The infirmary smelled like boiled linen and control.

  Not clean-control, either. The kind that sat in the back of your throat and told you you were being watched even when you were alone.

  Two guards stood at the doors like statues with spears. A third sat inside by the wall, pretending not to listen. A physician's assistant hovered near the washbasin with hands too steady for someone "serving."

  Jina didn't ask if Lysander was here.

  She already knew.

  She could feel him the way she could feel a wound before she saw it—an ache at the edge of awareness, steady and stubborn. Not through any bond. Through proximity. Through the simple fact that he'd been the anchor in her chaos since she opened Aurelia's eyes.

  A steward stepped into her path the moment she crossed the threshold.

  "Your Highness," he said smoothly, "the Shadow Guard is receiving treatment. He will be returned when the physician deems him fit."

  Fit.

  Like he was a horse.

  Jina's jaw tightened. "Move."

  The steward smiled with polite patience. "He is being tended. You are being protected from distress."

  Jina held his gaze.

  "I'm being protected from information," she corrected.

  The steward's smile thinned by a fraction. "Your Highness should rest. Council—"

  "I said move."

  Not Command. Not magic.

  Just a voice that had been obeyed for sixteen years, no matter who sat in it.

  The steward hesitated. Long enough for Jina to register the calculation behind his eyes.

  Then he stepped aside.

  Jina walked past him without thanking him.

  The infirmary was arranged like everything else in this palace: comfort where it was visible, restraints where it mattered.

  Curtains divided beds into neat sections. A shelf held jars of dried herbs labeled in tidy script. A small table displayed polished instruments that looked expensive enough to impress nobles.

  And near the back—where the light was worse—someone lay behind a half-drawn curtain.

  Jina headed there.

  A physician stood at the bedside, sleeves rolled, hands stained faintly red. He didn't bow.

  That was a choice.

  The moment Jina reached the curtain, the physician spoke without looking up.

  "Your Highness should not be here."

  Jina pulled the curtain aside anyway.

  Lysander sat on the edge of the narrow bed, shirt partially undone, his left hand extended on a cloth-covered tray.

  The glove was gone.

  A bandage wrapped his palm and wrist, already darkening with blood at the seams.

  His posture was the same as always—straight-backed, composed, eyes lifted to scan the room even while his hand was being treated.

  Then his gaze landed on Jina.

  For the first time since the stairwell, something in his face cracked.

  Not relief.

  Not gratitude.

  A sharp, contained worry.

  Because he knew what this place was.

  He knew what it meant that she'd come.

  "Your Highness," he said quietly.

  Jina stepped closer. "Show me."

  The physician finally looked up.

  He was not the same man from the clinic annex earlier. This one was younger, sharper, with a thin scar on his chin and eyes that held too much confidence for someone who claimed to serve.

  "His wound is being handled," the physician said, voice clipped. "It will heal."

  Jina's gaze stayed on Lysander's bandage. "Take it off."

  The physician's brows lifted. "Excuse me?"

  Jina looked at him. "Remove the bandage."

  The guard by the wall shifted. The assistant stiffened.

  Lysander didn't move.

  He watched Jina's face like he was waiting for the old Aurelia to surface.

  Waiting for the punishment.

  Jina could feel it—his body braced for impact that didn't come.

  The physician's mouth tightened. "This is not necessary."

  Jina's voice went calm. "If it's not necessary, then it won't hurt to show me."

  The physician held her gaze for a beat too long.

  Then, with a sharp movement, he began unwrapping the bandage.

  Cloth peeled away.

  Blood shone wetly along a clean slice across Lysander's palm—diagonal, deep enough to make the skin pull oddly when he flexed his fingers.

  The cut was too precise.

  The wire had been placed on purpose.

  Jina's stomach turned.

  Then she saw the problem.

  Not the blood.

  The residue.

  Along the edges of the wound, faint and dark, like soot ground into skin. Not dirt. Not dried blood.

  Something that didn't belong.

  The physician reached for a small jar of salve.

  Black.

  Of course.

  Jina's hand shot out and stopped him before the salve touched Lysander.

  "Don't," she said.

  The physician's eyes narrowed. "It prevents infection."

  "It's not for infection," Jina said quietly.

  Lysander's gaze flicked to her. "What is it."

  Jina swallowed.

  Her medical brain clicked through possibilities fast: antiseptic, sedative, nerve deadener, poison.

  This palace loved sedatives.

  This palace loved convenient accidents.

  And Diadem loved outcomes.

  Jina lifted her eyes to the physician. "What is in that jar."

  The physician's expression didn't change. "Standard salve."

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  Jina stared at him until the silence turned sharp.

  "Tell me," she said.

  The physician's jaw flexed. "Your Highness is not a healer."

  Jina's voice stayed soft. "No. I'm the patient you keep calling incurable."

  That landed.

  The assistant's eyes widened slightly.

  The physician's gaze sharpened, assessing.

  Lysander's shoulders tensed, just enough to show he'd heard the edge under her calm.

  Jina turned back to the wound.

  She didn't have time for this man's pride.

  She sat on the edge of the bed beside Lysander—close enough that her robe brushed his knee—and held out her hand.

  Lysander went still.

  Jina didn't grab his injured hand. She didn't assume.

  "May I," she asked.

  The room went quiet.

  The physician stared like he couldn't understand a princess asking permission.

  Lysander's throat worked once.

  "Yes," he said.

  Jina slid her fingers under his wrist carefully, supporting it from below. Her other hand hovered over the cut—close, not touching.

  Warmth gathered behind her sternum.

  The Gift answered like a familiar muscle.

  And the threads in her chest reacted immediately—Kaelen's hot line flaring, Theron's cold tightening, the sharp one flickering, the fire one stirring.

  They always reacted when she used power.

  They always listened.

  Jina ignored them and focused on Lysander's blood.

  Not the wound shape. Not the pain. The foreign thing inside it.

  She let her Gift shift into that diagnostic clarity again, the way it had in the clinic annex.

  The world sharpened.

  The cut wasn't just skin deep. There were tiny stress lines radiating out, micro-tears from the wire's snap.

  And along the edges—there it was.

  A dark lattice.

  Thinner than the one in her own blood, but similar in structure.

  Hooks.

  Barbs.

  Anchored to more than flesh.

  Jina's breath caught.

  "Poison," she whispered.

  The physician's head snapped up. "It is not—"

  "It is," Jina said, not looking at him. "And it's not meant to kill him fast."

  Lysander's voice was steady. "What is it meant to do."

  Jina swallowed.

  She stared at the lattice in his blood and understood the cruelty of it with cold clarity.

  "It's meant to keep hurting," she said. "To spread. To weaken your grip. To make you drop your knife at the wrong moment."

  Her mouth went dry.

  "And to make you hard to heal."

  Because if the lattice was soul-adjacent, any aggressive purge would tear and backlash.

  Just like hers.

  Just… smaller.

  A test poison.

  A message poison.

  We can reach your shadow.

  Jina's hands tightened slightly under Lysander's wrist.

  His eyes didn't widen. He didn't panic.

  But his jaw clenched, and she felt the shift in his body—the way he accepted danger like weather.

  "Can you remove it," he asked.

  Jina's instinct screamed yes.

  Her logic said no.

  Not cleanly. Not quickly.

  Not without cost.

  "I can… soothe it," she said. "And slow it."

  The physician made a sharp sound. "You will worsen it. The Gift—"

  Jina looked at him then.

  Her gaze was flat.

  "You want him alive," she said. "Or quiet."

  The physician's lips tightened.

  He didn't answer.

  That was answer enough.

  Jina turned back to Lysander's hand.

  "Lysander," she said softly, "this will hurt less if you let me carry some of it."

  Lysander's eyes narrowed. "Carry."

  Jina didn't explain the whole theology. She didn't have time.

  "Heal isn't free," she said. "If I numb the nerve pain and calm the lattice, it takes something out of me."

  Lysander's gaze sharpened. "No."

  Jina almost laughed.

  Not because it was funny.

  Because of course he'd refuse. Of course he'd try to take the pain alone like it was his job.

  "It's my choice," Jina said.

  Lysander's jaw tightened. "Your Highness—"

  Jina leaned closer, voice lower so only he could hear.

  "Do you want your hand to work," she asked quietly, "when you're standing between me and an executioner tonight?"

  That stopped him.

  Not because he didn't care about his hand.

  Because he cared about what he had to do with it.

  Lysander held her gaze for a long beat, then exhaled once, controlled.

  "Yes," he said.

  Permission.

  Not surrender.

  Jina nodded once.

  Then she pressed her Gift into the wound—not pushing, not yanking. She treated it like a frightened animal. Gentle, steady, patient.

  Warmth seeped into the torn tissue.

  The pain in the nerve endings softened first—like turning down a too-loud sound instead of cutting the speaker wire.

  Lysander's shoulders loosened by a fraction.

  He didn't sigh.

  He didn't give her the satisfaction of seeing relief.

  But his breathing smoothed.

  Jina felt the cost immediately.

  Heat drained out of her core like water pulled from a bucket.

  Her limbs went heavy.

  The poison in her own blood stirred, annoyed, as if it didn't like sharing space with her Gift.

  The hooks under her sternum scraped.

  Jina bit down on the inside of her cheek and kept going.

  She touched the dark lattice in Lysander's blood next—careful, coaxing, applying the same principle she'd discovered in her own toxin: find the seam, don't force the break.

  The lattice shuddered under her warmth.

  It didn't dissolve.

  But it loosened.

  The barbs unhooked just enough to stop clawing at fresh tissue.

  Jina's vision spotted at the edges.

  Her hands started to tremble.

  Not visibly yet.

  Not enough for the watchers.

  She tightened her grip under Lysander's wrist and anchored herself.

  Breathe. In. Out.

  Don't collapse.

  The assistant had gone pale.

  The physician's eyes were fixed on Jina's hands now, the way the wound's swelling eased, the way the blood stopped welling so fast.

  He looked less like a doctor and more like a man watching a power he didn't control.

  Jina finished the last part—closing the tissue just enough to protect it, not enough to trap poison inside.

  She pulled her Gift back slowly.

  Like withdrawing a needle without tearing.

  When she released Lysander's wrist, her fingers tingled.

  Her lungs burned.

  She swallowed hard and tasted iron.

  Lysander flexed his hand carefully.

  The cut still existed. The skin still pulled.

  But he didn't wince.

  His gaze lifted to her face.

  He saw the strain.

  He always saw too much.

  "Stop," he said quietly.

  Jina forced a small scoff. "That's rich coming from you."

  "I mean it," he said.

  His voice wasn't sharp.

  It was… almost pleading.

  Jina's throat tightened.

  She forced her shoulders back and kept her voice cool. "I'm fine."

  Lysander's eyes narrowed. "You're shaking."

  Jina realized, too late, that her hands were trembling now—tiny tremors she couldn't fully control.

  She curled her fingers into her sleeves.

  "I said I'm fine," she repeated, more clipped than she meant.

  The physician cleared his throat, as if reclaiming authority.

  "You interfered with treatment," he said. "If complications occur—"

  Jina turned her head slowly.

  The calm on her face was a mask. Under it, disgust simmered.

  "Complications were the point," she said.

  The physician's eyes flashed. "Your Highness—"

  Jina cut him off.

  "I could have punished you," she said, voice even. "That's what everyone expects, isn't it? A spectacle. A tyrant screaming because someone touched what's hers."

  She leaned forward slightly, letting her words land in the room where guards could hear.

  "But punishment doesn't fix a poisoned wound," she continued. "It just makes the palace feel familiar."

  Silence.

  The assistant's breath hitched.

  The guard by the wall shifted, uncomfortable.

  The physician's jaw clenched. "You are accusing the palace infirmary of treachery."

  Jina smiled without warmth. "I'm accusing you of treachery."

  The physician stiffened.

  Jina held his gaze and did not raise her voice.

  "Get out," she said.

  The physician's eyes widened. "You can't—"

  Jina tilted her head. "Try me."

  Not Command.

  Not magic.

  Just the cold authority of the throne that everyone pretended wasn't hers yet.

  The physician hesitated—long enough for the guards to look at one another, uncertain.

  Then, with a stiff bow that wasn't respectful, he turned and left.

  The curtain swayed as he passed through.

  The door clicked behind him.

  The infirmary felt less crowded immediately.

  Jina exhaled slowly.

  The exhale came out shaky.

  Her knees threatened to fold.

  She grabbed the edge of the bed to steady herself and prayed no one mistook it for weakness instead of exhaustion.

  Lysander's hand—his uninjured one—hovered near her elbow.

  He stopped before touching.

  "May I," he asked, quiet.

  The words punched straight through Jina's ribs.

  She hated how quickly her throat tightened.

  She nodded once.

  Lysander steadied her, palm warm through fabric, pressure light. Not claiming. Not taking.

  Just holding her upright because her body had decided it wanted the floor.

  Jina swallowed hard and forced her voice into something steadier.

  "I didn't remove it," she murmured, staring at his wrapped hand. "Not fully."

  Lysander's gaze stayed on her face. "You stopped it."

  "For now," Jina admitted.

  Her hand drifted to her sternum, fingers pressing lightly over the place her own poison lived.

  The hooks scraped faintly, irritated by exertion.

  "And you paid for it," Lysander said.

  It wasn't a question.

  Jina forced a shrug. "Worth it."

  Lysander's jaw tightened. "You didn't say that before."

  Jina blinked. "What."

  "You didn't use to," he corrected quietly. "Pay for others."

  The words landed carefully, like he didn't want to say them.

  Like saying them would make them real.

  Jina's mouth went dry.

  Because he wasn't accusing her.

  He was… noticing.

  Aurelia's myth didn't include shaking hands after healing someone.

  Aurelia's myth didn't include choosing to soothe instead of punish.

  Jina swallowed and looked away.

  "That's not true," she said, a little too fast.

  Lysander's grip on her elbow tightened by a fraction, then eased. He didn't argue.

  He just watched her like he was trying to memorize a new shape of something he'd thought was unchangeable.

  The threads in Jina's chest pulsed faintly as if reacting to the emotional shift—Kaelen's heat flickering with restless anger somewhere across the palace, Theron's cold tightening into attention, the sharp one amused, the fire one stirring.

  Jina breathed through it and steadied her shaking hands.

  Then she looked at Lysander's bandaged palm again.

  "What did the wire feel like," she asked quietly.

  Lysander's eyes narrowed. "Sharp."

  "Did you feel anything after," Jina pressed. "Numbness. Heat. Dizziness."

  Lysander flexed his fingers again. "No."

  Jina nodded slowly.

  Then she leaned in and lowered her voice.

  "They're trying to remove you," she said.

  Lysander's gaze didn't change. "I know."

  "They're using poison," Jina added.

  Lysander's eyes sharpened. "I know."

  Jina's throat tightened.

  Of course he knew. Of course he'd known the moment the wire was placed.

  "What you may not know," Jina said, forcing steadiness into her tone, "is that it's keyed like mine. Not the same poison—smaller. But similar."

  Lysander's jaw flexed. "Diadem."

  Jina nodded.

  Lysander's gaze drifted briefly to the curtain, then back. "They want you without a shadow."

  Jina's stomach turned.

  "Yes," she said. "And they'll keep trying."

  Lysander's expression didn't shift into fear.

  It shifted into something colder.

  Resolve.

  "They won't," he said.

  Jina almost smiled.

  Not because she believed him fully.

  Because that was the first time he'd spoken like his vow was something he chose—not something he was trapped in.

  A soft sound came from outside the infirmary curtain.

  Footsteps.

  Two sets.

  One heavy, one light.

  The assistant stiffened and backed away.

  Lysander's posture tightened instantly, his injured hand lowering slightly as if it would still fight if it had to.

  Jina's pulse ticked up.

  The threads in her sternum stirred.

  Kaelen's hot line flared suddenly, sharp and furious—as if he'd felt her using the Gift and hated the distance between them.

  Jina swallowed.

  The curtain moved.

  A guard pulled it aside.

  "Your Highness," he said stiffly, "Lord Kaelen demands audience."

  Jina's blood went cold.

  Because she wasn't sure whether "demands" meant yelling… or breaking down doors.

  And because the last time she met Kaelen's eyes, the bond had screamed wrong.

  Jina looked at Lysander's wrapped hand.

  Then at the shaking in her own fingers she still hadn't fully stopped.

  Then she lifted her chin.

  "Let him in," she said.

  And as the hot thread in her chest snapped taut in anticipation, Jina realized the palace wasn't just watching to see if she could rule.

  It was watching to see what she revealed under pressure.

  [Reveal]