After hardly sleeping a wink, I slump through empty corridors and past busy-sounding rooms, all the way to Jett's chambers. Same as yesterday, the guards stand as still as statues and regard me as if they are made of stone.

I reach for the door handle but stop short. Though there aren't any sounds from the inside, I wonder if Jett brought back that cranky woman for a second, attempted round at distracting himself for the night. I glance at the side of the fladline's face and he blinks but makes no move to tell me whether my superstitions are right or wrong.

Instead of risking it, I rasp my knuckles on the wood and wait for a response.

Except for a small meal of bread and cheese this morning—brought by a rushing servant—I haven't eaten since arriving at the palace. My stomach remains empty and curdles at the mention of any food, but I will not forget what the queen subtly warned the night before. I must work before the sun rises, and standing in this empty hall of stone bordered by window panes, I notice the sun hasn't shown its bright face over the eastern mountains.

My wardrobe choices are limited. The fitting shirt tucks into my trousers and scratches my neck and wrists with a tight cinch. A pair of shined, cleaned, and never-worn leather boots that reach my knees are the only pride possession in my entire outfit. No one in my family could ever afford a luxury like this, but along with my small amount of food, the servant had thrust the pair into my arms before scurrying back down the hall. Apparently, my room is too far out of the way to be accessible.

After a moment, the fladline guard sighs. "It's possible Your Highness is still sleeping."

I return that sigh with one of my own, followed by a set of tired, slumping shoulders. I'm the cleanest I've ever been in my life and wearing clothes that don't belong to me, but sleeping in Gudgeon Village with thieves and the Void Queen threatening the safety of our practice is easier than the palace's silence.

"Do you give me permission to enter on my power?" I ask, my hand hovering over the handle.

Without a care for the situation, he shrugs. I frown. Either way, my work isn't starting as quickly as the queen would like. So, I take matters into my own hand and push the door open, finding that the fladline guard was only teasing my ability to resolve overwhelming nerves. A blade doesn't stick in my back, and neither of them moves to pound me into the floor.

From where I opened a section of curtains the night before, they're drawn over the windows again. The room is utterly dark, but to my eternal surprise, there's only one lump on the bed. The half-empty bottle is now dry after being sucked down and then dropped onto the floor in a pile of what appears to be his shirt.

I close the door quietly behind me and carefully walk into the room, stepping over those discarded clothes and breakable bottles. Rylan was never a heavy drinker, but the practice of slipping into another state of mind became more frequent once our relationship turned sour. He hated coming home to a cold shoulder, and besides turning to other women for attention, he became a fan of a bottle's contents. Only enough to keep him from screaming at me for not forgiving the past and the present.

There were times when he became too much to handle, and I try to use that experience at this moment. The last thing I want to do is wake Jett with a start, but my options are limited if the queen wants me to start my death task immediately.

Rounding the side of his bed, I study his sleeping face. The hard lines have softened and his mouth squishes to the side from where it's shoved against his mattress. Laying on his stomach, the sheet twists around his lower half and exposes bare feet—also covered in an array of faint scars. How many battles did Jett face to mar his skin so deeply?

I reach for the hand sprawled out at his side and grip tight, hoping to wake him in the softest way I know. If it didn't work with Rylan, this approach is unlikely to work here. But I try anyway and shake his entire arm. Nothing. Not even a grunt in deep slumber.

My only refuge is knowing that he's alone. But a lingering dread in my mind wonders if his special woman is taking a bath behind the shut door to his bathing chamber. I can't focus on that now. Jett is my responsibility, and though I may hate having to tend to an illness he doesn't want a cure for, my life is on the line. I can pretend for a few weeks.

"Jett," I say, hardly loud enough to hear past my own ears. His eyes remain shut. His back is warm when I press my hand against it and shake gently to agitate the enervation, but I'm left with little reaction. Only a deep sigh. "Time to wake up."

No matter how hard I push or tug, he doesn't wake. Drool slides from his dark lips and puddles on the white sheet below the side of his face. Should I bring in the guards to wake him? No, they wouldn't do such a thing. They hardly opened the door for me, let alone granted me safe access without the possibility of a lingering threat.

As the thought runs through my head, and I've exhausted all options, a soft knock sounds at the door. So quiet I hardly hear it. No wonder Jett didn't answer.

Gustus sticks his head in and scans the room with a frown. Either he hasn't been to his brother's chambers in a while, or his condition has slipped farther than common knowledge. He slinks into the room through the small crack in the door and nudges a pile of clothes with the toe of his boot.

"He won't wake," I say, giving Jett one final nudge on his shoulder. If it wasn't for the steady and quiet rasp of his breathing, I'd believe him to be dead. Alas, my luck hasn't extended that far.

Too many times in Gudgeon Village has death swarmed my thoughts. The weak and poor die from illnesses and forgotten Luminaries from the night of the Void Queen's raid lose their steady breaths. Death is my fear; death haunts my dreams. I never want to take a life, as something so fragile doesn't belong to me. A heartbeat isn't mine to stop, and I refuse to crush lungs to halt breath. That is the job of someone with the strength to realize that life is precious, but we must take it in some instances. I'm not there yet, so believing Jett Terravale is better off dead is my mind swirling with opposing thoughts after lack of a breakfast.

Gustus stops at the opposite side of the bed and shoves his hands into his pockets. "This happens all the time, and through careful trial and error, there is only one simple solution." He raises a finger into the air and stares at me down the bridge of his nose like we're old friends. We may know of each other's power but that is the extent of our true relationship. "It's time for the bucket."

"The bucket?" I question as he strolls to Jett's bathing chamber. I don't follow him, and he returns a few minutes later with a metal bucket clutched in both hands.

Jerking his chin at the unconscious feliram on the bed, he says, "I suggest you step back."

Doing as he says, I put distance between myself and Jett, knowing that this can't end well. Gustus hoists the bucket higher than the bed's level, aiming directly for his brother's head, and dumps a stream of cold water.

Jett wakes in a start, grunting loudly, and whirls. He snorts the water that slid up his nose and tiny sprits spray out in all directions, including to the damp mattress now underneath his soaking body. My hand raises to my mouth in shock at Gustus standing over his brother, eyebrows raised and an empty bucket in his hands as good as a weapon.

"Good morning, brother," he chides and tosses the bucket aside. "You have a very busy day ahead of you."

Jett growls and leaps, aiming for his brother with fists clenched. He swings, but stumbles over his own two feet and crashes to the floor, cursing all the while. Gustus merely stares down at the back of his brother's head and purses his lips in disappointment.

To me, his gestures are softer around the edges. "I'll leave you to it, then. If you require my assistance, I'll be training in the courtyard or lounging in my chambers."

I don't want him to leave. But as Gustus turns on his heel and strides towards the door on easy, practiced steps, I don't plead for him to remain. Learning how to do this all on my own is only the first step in what it takes to finish what I so foolishly started at the docks. A fear of certain death is the reason I healed that woman and the cause of being trapped now.

During the middle of the night, against the glow of a dim torch, I penned a letter to Castiel. It wasn't much; I detailed the happenings of court and how long I'd be away. The letter remains on the desk, folded into thirds and shoved underneath the stack of smooth parchment. I cannot get a letter to him in a matter of two weeks without arriving a matter of days later, but the thought still counts for something. If I cannot speak to him directly, writing a letter gives me enough sense of being close to him.

Jett's hand grips onto the side of the bed and he hoists himself back up, arms shaking. I reach out to help him, but he bats my hand away and slumps onto the side of the bed, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. I expect him to scream or demand I leave for I am the cause of all his troubles, but he does neither of those things.

His movements are slower than someone on death's door. His fist grapples into the sheet, the smooth fabric twisting around his fingers, and he brings that to his face to wipe away the water. The solemn realization of I did it again paints over his hard features. My focus changes, and from hatred to sympathy—my care converts. These things are often out of the control of those that want to do nothing more than overcome such an obstacle.

Water drips down his chin and into his lap. "Come back when I'm refreshed and ready for the day," he mutters.

"No," I blurt before I can stop myself. His chin remains down, but an intimidating stare threatens to unravel me completely. "I need to do this if I want to keep my life."

"I don't particularly care whether or not you get to keep your life."

My blood runs cold. I can do nothing other than stare at his face and wonder how someone can say such a thing to another living being. My instinct is to turn in the other direction, towards the door, and find the Raven Queen in this complicated maze of a palace to tell her that this job isn't for me. I'm not strong enough to contest with someone that kills Luminaries for a living, and if my honesty gives me my life, there isn't harm in telling her the entire truth, either.

Jett winces and clenches the bridge of his nose again. A silent force pushes me towards him and I reach out, placing the palm of my hand against his damp forehead. He doesn't attempt to move away or shove me back, so I summon the healing power within my body and push it forward, towards him. The warmth leaks from my arm and into my fingers, branching open like the petals of a flower in spring.

He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, shoulders slumping down. I trace a finger along his forehead and down the bridge of his nose, halting the aftermath of alcohol's grip.

When my hand falls back to my side, he watches me quizzingly. I know the truth behind that stare; how could I do such a thing after a proclamation that my life holds no value? I'm slightly relieved to see his stare cast down in disappointment and guilt, but I'll focus on that matter later. The fact that a heart remains inside his chest.

We must do more than tolerate each other's presence. As the minutes pass around each other, stretching longer than the normal limits of time, the fault of this situation becomes clearer and clearer. Neither of us has any desire to be around the other, but we know the Raven Queen will accept nothing other than our cooperation. We're trapped here.

I sit down at his desk, this time ignoring the clutter. How did he create such a mess in only a matter of hours? Not during the sober hours of his day, but wasted enough that he slumped into his bed without finding the pillows first.

"Now," I begin, dipping the quill pen into the inkwell. "I need basic information about you so I can finish this quicker than your mother expects me to. Let's start with your name."

Jett sets his jaw. "Jett Terravale." After a pause filled with the scratching of the quill pen over the parchment, he adds, "I prefer to go by Cloak."

For his role in the Panjandrum Corps. The alcohol builds a wall around his senses and blocks him from thinking twice about my abilities. So far, he's the only one that hasn't questioned why I'm only a healer and nothing more. Jett is also the person that needs to question them the most. As leader of the Panjandrum Corps, he has one responsibility. Identify and kill as many Luminaries as possible.

"Your age?"

I glance over my shoulder. He's already watching me. I wonder if he can see through my disguise to the white hair and red eyes underneath a normal, acquitted face. Someone trained in all ways of identifying a ghost is also the first to pick apart the abnormalities in a person like me. I'm a threat and a mystery—smooshed together in one small package.

He sighs through his nose. Reluctant to reveal the truth, he hesitates a moment. "One hundred and seventy-five years old."

"You don't look a day over twenty-five."

"Don't fool me with your flattery."

The corner of my mouth tugs upward once I force my face back towards the desk. If Castiel were here, he'd tell me to have fun with this instead of allowing the dread to drag me under. I should listen to him more often, but the fact that he's my younger brother means he holds no sway over my decisions.

My handwriting is choppy and uneven, sliding down the page as if melting down the side of the parchment. Castiel was always the neat one; the villagers used to laugh at anything I wrote in the sand compared to his perfect penmanship. Once Castiel yelled at them, along with insults that resulted in a broken nose, I stopped caring about what others thought. Their laughter didn't matter, but Castiel believing I was good enough in every way became the center of my world.

The quill hovers over the parchment and I hesitate to ask the next question. But Jett is waiting and if I don't speak soon, he may resort to deeming this a waste of his time, if he hasn't already. "Tell me about your occupation." I force the words out of my mouth and a sharp bite of bile comes up with them.

"I am the leader of the Panjandrum Corps, the group responsible for ridding the land of Luminaries," he informs.

I clench the quill tighter in my fist until my knuckles are white and the words come out even sloppier than what I'm used to. My chest tightens at the thought of all the innocent people he has killed over the years—all at the origin of his mother's orders. My heart wants to be angry at her instead of Jett, but the Raven Queen is not the one that drove a sword through their heart or hanged them in the forests as warning signs to travelers.

A steady silence calms the room, and with my back turned to Jett, I can't decipher whether he is testing me. My Luminary senses tell me he's staring at my back, but I can't dive into his mind and search for more. Not yet, at least. I haven't discovered whether I harness such an ability, or if the Void Queen took such a beneficial task from the hands of someone that could use it to their advantage. My hands shake around the quill.

"Besides that, what do you do on a daily basis to fill the open hours?" That don't involve killing or hunting Luminaries. I bite down on my tongue to keep from stepping past an invisible boundary.

On the surface, the question is nothing more than another way to gather information about ways to help him. Jett isn't looking far into this, and my words don't result in any harm. But I want to know more than what he does to fill the boring hours of the day while living in the palace. I want to hear about the Panjandrum Corps—who involves themselves in the operation and who Jett claims to be his closest confidants.

Chaska is a Luminary. I must do everything in my power to deter Jett in the other direction, away from Gudgeon Docks and the few Luminaries that remain. They haven't shown their faces but I know they're there—in the poor that never leave their cottages or the alleyways, to the fishermen out at sea. Away from the shore and the land, out of the Panjandrum Corps' sight, Rylan's included.

Jett shifts and the bed creaks underneath his weight. In no way is he a small beast—extensive days of training keeps him from dropping past a warrior's size. "I study reports given to me by guards in many sectors of the land," he says in a bored tone.

"And what do these reports entail?" I stare at the wall, quill hovering over the page.

He's not as careful as he should be. "The reports detail magic threats. If I see anything in the report that requires further investigation, I head to the desired location with the Panjandrum Corps and interrogate the possible Luminary." I scratch out the words as quickly as I can. As soon as they leave his lips, the truth to their operation covers the page and I'm one step closer to figuring out exactly what I can do to help Chaska and the others. "I fill my day by deciding whether they're to die or if I put them on a watch list instead."

A watch list. I've never heard of such a thing.

The chair groans underneath my weight as I twist to face him. "Do you enjoy what you do?"

He ignores my harsh tone and plays it off as something other than feeling him out. No, that's not what I'm doing. I want him to feel guilty for what he's done to so many Luminaries that could've helped the land rather than allow it to starve. If they don't realize the Void Queen may rise in power someday, I can do nothing to help them. The royal family is on their own, and if everything goes according to plan, I'll be long gone.

Jett hesitates a moment. His mouth quirks to the side. "Yes," he says. A second too late. Only on certain occasions do my Luminary senses rise to the occasion and every corner of my soul tells me that Jett's words are not what he wants to convey. They're a lie. And that gives me hope for shifting him in a different direction; away from Luminaries.

"Is there anything in life you enjoy doing?" I ask.

"Isn't that too personal of a question? First you ask me about my work, now this?"

I close my eyes for a moment to breathe in a false sense of calm. "Just answer the question."

"Actually, you know what, I have somewhere else to be." He points towards the closed door and stands from the edge of the bed. Maybe I made a mistake by healing him. If he were dealing with a pounding headache and unable to stand, he'd have no choice but to answer all my questions. I slap myself internally for desiring to find a common ground in this tug of war.

Jett grabs a shirt from the floor and tugs it over his head.

"No, wait," I try, but he grabs a pair of boots resting next to the desk and rushes to the door. My life—I need to live. Castiel won't survive if I'm not there to care for him and bring potions bought by a non-existent salary working at the docks. "Cloak, please—"

His head appears from around the door. "Don't stick around for long," he suggests. "I don't want you to be here when I get back."

With that, he shuts the door behind him and leaves me alone in his chambers. Again. This is becoming an unwelcome trend. I stew in the silence for a moment and take a deep breath. This isn't over, it's only the first day.

There's an entire palace to explore and people to meet that might help me. Perhaps Gustus will have some tips on how to navigate his complicated and unwilling brother. I gather my paperwork and leave the inkwell and quill for later. I'll be back—whether Jett...Cloak wants me to or not. I'll knock on his door until he answers.

Until then, I need food. And rest. And a break. I suppose I can find those all in one place.