Numb, I stare at Solus. The oatmeal in my mouth turns to ash. Downstairs, the ruckus of soldiers and wizards being tended to still clatters, and the lumpy pillow between me and the wall digs into my back.

"I'm sorry, Aster." His hands come off the arms of the chair he's sitting in and into his lap.

I force the mouthful down my throat, the small bowl heavy on my legs. My voice is flat. "You didn't do anything."

His lips twist, and he looks down at his hands.

I wonder who told Agraund about the Liaetta Theater Fire. Did Agraund love his wife? Were his children jealous he spent so much time with me instead of them? Did he rage about what had happened, or did he absorb it silently, painfully, coldly?

I didn't love her. I don't know that I ever would have, not like that. But—

I look away. I argued about Leavi coming, kept thinking about Leavi's safety, but I never thought Riszev would—

Which is ridiculous. Father died in battle. It's shocking I haven't.

His words are soft. "I'm sorry all the same."

My lips tighten, and I look at him again. "I hardly knew her, Solus. Leave it."

Minisculely, he draws back, but he nods.

I set the oatmeal aside.

"Don't you think you sh—"

I raise my hand, and he stops. "Are the Retrans still coming?" I wonder if they would still had I died.

"As far as I know. Mostly, they'll be utilized in clearing out the rest of the country, though. The siege has broken, as you may have guessed."

The good news sounds like the pop of funeral pyres. "Good. I hope that goes well."

He regards me. "I'm sure you'll lead us well."

I nod, unable to muster anything more concrete because I know it would be a lie. I woke less than ten minutes ago, and my bones already feel as if they're shaking. It was only a matter of time before I had to stop pushing myself. I'm surprised I didn't just collapse on the field.

He stands. "I'll let you get back to your rest, Prince."

"When is the funeral?"

He pauses, hand on the chair. "Tomorrow. But they're taking her back to their land for burial."

Confusion creases my face.

"This event will be more of a memorial."

"Oh."

His hand shifts on the back of the chair. "Afterward, there will be one for our fallen wizards and soldiers."

The thought of so many bodies to be burned—so many people that will never rise again, so many faces that will never see their friends, so many hands that will never hold their families'—is a weight like suffocation, and I stare unbreathing at the wall. Then my chest shudders back to life.

"Good," I murmur.

Still he stands there, and I don't know why.

It feels like everything should be over. Everything should be over and okay, but it's not. The world is on its knees with death, and we're expected to somehow stand up and put everything back together, and I'm not even sure yet if I can stand up without trembling. I want to be alone.

Underneath that, I wish I could run to my mother like I did when I was child, before I knew that Jeanna loved me more than she did, before I understood that people die, before I learned that a loveless marriage can still be important. I want to be alone, but more than that, I want my mother to hold me and tell me that it'll be alright, even if it's a lie, because it's always a lie. I would give almost anything for my mother to lie to me just one more time.

Solus's voice is soft. "Is there anything I can do for you?"

I look at him. I forgot he was still here. "No. Thank you. I'll try to be back to work later today."

"You don't have to do that, Prince."

I watch him. "I'll try to be back later today."

His eyes close briefly. "As you wish." He goes. I know I should finish eating, but I can't. I'm not sure if it's grief or the poison, but my stomach feels like dirty snow. I move the bowl to the bedside table and lie down again. The world is loneliness and hate, and then we die.

* * *

When I surface from the room, I try to pretend I don't feel like I'm about to fall over. In the living room, dark hair splays across one side of the couch. Relief burns the back of my throat. Leavi. She's alive. Somehow, somehow she's alive, and I turn away, blinking rapidly. Thank you. I don't know who I'm thanking—whatever force allowed the wall defense to work, I suppose, and whatever it is that watches out for dying soldiers.

I slip through the room, grateful, but wonder why she's on the couch. Realization makes me feel like an idiot. I must have been in her room. I bite my lip. I stole her room and didn't think twice about it. Entitled.

I go downstairs, wondering what will happen to her now that Riszev—

I guess she'll go back to being a page. Will Reyan abide that when I'm dead too? When I'm gone, no one will stand for her, except perhaps Illesiarr. But it's presumptuous to count on his respect toward a dead man, and I don't know what sort of relationship she's built with him. Is she just the foreign girl that he lets stay here out of kindness for me? Or has he learned to like her more than that, to trust her more than that?

I shouldn't count myself as dead yet.

The thought feels empty. The only thing that might heal me now is magic, and self-healing spells are nearly impossible. According to legend, the Shadesnare used them while he was in Jacqueline's trap, but I'm not Astraeus the Shadesnare. I'm Astraeus the boy-prince.

I don't see Illesiarr as I leave, which is probably just as well. He would only try to convince me again to stay in bed.

Slow steps take me down the halls. I'll look into it, if I have the time. Of course I will. But even then, even if some miracle gave me the strength to cast the spell, I'd have to do a mountain of research to come up with one that might work. I don't know that I have enough time left for that.

I pass the library and a courtyard on my way to the Mage Room. Vaguely, I remember Illesiarr helping me wash in his bathing pool, and I'm glad I don't need to go to my suite to change. I'm tired of being in the rooms of dead people. I turn onto the hall of the Room and freeze.

Malloryn's not here.

The world presses in on me, and I turn, stumbling back the way I came. Solus told me I didn't have to come right away. I catch my balance on the wall. He can make it without me, but I don't know if I can make it in there yet.

Shaking legs take me to the library's heavy, propped open doors. If I want enough time, if I want any hope, I'm going to have to make it myself.

I slip inside, already tired from my walk. As I pass a maid in one of the aisles, she straightens guiltily and starts to leave.

"Maed," I say.

She turns, head ducked. I don't care that she was skipping out of work.

"As you head back, could you stop by the Mage Room and let High Mage Solus know that if he needs me, I'm in here?"

She relaxes and dips a curtsy.

"Oh, and—"

She looks at me.

"Please alert my manservant, Ollem, that I'm here."

"Yes, milord."

I turn back toward the shelves. Maybe this won't be as impossible as I thought. I know far more about magic than I can cast. Half the information is already in my head—I just have to jog the memories.

I face a case covered in books about healing magic. Despite being one of the most dangerous and difficult disciplines, it's also one of the most heavily researched. The only field debatably harder is dimensionalism, but the other realms are so strange, there's not much said on the topic. They've done so much research about healing, though, because some people theorize that if we were able to figure out what, exactly, powered healing spells, we would unlock the secret of why magic works.

I pull down a promising tome, but it tumbles out of my hands and falls on my foot. I curse. When the pain starts to recede, I reach down with shaky hands and pick the book up, cradling it in my arm. This way, maybe my weak grip won't betray me again. My arms tremble as I carry the book.

I had hoped to grab a few to cross-reference, but by the time I drop the tome on a table, I don't feel like walking back for another. I'll get Ollem to help me when he gets here.

Sitting heavily, I sift through the book, searching for anything that might be useful. I regret not finishing my breakfast. When Ollem arrives, I have him bring me lunch.

While I eat, I pour over the texts. They all agree—it's possible to cast a healing spell by using some substitute to absorb the weight of the illness. The caster still has to take on the cost of the spell itself, but I could push off the entire rest of this sickness on something else.

The problem is that those are only in reference to healing tiny things—a small cut, a bruise. If the caster has an artefact, she can suck the magic out of the artefact to heal those kinds of things. The books offer no method for healing anything bigger.

That's not going to be strong enough to save my life. Something as powerful as the staff might have enough magic in it, but then the strongest artefact in Morineause history, passed from generation to generation, would be destroyed. From then on, it would only be a tall stick with a rock stuck in the top of it. I can't do that on a hope.

Instead, once the books finish the topic of draining artefacts, they move to wild and wilder theories about how the Shadesnare managed to heal himself while trapped by Jacqueline. Where did the magic come from to keep him from dying? He would have had to have some sort of never-ending source to continuously keep himself from death. The books' best theory is that since he was trapped in a separate realm, he was somehow teleporting artefacts to himself from here and sucking them dry.

Finally, I push the books away and rub my eyes with the palms of my hands. A throbbing has taken up behind my temple, and I rest my head against the back of the chair.

"Is something wrong, milord?" Ollem asks.

I open my eyes, drawing in a deep breath. "No. No, I'm just done for now." I rise, getting my balance with the edge of the table. Even so, standing makes me vaguely woozy. "Could you return these books to their shelves?"

"Of course."

I make my way around the table toward the door. "I'll take dinner in my old bedroom."

"Yes, milord. Do you want me to start moving your things over?"

Sharply, I turn toward him. He pauses, wide-eyed.

"Or not, milord. I'm sorry."

My lips twist. "No, you're... You're right. Please. Thank you."

He nods and leaves. I find my way to the room and sink into my armchair.

White flashes.

I look down from the ceiling of my training room. In the middle of the floor, Leavi kneels, grasping the hand of a pale, thin man.

White flashes.