“Why didn’t you tell me you’d won?” Relief floods me. I’d have broken something if Marcus or Zak had taken the victory. “And they gave you a...shirt?”

“Made of living metal,” Helene says. “Augur-forged, like our masks. Turns away all blades, the Augur said—even Serric steel. Good thing, too. Skies only know what we’ll face next.”

I shake my head. Wraiths and efrits and wights. Tribal tales come to life. I never dreamt it possible. “The Augurs don’t let up, do they?”

“What do you expect, Elias?” Helene asks quietly. “They’re choosing the next Emperor. That’s no small thing. You—we—need to trust them.” She takes a breath, and her next words come out in a rush. “When I saw you fall, I thought you were dead. And there were so many things I needed to say to you.” She brings her hand hesitantly to my face, her shy eyes speaking an unfamiliar language.

Not so unfamiliar, Elias. Lavinia Tanalia looked at you like that. And Ceres Coran. Right before you kissed them.

But this is different. This is Helene. So what? You want to see what it’s like—you know you do. As soon as I think it, I’m disgusted at myself. Helene’s not a quick tumble or a night’s indiscretion. She’s my best friend. She deserves better.

“Elias...” Her voice is slow as a summer breeze, and she bites her lip.

No. Don’t let her.

I pull my face away, and she snatches her hand back as if from a flame, her cheeks crimson.

“Helene—”

“Don’t worry about it.” She shrugs, her tone falsely light. “I guess I’m just happy to see you. Anyway, you never said—how do you feel?”

The speed with which she moves on startles me, but I’m so relieved to avoid an awkward conversation that I, too, pretend nothing has happened. “My head hurts. I feel...fuzzy. There was this...this singing. Do you know...?”

“You were probably dreaming.” Helene looks away uncomfortably, and, groggy though I might be, I can tell she’s hiding something. When the door opens to admit the physician, she jumps from her chair, seemingly relieved at the presence of someone else in the room.

“Ah, Veturius,” the physician says. “Awake at last.” I’ve never liked him.

He’s a skeletal, pompous ass who delights in discussing his healing methods while patients writhe in pain. He bustles over and removes the bandage on my leg.

My mouth drops open. I expected a bloody wound. But there’s nothing left of the injury except a scar that looks weeks old. It tingles when I touch it but is otherwise free of pain.

“A southern poultice,” the physician says, “of my own making. I’ve used it many times, I confess, but with you, I’ve gotten the formula perfect.”

The physician removes the bandage from my head. It’s not even bloodstained. A dull ache flares out from behind my ear, and I reach up to feel the ridge of a scar there. If what Helene said was true, this wound should have left me knocked out for weeks. And yet it has healed in days. Miraculous. I contemplate the physician. Too miraculous for this smug bag of bones to have done it on his own.

Helene, I note, is pointedly not looking at me.

“Did an Augur visit?” I ask the physician.

“Augur? No. Just myself and the apprentices. And Aquilla, of course.” He gives Hel an irritated glance. “Sat in here singing lullabies every chance she got.”

The physician pulls a bottle from his pocket. “Bloodroot serum for the pain,” he says. Bloodroot serum. The words trigger something in my mind, but it flits away.

“Your fatigues are in the closet,” the physician says. “You’re free to go, though I recommend you take it easy. I’ve told the Commandant you won’t be fit for training or watch until tomorrow.”

The second the physician leaves, I turn on Helene. “No poultice in the world could heal wounds like this. And yet I didn’t get a visit from an Augur. Only you.”

“The wounds must not have been as bad as you thought.”

“Helene. Tell me about your singing.”

She opens her mouth, as if to speak, then breaks for the door faster than a whip. Unfortunately for her, I’m expecting it.

Her eyes flash when I grab her hand, and I see her weigh her options. Do I fight him? Is it worth it? I wait her out, and she relents, pulling her fingers from mine and sitting back down.

“It started in the cave,” she says. “You kept twitching, like you were having a fit of some kind. When I sang to keep the efrits away, you calmed down.

Your color was better, your head wound stopped bleeding. So I—I kept singing. I got tired as I did it—weak, like I had a fever.” Her eyes are panicked. “I don’t know what it means. I’d never try to harness the spirits of the dead. I’m no witch, Elias, I swear—”

“I know that, Hel.” Skies, what would my mother make of this? The Black Guard? Nothing good. Martials believe that supernatural power comes from spirits of the dead and that only the Augurs are possessed by such spirits.

Anyone else with even a touch of power would be accused of witchcraft and sentenced to death.

The evening’s shadows dance across Hel’s face, and it reminds me of how she looked when Rowan Goldgale grabbed her and lit her with that strange glow.

“Mamie Rila used to tell stories,” I say carefully, not wanting to spook Helene. “She talked of humans with strange skills that were awoken by contact with the supernatural. Some could harness strength, others could change the weather. A few could even heal with their voices.”