The infirmary smelled like clean linen trying to cover up blood.
Boiled cloth. Bitter antiseptic. Incense burned too sweet—court-grade, meant to make sickness look dignified.
Jina hated it.
She pushed through the doors anyway, Kaelen's ward-stiffened restraint still ringing in her sternum like an aftershock. The barracks "incident" had already begun turning into a story. She could feel it in the way guards watched her mouth, in the way Diaconal attendants hovered a half-step too close.
Enemy reach wasn't a theory anymore.
It had hands.
A senior medic approached at once—human, hair pinned tight, Diaconal trim on his collar. His smile was gentle in the way Caldris's had been gentle.
"Your Highness," he said. "You're pale. Sit. We'll bring restorative."
Jina didn't sit.
"I'm here for him," she said, nodding toward Kaelen.
Kaelen stood two paces behind her, shoulders squared, jaw clenched, eyes too bright with the effort of not shifting. He looked like a man holding a lion down with sheer spite.
The medic's gaze flicked to Kaelen, then back to Jina. "Of course. We'll stabilize Lord Kaelen immediately."
A second figure appeared near the bed curtain—scribe's slate in hand, angled wrong for medical records and perfect for politics.
Jina's stomach tightened.
Even here.
Even in a room meant for healing, they had an audience.
Kaelen felt it too. His bond-thread flared hot under Jina's sternum—rage, hatred, the reflex to bite.
Jina kept his gate narrow.
Not proof. Not theater.
She turned slightly, placing her body between Kaelen and the slate angle.
The medic held out a cup.
Clear liquid. Innocent scent.
"Drink," he said softly. "For your strength."
Jina stared at the cup.
She didn't need Understand to know what this was.
A "kindness" delivered at the exact moment she was tired and distracted.
A cage offering water.
"No," she said calmly.
The medic blinked, smile still in place. "It's standard care."
"I said no," Jina repeated.
Behind her, Kaelen made a low sound—approval edged with warning.
The medic's eyes cooled by a fraction. He lowered the cup as if he'd obeyed, then gestured toward the curtained beds.
"Place Lord Kaelen here," he said. "We'll need to inspect his bandage and apply ward-suppressants."
Ward-suppressants.
Jina's mouth tightened.
"Not unless I see the vial," she said.
The medic paused. "Your Highness—"
"I'm not arguing," Jina cut in, voice even. "Show me."
The scribe's slate shifted slightly, hungry.
Jina didn't look at it.
She looked at the medic.
He held her gaze too long for a man "only doing his job." Then, with a small sigh like she was exhausting him, he motioned a junior attendant forward with a tray.
Three vials.
One labeled with ornate script.
One unlabeled.
One sealed with black wax at the neck.
Jina's heart went cold.
Black wax didn't belong in an infirmary.
The junior attendant's fingers shook as he set the tray down. His eyes didn't meet hers.
Jina's throat tightened.
"Remove the wax," she said.
The medic's smile returned, thinner. "That isn't necessary."
"It is," Jina said.
Kaelen's thread twitched, heat spiking—don't let them touch you.
Jina glanced at the junior attendant and let her voice soften by half a degree.
"Do it," she told him, not Command—permission to disobey the man above him.
The junior attendant swallowed, then reached for the wax seal with trembling nails.
The medic's hand snapped down on his wrist.
"Enough," the medic said, still polite.
The room went too still.
Jina's pulse hammered.
There it was.
Not care.
Control.
Jina stepped closer, just enough to make the medic remember she was still a princess, still dangerous even without Command.
"Remove your hand," she said quietly.
The medic hesitated.
Then he did—slowly, resentful.
Jina didn't touch the waxed vial.
She didn't need to.
Just seeing it here told her what she needed to know:
They had access.
They were willing to use a hospital as a delivery lane.
Enemy reach, confirmed.
"Kaelen," Jina said without turning her head. "Sit."
Kaelen stiffened at the word, then exhaled hard and obeyed—not kneeling, not submitting, just lowering himself onto the bed as if he'd chosen it.
Jina leaned in and spoke under her breath, just for him.
"This is bait," she said. "Don't flare. Don't give them a reason."
Kaelen's eyes burned. He looked like he wanted to tear the curtain down and strangle the slate with it.
He nodded once anyway, rough.
Jina straightened and addressed the room.
"I want a clean work space," she said. "And I want my apothecary from the clinic annex."
The medic's eyes narrowed. "The palace infirmary is fully staffed."
"I'm sure it is," Jina replied. "Bring him."
A pause.
Then, from the doorway line, Lysander's presence sharpened—silent pressure turning the corridor colder.
Jina didn't look at him. She didn't have to.
She spoke the sentence like it was routine.
"Lysander," she said, "please."
He understood.
The Shadow Guard moved without sound, slipping out before anyone could object fast enough to make it look like resistance.
The medic's jaw tightened.
Good.
Let him feel inconvenienced.
Jina pulled the curtain around Kaelen's bed herself, blocking the slate's angle.
The scribe shifted, annoyed.
"Medical privacy," Jina said, still calm. "Unless you want the Emperor asking why you recorded a half-shift as entertainment."
The scribe froze.
For a heartbeat, Jina thought the man might argue.
Then he backed away half a step, slate lowering.
Not gone.
Still there.
Watching.
Always watching.
Jina turned back to Kaelen.
"How bad," she asked.
Kaelen's mouth curled. "Bad enough that they thought they could use it."
His breathing was controlled, but his skin had that faint sheen of sweat that meant his body was fighting itself. His pupils were too wide. His hands kept flexing like claws wanted out.
Jina opened Understand just a crack—careful.
Pain. Restraint. Fury. And something else, ugly and bright:
Don't make me kneel to survive.
Jina swallowed.
"I won't," she promised quietly.
Kaelen's gaze flicked to her mouth, instinctive.
Not for Command.
For safety.
Jina kept her voice low. "I'm going to check the bandage."
Kaelen's jaw tightened. "Ask."
It wasn't a threat. It was a demand for the new rule.
Jina nodded once. "May I."
Kaelen exhaled hard. "Yes."
Jina reached for the wraps—then stopped.
Because something in the air shifted.
Not ward-hum.
Not bond.
Something simple: a sharp scent cutting through incense.
Sweet-almond.
Jina's stomach dropped.
That wasn't medicine.
That was an old poison smell, clean and deadly, dressed up under perfume.
She turned her head slightly.
The medic was speaking softly to someone near the door—an attendant holding another cup, this one aimed toward a different bed.
A patient bed.
A civilian.
A Null boy with a scraped face and frightened eyes—brought in as "riot aftermath," probably, and now being used as part of the room's scenery.
The attendant lifted the cup toward the boy's lips.
The boy flinched away.
The medic's hand pressed down on the boy's shoulder—gentle pressure, forced compliance.
Jina's throat went tight.
Public stakes.
Not just her.
They were poisoning in her sight.
Her body moved before her mind finished deciding.
"Stop," Jina said sharply.
Not Command.
A shout.
Every head turned.
The medic's eyes widened a fraction, then flattened into smooth patience.
"Your Highness," he said. "Please. We are treating patients."
"That cup isn't treatment," Jina said, voice cold. "Put it down."
The attendant hesitated.
The medic smiled. "If you're concerned, you may—"
He didn't finish the sentence.
Because the Null boy coughed once—wet, wrong—and slumped.
The cup spilled, liquid splashing across the floor.
The smell hit harder.
Sweet-almond and iron.
The boy's skin went ashen in seconds.
Jina's blood went cold.
There.
That was the message.
We can do it in front of you. We can make you choose.
The room erupted—shouted orders, feet scrambling, someone calling for bindcloth.
The slate lifted again, hungry.
Jina didn't think.
She moved.
She crossed the curtain line and dropped to her knees beside the boy, palm hovering over his chest.
If she used Heal, she saved him.
If she used Heal, she gave them the proof they wanted—and whatever they'd planted in this room might be waiting for her Gift like a spark waiting for oil.
The boy's eyes rolled back.
He was seconds from dying.
Jina felt her ribs tighten. The poison in her blood scraped in anticipation, like it loved the choice.
She looked up once—just once—and met the medic's gaze.
He didn't look frightened.
He looked… satisfied.
Then Jina looked back at the boy and chose.
"Hold on," she whispered, and pushed Heal.
Warmth surged from her ribs into her palm.
The boy's soul-signal flickered—thin, terrified—and Jina caught it like a bird in her hands.
For half a heartbeat, the room softened around the Gift.
Then—
Pain detonated inside Jina's veins.
Not bond pain.
Not ordinary poison ache.
This was a catch.
A click.
Like a second mechanism engaging the moment she dared to be merciful.
Her vision blew white at the edges.
Her breath tore.
Jina kept the Heal going long enough to force the boy's lungs to open—one clean inhale, one stable heartbeat—
Then she ripped her hand back and staggered.
Something burned up her arm and into her chest like ice-fire.
Her stomach lurched.
She tasted metal so sharp it felt like a coin under her tongue.
The poison hooks in her ribs didn't scrape anymore.
They bit.
Jina grabbed the bedframe to keep from hitting the floor.
The medic's voice drifted toward her through the sudden ringing in her ears.
"Your Highness—"
She didn't hear the rest.
She saw it instead: the way his eyes tracked her face, the way the slate tilted to catch her sway, the way the room's panic calmed just enough to become a record.
She'd saved the boy.
And they'd used the save to light her fuse.
Jina swallowed hard.
Blood rose into her throat.
She forced it back down.
Then she spoke, voice raw but controlled.
"Get that boy water," she said. "Cold cloth. Keep him warm. Do not give him anything he didn't bring himself."
The junior attendants blinked, then scrambled—because even if the Diadem ran the shadows, people still obeyed a princess in a crisis.
Kaelen's thread slammed into her sternum—hot panic, fury.
Jina.
She kept his gate narrow through sheer will.
Lysander returned at a run, apothecary in tow—both of them stopping short when they saw her face.
Lysander's eyes sharpened instantly. "What happened."
Jina's breath shook.
"Poison," she said.
The word landed like a blade.
The apothecary went white.
Lysander's posture changed—predator waking.
"Who," he said.
Jina grabbed the edge of the bed again as another wave hit—dizziness, cold sweat breaking across her back, her heart thudding too fast.
She didn't point.
Pointing would start a bloodbath in a room full of witnesses.
And Diadem would call it instability.
"Later," Jina rasped. "Not now."
Lysander's jaw clenched so hard a tendon jumped. "Jina—"
"I need a purge protocol," she cut in, the vet in her grabbing control because panic wouldn't help. "Now. I have hours."
The apothecary stared at her. "Hours—?"
Jina's mouth tightened. "It's triggered. It was waiting for my Gift."
Understanding crystallized in the apothecary's eyes—horror, not comprehension.
A two-stage toxin.
Activated by mercy.
Severin's handwriting without needing to see it.
Jina forced air in and started issuing instructions like she was in an emergency clinic, not a palace.
"Binders," she said. "Anything that grabs poison in the gut. Charcoal paste if you have it. Bitterroot if you don't. Hot water. Salt. Basin."
The apothecary stumbled into motion, barking at attendants.
Jina turned to Lysander.
Her vision swam, but she kept her voice steady.
"Lock this room," she said. "No Diaconal cups. No 'restoratives.' No one touches me unless I say."
Lysander's eyes burned. "You're giving orders now."
"I'm triaging," Jina snapped—then softened half a degree, because she couldn't afford to fracture him. "Please."
Lysander exhaled once, hard. "As you wish."
He moved. Doors. Guards. His shadow swallowing lines of sight.
Jina braced both hands on the bed.
The next wave hit like a hammer: nausea so strong her mouth flooded, heat flushing up her neck, then sudden cold like her blood had turned to river water.
Her sternum ached—bonds reacting to her distress, wanting to open, wanting to flood.
She slammed the gates shut.
Not to punish them.
To keep them from feeling her die.
Kaelen's thread fought anyway—hot and furious.
Jina sent one message through the crack, a single clean intent:
I'm alive. Hold.
Then she closed it again.
The apothecary returned with a bowl of black paste that smelled like burned wood and desperation.
"Drink," he said, voice shaking.
Jina stared at it.
Her body gagged in anticipation.
She took it anyway.
Because this wasn't experimentation.
This was sabotage with witnesses.
This was an execution that wanted to look like "natural failure."
Jina swallowed the paste.
It coated her tongue like ash.
She barely got it down before her stomach convulsed.
"Basin," she choked.
The apothecary shoved it under her just in time.
Jina vomited until her ribs shook and her eyes watered, until the world narrowed to the brutal mechanics of staying alive.
When she finally lifted her head, shaking, Lysander was there—close, not touching.
His voice came low, controlled, the way it did when he was forcing himself not to become violence.
"Tell me what you need," he said.
Jina wiped her mouth with the back of her sleeve and forced herself to breathe.
"I need time," she rasped. "I need the poison to move out faster than it kills me. I need… a window."
"How long," Lysander asked.
Jina swallowed.
Her heartbeat stuttered once, ugly.
She felt it.
The apothecary felt it too—eyes widening.
Jina closed her eyes for half a heartbeat and did the math the only way she could: symptom curve, trigger intensity, how hard it grabbed when she used Heal.
"Six," she said. "Maybe eight if I don't use my Gift again."
Lysander went still.
"And if you do."
Jina opened her eyes.
"Then it eats me faster," she said quietly.
Outside the curtained bed, the infirmary noise continued—patients, attendants, the slate's quiet hum.
Public stakes.
They would watch her weaken and call it proof.
They would try to force her to Heal again and call it duty.
Jina swallowed the bile taste and forced her spine straight.
"Start purge protocol," she said, voice steadier now. "Keep the record out. Keep the cups out. And if anyone says 'restorative'—"
Her mouth tightened.
"—break the cup."
Lysander's mouth twitched once, dry as dust. "Finally. A medical order I enjoy."
Jina huffed a breath that might have been a laugh if she wasn't shaking.
Then another wave rolled up—cold, heavy, urgent.
Jina gripped the bedframe.
The clock had started.
And this time, the enemy wasn't just a rumor.
It was inside her blood, counting down in hours.
[Deadline]