I gasp, my body and sight becoming once more my own. Chills cover my skin. The reinforcements are coming. Those were probably the men from the south, Agrí or Caelací.

"Are you sure you're alright, Prince?" the officer asks.

I turn to her distractedly. "Yes. Of course."

Dread numbs my movements, and I descend into the tower. Everyone knows the Second's visions only warn of bad things to come.

So why did it show the reinforcements?

Among the soldiers in the tower hall, Reyan calls out instructions. As I take the last step down, he spots me and scowls. He gestures, and an officer takes his spot. As he cuts through the crowd, it parts around him.

He still wears the bloodstained uniform of last night, and his hair is mussed as if from sleep. His eyes are sharp and alert, though, and what cuts he has are bandaged. His gaze flicks to my arm. "You still haven't taken care of that?"

"I was just making sure the watch didn't need anything. I'm off to check on Sela."

He frowns, clasping my good arm before I can turn. "Go to the infirmary first. Mellise sent word that her men are standing guard outside the Queen's suite. Selenia's safe. One of the invaders was even found tied up outside the door." His words ring of reassurance but his tone registers as an order.

My jaw tightens. "I'll get around to it."

"Don't get around to it. Do it." He holds my gaze like iron. "Please don't make me ask one of my men to escort you."

My eyes blaze and tone drops. "I am not one of your soldiers, brother. In a battle situation, you may have a greater understanding of what should be done. However, now, there are a million other tasks that need dealt with, and my paltry injury is the least of them. So, excuse me."

His grip on my arm doesn't loosen, forcing me to turn back toward him. "Aster, you are the third most important person in the castle, in the country, right now. So would you do Morineaux a favor and make sure you don't keel over?" His eyes bore into me. "Visiting Illesiarr won't take long. You can do everything else after."

I throw my hand into the air and fight not to cringe at the stabbing pain in my left arm. "I'm not going to die from a cut on my arm!"

Soldiers around us murmur, watching us now. Reyan grits his teeth and drags me into a small side room. "From now on, why don't we try to not look like squabbling children in front of our people?"

I wince.

"This argument is probably taking longer than seeing Illesiarr would."

"It wouldn't have if you would've let me go."

Reyan holds up a hand. "I've gotten my wounds seen to, and so have all my soldiers who have had a chance to. You're not wasting time by taking care of yourself, and you can't take care of what needs done if you're not in top shape."

I open my mouth to object even though some part of me understands that I sound like a defiant brat. He gives me no room to speak, though. "You would expect your people to get patched up if they were hurt. The least you can do is extend the standard to yourself."

He brushes past me, opening the door back to the chaos outside and marching straight into it. I stare after him for a moment. He acts as if putting the needs of the country before my own is somehow selfish.

Angry, I leave the tower and stride across the cobblestone to the castle door. The cold air bites my skin. As I march up the stairs, though, my mind cools, and my steps slow as his words sink in. If I push myself too hard and fall, then I'll be leaving Morineaux with no Second Son at all. I know better than that.

I don't belong to myself.

Changing course, I head for the infirmary. I hate to bother Illesiarr, knowing he's faced with patients in much more serious condition than I am in, but the more I move, the more my arm throbs. My head hasn't stopped hurting either, and my probing fingertips come back with dots of blood. I grit my teeth and hurry into the carefully controlled chaos of the infirmary. A couple maids move around, following Illesiarr's instructions.

I wait just to the left of the door, hesitant to steal his attention. One of the maids notices me.

"Physician?" she calls. "We've another one, but he's standing." She goes back to what she was doing. The informal reference and visual dismissal surprise me. Even in times of urgency, the maids tend to act a little more flustered when I show up unexpectedly.

"Just a moment, then," Illesiarr returns.

I wait. True to his word, only a minute later, he finishes his task and shambles toward me. His gaze bypasses my face, honing in on the more obvious injury.

"Is this arm everything?"

"My head, too," I say. He glances up, and recognition lights his eyes.

"Aster." He sounds somewhat surprised, but sadness tinges his expression as he takes in my blood-spattered form.

Blood-spattered. That must be why the maid didn't recognize me. She assumed I was just another soldier, like Illesiarr did when he first approached.

I nod.

He sighs softly, though I'm not sure what at or why, and leads me over to his table. "Sit." I do. He pulls my arm onto the surface. Against my will, a pained breath escapes through my teeth.

I feel like I had intended to say things—Reyan told me to come, I'm sorry for distracting you, it's really not that bad—but nothing passes my lips, and I sit in cold silence as he cleans the cut and inspects it.

"It needs stitches," he tells me.

I nod once, and he gets his supplies. I'm not sure what I think I'm agreeing to. Then again, I'm not sure what Illesiarr wanted me to say, and my silent response seems to have worked well enough. I wonder if maybe I talk too much normally.

He rubs some sort of salve on the edges. The pressure sends spikes up my arm, and I struggle not to react. It's the first time I've really looked at the injury, two cuts forming a T. The edges are jagged and dotted with fresh blood after the cleaning.

"That should help take away some of the pain of the stitching."

Jaw tight, I nod. He waits a minute before beginning. I try not to watch as the needle pierces my skin, pinches the edges closer and closer until they pucker. I try not to tense in anticipation of the next puncture, try not to twitch at the stabbing sensation that, despite the salve, jars my arm every time the needle enters.

My whole body is taut by the time he finishes, and he bandages the cut with proper cloths rather than my bloodstained shirtsleeve. He gently applies some salve to the back and side of my head, and that stings too. Then he bandages the wounds and sits back in front of me. "Now let's take care of that nose."

Not wanting my injuries prodded any more than they have been, I say, "I'm sure I just need to wash it. I should go."

He takes my shoulder. "If it's broken and we don't set it, it could impair your breathing permanently, along with causing other problems."

I frown.

I suppose he takes that as permission because he washes it. Every touch feels like a needle in the face. Between admonitions to stay as still as possible, he gets it clean. He warns me that he's going to have to set it and has me lie down on the examination table. I close my eyes.

Something metal enters my nostrils, stinging the swollen flesh. His fingers are fire on my skin, and then a grating noise rolls inside my head. I call out, but it's already over. The metal comes out, he releases me, and I'm left with a nose that throbs and burns worse than it did before.

I sit up quickly, good hand cradled around my nose without touching. I glare.

His lips twist sympathetically. "I know it's more painful at the moment, but it will start to fade." He turns to get something from a table. "I need to pack it to make sure the pieces won't slip out of place."

"They're fine now." I stand.

His eyes lock on mine. "My boy. Let me do my job. A broken nose is a small enough injury for you to submit yourself to my hands."

My anger plunges into cold humility. All over this infirmary, people are dying, and I'm angry that he's fixing me. Shame turns into numbness, and I sit down. He packs my nose. Now I can't breathe from it again.

"Come back in two days, and I'll make sure it's doing alright." He tells me how to change the bandaging of my arm and gives me the materials for it. "Now, go get cleaned up, my boy. Don't bother with the courtyard. The bathing room down here should be fine."

I stand up. "No clothes. I'm off to see Selenia."

"Not like that, surely."

I watch him, numbly frustrated.

"I'll send a maid for your things. Go on. Just keep that arm dry."

I hesitate, but his caring, insistent gaze brooks no argument. Wordlessly, I turn and slip into the bathing room behind the stairs.

I peel off my ruined shirt and pants, having to tug harder to separate them from my skin in the spots where blood adhered them to me. I clean quickly, carefully, methodically, scrubbing to rid myself of the dark red tint left on my skin.

I remember that these were yesterday's clothes. Again, I silently thank Agraund for forcing me to sleep in what I was already wearing so I would always be ready at a moment's notice. Well. I suppose my least comfortable shirt will never be worn again.

Illesiarr brings in the new outfit, and I finish quickly and dress. It was difficult to wash my hair while keeping my arm out of the water, and I can't shake the feeling that my wet hair still holds traces of blood. That seems unreasonable, though, and I leave without wasting any more time on the matter.

Three guards stand outside the Queen's Suite. The one in the middle bows. "My lord."

"Let me through." I waste no extra effort on courtesy.

"We can't, my lord." His head ducks. "The door is locked and no one has brought us the Captain's master set of keys."

My jaw clenches. "Why haven't you requested that yet? She's injured."

"The physician's assistant is inside, but she refuses to open the door."

I blink at them. I know I saw Elénna in the infirmary, so it must be some maid Illesiarr asked to stay. They couldn't convince a random maid to open the door? I wave them to the side and pound on it myself. "By order of the crown, open this door!"