“Ana’Sere. Captaen,” Declan knocked on the doorframe. Luscia broke the kiss, renewing the space between herself and the leader of her five. Blooming a flush, she retightened the robe, its closure suddenly untrustworthy. Declan palmed the strand of metal beads in his carroty beard and averted his eyes. “The Darakaian stirs.”

Luscia sidestepped Marek to follow Declan down the hall with haste, preventing any potential query from the eldest of her Najjan. Instructing him to wait with the others, she caught the uncharacteristic, upturn of Marek’s mouth when she backed into the bedroom and gently closed the door.

What to do about said mouth posed a veritable quandary, indeed. One she did not have the time or emotional store to properly ponder.

Twisting, she saw Kasim drooped over the arm of a chair he must have dragged to the bedside. His black locs hung freely over his shoulders, untied. She’d never noticed the detailed threadwork around a handful of them. Asleep, his head was held upright on the edge of his fist, his kopar unbelted and propped against one of the chair legs. Curled up beside his boot, Aksel fixated on Kasim, watching the al’Haidren doze from his spot on the floor.

Moving to the opposite side of the bed, she dabbed at the perspiration along Takoda’s dark hairline as he moaned in his sleep. Minor tremors played with his slender features as he fought off delirium. Luscia pulled the skeleton key from between her breasts and pivoted to the apothecary, once again releasing the woodsy scent of the highlands.

“Kumo swore you’d refuse us,” Kasim slurred in exhaustion.

Luscia jumped, then resumed scraping more ennus thorn into a clean vial. “Regardless of where we stand, I wouldn’t just turn you away. Not when you brought a wounded man to my door.”

“I wouldn’t have blamed you if you had.”

Her knife slowed. “That is a lie,” she noted, setting it down. Lusica poured a few drops of nixberry into the cocktail, trying her best to remember Alora’s combination for fevers.

“It went too far, what happened in that room,” she heard him continue, alluding to the last time they met in the abandoned training chamber. “I crossed a line I didn’t know was there. Last night, you could have punished me for it.”

Luscia took a deep breath and returned to Takoda’s side, noticing a pile of broken glass gathered neatly in the corner of the room. Kasim must have cleaned up the shattered vase at some point. Holding the vial, she eased the rim between Takoda’s lips. The fragility of their existence struck her unexpectedly as she peered down, his shallow breaths a powerful reminder of how human they both were. Even for a child of Boreal, life was never guaranteed.

“I want to hear what you think you’ve discovered about me,” she said abruptly in an low voice. When he didn’t reply, she glanced across the bed. Fleetingly, a look of pity pinched Kasim’s countenance and he looked aside. “Say it, Kasim.”

Pulling the vial back, she waited for an answer. Gazing outside, his fist neared his mouth. “You excel only at the range of your weapon. In close combat, you become preoccupied with your defense. Distracted, even.” Kasim turned back from the window and toward his friend. A tendon twitched in his jaw. “You’re scared to be touched. That’s your weakness.”

Luscia absorbed Kasim’s observation as she eased her hand behind Takoda’s neck. His judgement was sound, she bitterly admitted. Thinking back on their sparring sessions, none of her men ever proposed hand-to-hand combat, always favoring a blade when she was their partner. An odd embarrassment threatened Luscia’s impression of herself. Such glaring negligence in her training, and not once did the Najjan attempt to correct it.

“A weakness that might have cost me my life one day,” Luscia said evenly, “had you not revealed it.”

“Even still, a line was crossed. It won’t happen again.” His leather pants creased as he sat forward. “You have my word.”

Twisting, Luscia stared at Kasim. Unblinkingly, he stared back.

“Is that the Darakaian equivalent to an apology?”

“Darakaians don’t apologize.”

“I see.” She lifted Takoda’s head to slowly tip the treatment down his throat. “Tadöm, for it is accepted nonetheless.”

Kasim stretched out in the chair. The sun rising over the bay sent fresh light spilling into the room. Absently, Luscia started to apply another batch of paste, forming a poultice on Takoda’s wounds. As she did, the rapid fluctuations of his chest smoothed to a more reassuring rhythm.

“Will he live?” Kasim asked, clearing his throat.

“Perhaps.”

Luscia carried the mortar over to Kasim. Scooping two fingers into the paste, she lifted the substance toward his right temple. Edging back, his nose wrinkled at the strong, mossy odor. Luscia pitched a hand on her hip, knowing the longer it went untended, the more irritated the cut would become. Wordlessly, he swept a section of locs back to reveal the place her mother’s dagger had grazed him. Evidence of the day she’d lost control.

The outline of the cut was crusted over in certain areas, indicating its slowness to scab, thanks to the corrosivity of luxiron. The fading slit under his chin fared slightly better.

“I should not have thrown that at your head,” Luscia confessed, smoothing the paste over the partially healed skin.

“Kàcha kocho, I might’ve deserved it.” Kasim grimaced as she layered it on. “Good thing you missed, or you really would be in the dungeon.”

“I didn’t miss. Yeh’maelim—you’re welcome for that, too.” She reached into the bowl and smeared what was left onto his throat. “Why didn’t you take Takoda to a court physician, or one of the yancy doctors? Surely you’ve garnered enough coin, or favor, to demand treatment.”

“You know why.”

He watched her through tired eyes as she finished. The two had never been so close without injury, normally to his person. Luscia tugged at the plush collar of her robe, realizing then that she still had yet to actually dress, and began busily collecting the supplies dispersed throughout the room. Once everything was tucked away, Luscia stood against the dresser and faced Kasim, crossing her arms, more comfortable at a distance.

“The cross-caste boy taken from the stables,” she had to ask, “was that who he found?”

Reluctant to reply, Kasim peered into his lap. “Nothing’s been confirmed.”

“Then tell me this. Your friend was on his deathbed, bleeding out into the street. When you came to my door, were you resolved to bring him to a witch, or to someone else?”

Reclining in the chair, Kasim crossed his arms as well. “I’m not sure.”

She gazed straight into his hard, chartreuse eyes. “Then I propose we release ourselves from further threats at this point, don’t you? We’ve too many enemies in this city, coming after yours and mine alike.”