If the Fields of Topt were filled with metal clanking, footsteps screeching, and sunlight streaming through her eyelids, perhaps Hesi shouldn't have sped up her leap to them. She turned her head away, but the burning rays didn't relent. Sheets rustled, their noise a loud thrum in her ears. Then, she sucked a breath in. Two.

"Hesi," a voice called. Familiar. Too much, in fact. What was he doing in the afterlife? Did the Mayaware catch him too? "Can you hear me?"

Her eyes cracked open in mere slits, letting more of the scalding light in. White haze threatened to consume her vision even though it was slow to return. Through the veil, a blob of brown and black edged from her periphery and blocked some of the brightness. A steady grip encircled her shoulders, rode down her arms, and stayed there. Wood creaked and clattered, jolting some of her focus back.

Slowly, the blob became more pronounced, showing her two eyes, a nose, and a chin. Lips...

"Hesi," the face said again. "Can you speak? Can you understand me?"

She knitted her eyebrows. What was up with those questions? It wasn't as though she was still in Tjarma. Or...wait.

The face. The noise. Could it mean...?

"Kharta." A name flew out of her mouth, flitting to the air with its weak timbre.

The ceiling became clearer than her vision sharpened and blurred one last time. Stone. Painted over with a mural depicting more atrocious Mayawarean mythology. The Fields of Topt would never have that. Which meant...

"I'm alive?" She breathed. Her chest clunked, pain shooting off her heart and gripping her muscles. Before she could speak more, a spasm rose from her stomach, climbing out of her throat in a rush of iron and ink. She hacked, curling in on herself to contain the stabbing pain, the liquid pouring off her pores, and the wretched state she was in. Clambers rose to a storm, drowning out the world. Someone shouted orders. Probably Kharta. What was he doing here, anyway? Didn't he have steward duties?

The pain spread from her stomach to her head. The coughs kept coming, wracking her whole body and bouncing it against the sheets. It was violent. It was hell. Her fingers clawed at her throat. She should wring it herself to get it to clam up. Her fingers turned rigid and melted into dust before her eyes. The ceiling caved in and crashed over her. The light flickered. Stars blossomed from the floor.

A deep, manic chuckle rose from her gut. She was seeing things. Great. A weight pressed on her, pinning her against a soft cushion. A warm current of bitterness rushed down her throat, flushing the rust back. She choked, a wretched sound coming out of her mouth.

The darkness crept in. At first, it clawed at the edges of her vision. Then, it caught her eyes. Next were her limbs. Her muscles. Brain. Her head tilted down, giving her a view of the white sheets thrown over her legs and what dripped down her fingers. It was red.

A wave crashed over her, pulling her into the depths. And she went with it.

When the noises came alive again, she resolved to open her eyes as fast as her strained muscles allowed. This time, it was easier. Once the figures in the mural stopped quivering in an attempt to peel off the ceiling and wreak havoc, she turned her head to the side. A soft pillow stuffed with cotton crunched against her hair.

The room beyond was void of people. Mayaware maids, dressed in long gossamer, pushed carts around, checking empty beds and sweeping the floor. She had been here before. As a visitor. The Healing Quarters. On a bed. How ironic could fate be?

Her thoughts hitched. It wasn't fate, right? Memories flooded back to her mind, showing her, slab for slab, how it happened. She chose the bowl with the poison. Raised it to her lips. Drank from it like a rabid demon. Smiled at the High King while she stumbled and leaked blood all over the floor. After that, there was nothing.

The next thing she knew, she was here, with the steward of Iren-Washep sitting on a stool by her bedside. She watched him for a second, noting how he pushed his seat next to a wall, sat there with his arms crossed, and leaned his head against the flat surface. He must have thought it was an ideal sleeping position.

She braced the cushion and pushed herself up. She rose halfway before nausea gripped her senses and she lost control of her body, sending her teetering sideways. Oh no.

A shadow zipped towards her, and her shoulder smacked against a chest. Her head slumped against a crook of a neck, and the smell of the woodlands hit her nose. "Hesi." Kharta's voice rang in her ears, gentle in contrast to the sniping tone he used with her. "You're not supposed to move around yet."

She squirmed in his hold, pushing his warmth off before it became ingrained in her system. She might not scrub it off her skin if she let it stay. Her limbs refused to obey. They developed minds of their own when she was out cold. Now, they told her to melt into him, to not do anything while he held her.

Rebellious, the entire lot.

"I'm fine," she said aloud, planting her hand against Kharta's chest, unwittingly feeling his heart pulsing underneath her fingertips. It was fast. To the point of being erratic. She tried not to think about that.

He shifted so that an arm wrapped around her shoulders, and he supported her upright with the other. "And one of us swallowed khak-haufre because of a stupid sense of bluster," he said. "You are lucky to be alive."

He sighed, his breath tickling her scalp. A different shiver raced down her spine and made her heart pound against her temples. "You're too lucky, Hesi," he continued. "And that's what scares me."

That caught her attention. "Why would it?"

"Because eventually, you're going to run out of it."

She closed her eyes and curled her fingers inward. One caught the blanket, and the other, Kharta's shirt. "What happened?" she whispered against his skin. "I remember nothing after I drank from the bowl."

A lie, albeit a small one. He missed it. The fool. "You collapsed, bleeding from your pores. It's...horrible," he said. "Thankfully, I administered the antidote before the poison froze your heart and—"

"You had an antidote?" She braced his shoulders and widened the gap between them by holding on to his arms. To an outsider, they appeared as though she demanded things from him. In truth, her body was so weak she could barely sit. "And you ran from there..."

His place before she approached the king came to mind. To get to her, he would have to trample the Mayaware audience at the front. And if she collapsed backwards, did she roll down the stadium's stairs? Did he chase her down?

What message did it send out to the Mayaware? To the High Prince, seeing another man chase someone who could be his mate? To the High King, who would have watched Kharta like a hawk after Mensa's matter?

It scares me.

"Why?" she whispered, turning her head—the only part of her still obeying her orders—towards him, burying her face into his shirt.

A hand ran down her hair, fingers smoothing out the tangled knots. "Why what?" Kharta mumbled back. The scent of the near-mythical forests and lush oasis orchards strengthened.

"Why did you save me?" she asked. What her mind wanted to ask was, why were you scared for me?, but if words failed her once, they would certainly do it again.

Kharta's grip around her shoulders loosened. His hand flowed down her back and settled by her waist. What did this mean—them touching each other as though tomorrow wouldn't come, him holding her as though she was something to lose, her holding on because she might vanish when he wasn't looking?

"Because you have a promise to keep," he answered.

Something inside her deflated. Right. He knew he couldn't do it alone. He needed her alive to execute their plan. They only had until the Mayaware's heads rolled down the royal palace's steps. Whatever this was, it would not last forever. Maybe Kharta had a wife. Maybe he had had children. She couldn't ask him because by then, he'd be more than an ally in this wretched battle.

"Hesi?" She let him prop her up, removing her hands on his arms and gripping them in his own. Her gut twisted with every circle his thumbs traced on the back of her hand.

"What?" She exhaled, unaware of how breathless she sounded to her ears, much less to anyone listening, Kharta included.

"Don't do that again," he said. "Please."

She raised her eyes to his face, and their gazes locked. There, she found a variety of answers but none to the question she was dying to pose. Why was he scared for me?

Why would someone fear for another person's life and safety? It wasn't as though they were family. They weren't even friends. She didn't know where he came from or how he ended up in Berheqt. She knew nothing about him, and yet...

And yet, she allowed him to touch her in places no man ever grazed. And yet, she relished in it, basking in it like a snake in the sun. She was...

"Don't make me utter a promise I cannot keep," she retorted instead.

His gaze never wavered. "Tell me why you did it," he said. "I deserve that much for saving you."

"I do not need to be saved."

A scoff escaped his lips. "You coughed your guts out, convulsing like a worm dunked in salt," he reasoned. "You would have bled to death, your insides fried by the poison. You would have—"

"What am I to you, Kharta?" she interjected.

"You are someone who means so much more than the world."

He missed not a single beat. Didn't even bat an eyelid. He said it so plainly she thought she still dreamed. Maybe the darkness that claimed her once never ebbed, and she was half-awake, inventing these ridiculous notions. Kharta, seeing her this way? Who died and came back to life? She was nothing to him but a nuisance.

She studied him, then. Tracing his jaw, the sharp hook of his nose, the curve of his lips. Has he always been this perfect? And his eyes...

"Dark hazel," she muttered. She finally had a name for whatever shade those unnerving irises were. Like the sand's hue at dusk, the shade of gold tinted with amber and earth.

He exhaled. "You need to rest."

He lowered her on the bed, his dark curls falling past his forehead, dangling enough to tempt her to reach up and touch them. Close. They were so close. "The color of your eyes," she said, resembling a matriarch who saw a lifetime pass. "They're dark hazel."

His laugh was low—weak—but it set her nerves on fire. Maybe she swallowed another bowl of khak-haufre again. "I never really paid attention to it," he replied. "You have wonderful eyes too. Breathtaking."

She knew—he didn't say the multitude he wanted to, and nothing would get him to spew them out. Not now. "Do you mean it?" she asked as he bustled around to fix the sheets tangled between her legs. "What you said about me?"

"Every word," he answered. The blanket rustled and popped as he tucked it underneath her arms. "I won't bother you further. Rest. Maybe tomorrow you'll be out. The others are worried."

She pursed her lips and caught his hand as he turned away. "I promise," she said. "I will not be reckless. Never again."

His shadow bathed her, and she closed her eyes, waiting for something she wanted but never came. A small gust of wind touched the tip of her nose. When she wrenched her eyes open, his back was to her, instructing the Mayaware maids what to do with her. Then, he was out of the room—a ghost without a name, a face, or anything to claim.

Her breath shook when she blew one out. Her heart hasn't stopped screaming against her ribs since he left. He told her to rest, but seeing as how he wound her around his finger, with no effort to boot, she couldn't do anything close to it.

Not when she learned Kharta thought of her as such. As someone he claimed she was to him. It came as a shock first, then an object of doubt. But now...

Now, she wasn't certain anymore. It'd take forever.

She tucked her arms to herself, miffed about how they listened to her after he left. These arms did nothing to help her maintain her dignity and distance from the man who never left her mind, no matter how hard she pushed away. She crossed the line, one she drew to avoid falling out of the path she treaded.

This was war, no matter how silent. She couldn't afford any distractions. Not when she was so close. Both to the High King and his prince. Soon, she'd have them in the palm of her hands. She reached up, and her fingers brushed the earring dangling from her lobe.

This was war, and she ought to remember that. Remember, and never, ever, forget.

As though by magic, the next time she blinked, the sun changed into weak sputters of flame burning inside oil-powered lamps. Did she fall asleep?

Something shifted next to her, matching the shadows of the night beyond the arched windows peppering the healing quarters. Has Kharta come back? She turned to her right, expecting to find the human steward. What greeted her were the golden collar, the satin skirt, the bare chest, and the bald head characteristic of a Mayaware warrior. A...

Her heart leaped to her throat, her muscles contracting as she spun out of bed and reached for any weapon she could wrap her fingers around. The only thing she came up with was a small slice of sponge.

"Hesi, it's me!" the soldier said in a voice eerily resembling someone she knew. And it spoke near-flawless Birejyet. "Do not scream."

She remained crouching on the bed but lowered her arm. "Mezo?"

The soldier's face shifted to reveal the features of the High Prince. Did he wear distinct faces all along? What kind of sorcery was that? Yobekh didn't tell them about it. A long-held palace secret, maybe?

"What are you doing here?" she hissed, looking around her to find not one Mayaware nurse. She was alone in the healing quarters for who knew how long. "What if you get caught?"

Instead of answering, Mezo winked at her—something he might have picked up a tome or two—and beckoned. "I have something to show you."

He fled the healing quarters like Unsu did when he was excited. She didn't like this one bit, but if the High Prince came calling, she wouldn't ignore it. So, with her limbs feeling as though a Mayaware gnawed on them, she slipped off the bed. As soon as she ensured she wouldn't topple forward, she stood on her feet.

Then, without sparing her sheets a glance, she stalked after Mezo. Her fingers brushed the earring once more. Kharta claimed she was nothing but lucky. Well, here was another proof.

A chance came at her doorstep. No way she would not take it.