes silent. Everyone knows what this means.
Three days ago, General Cassian Thornwyld conquered our city. His army crushed our defenses in hours. Now he rules from the palace my palace, the home I fled five years ago when my own mother tried to have me killed.
The General is hunting for survivors of the royal family. Anyone with royal blood. Anyone who might challenge his control.
Anyone like me.
Princess Elara Ashenne. Accused of murder. Sentenced to death. Escaped and erased.
If he finds me, I'm dead.
We need to run, Lyric says urgently. Right now.
I look at the line of sick people. The dying child still warm in my arms. The pregnant woman clutching her swollen belly. The old man coughing blood.
I can't leave them, I say.
Elara
I won't abandon them. I hand the child back to his mother and start shoving medical supplies under loose floorboards. Herbs. Bandages. The few precious vials of medicine I've saved. Hide everything. Make it look like a normal room.
Lyric doesn't argue. She knows me too well. Instead, she helps, moving fast.
I grab a handful of ash from the cold fireplace and rub it on my face and arms. More dirt. More grime. Anything to make me look like just another filthy street healer. Just another nobody.
Through the cracked window, I see them.
Soldiers in black armor march down the muddy street. Twenty. Maybe thirty. They're checking every building, dragging people out for questioning.
Master Torin's not here, Lyric whispers. He went to the market.
Good. The old physician doesn't need to be caught up in this.
I wipe my hands on my ragged dress and sit back down like I'm just resting. My heart pounds so hard I think everyone can hear it.
The soldiers get closer.
One building away.
The sick people in the clinic shift nervously. A baby starts crying. Its mother shushes it desperately.
Stay calm, I tell everyone. Answer their questions. Don't lie. Don't run.
Lyric crouches beside me. If they recognize you
They won't. I touch the burn scar on my shoulder the place where I destroyed my royal caste tattoo with my own fire magic five years ago. The pain was unbearable, but it saved my life. I'm nobody now. Just Ara the healer.
Ara. The fake name I've used for five years. Simple. Forgettable.
The soldiers are at the door now.
Lyric squeezes my hand once, then let's go.
The door slams open.
Five soldiers push inside, hands on their swords. They scan the room with cold, efficient eyes. Looking for threats. Looking for wealth. Looking for anyone who doesn't belong.
Everyone drops to their knees except me.
I'm too busy wrapping a bandage around a woman's infected arm. My hands don't shake. I don't look up.
A soldier steps closer. You. Healer. What's your name?
Ara, I say, still focused on my patient. And I'm busy. Either help or get out.
Lyric makes a small, terrified sound.
The room goes dead silent.
Nobody talks to the General's soldiers like that. Nobody.
But I can't act scared or submissive. Royal training runs too deep in my bones. Even covered in filth, even pretending to be nobody, I can't fully hide what I am.
The soldier's hand moves to his sword. Look at me when I speak to you.
I have no choice now. Slowly, I lift my eyes.
The soldier is young, maybe twenty, with a cruel mouth. He studies my face. My hands. The way I hold myself.
For one terrible moment, I think he sees through everything.
Then a new voice cuts through the room like a blade.
Stand down.
Everyone freezes.
A man enters the clinic. Tall. Dressed in black armor that fits him like a second skin. Dark hair. Gray eyes cold as winter.
General Cassian Thornwyld himself.
The conqueror. The destroyer. The man hunting for people exactly like me.
He walks toward me with slow, deliberate steps. Everyone scrambles out of his way. Lyric presses herself against the wall, eyes wide with terror.
But I can't move. I'm kneeling beside my patient, bandages in hand, staring up at the most dangerous man in the kingdom.
His eyes lock onto mine.
And for one impossible second, I see something flash across his face.
Recognition.