By the second day, Xion could no longer ignore the fever.

  He'd tried. Pride and stubbornness had kept him moving through their exploration of the Water District, explaining the intricate system of well permits and distribution quotas while sweat beaded on his forehead. But when Elara caught him swaying against a wall, her eyes flashing amber with concern, he knew the pretense was over.

  "It's infected," she said flatly, reaching for his shoulder.

  He jerked away from her touch, the movement sending fresh pain through the wound. "It's fine. Just needs rest."

  "You're burning up." Her voice carried that imperial tone he was beginning to recognize—the one that didn't brook argument. "And that bandage needs changing. When did you last check it?"

  Xion didn't answer, which was answer enough.

  "We need proper supplies." Elara scanned the street, assessing their options. "Is there somewhere we can get medical—"

  "Actually," Xion interrupted, an idea forming through the fever haze. "I know a place. A friend runs a clinic not far from here. He's... discrete about his patients."

  It wasn't entirely a lie. Master Fen *had* been his friend, once. The clinic was his. And he was being discrete about his patients—by pretending to be one of them.

  Elara studied his face, clearly skeptical. "You're sure your friend won't ask questions?"

  "He won't mind." Xion pushed off from the wall, forcing his legs to steady. "Come on. It's not far."

  The walk to Mistress Janice's weaver shop felt longer than he remembered. Each step jarred his shoulder, and by the time they reached the familiar back entrance, Xion's vision was swimming. He fumbled with the latch, muscle memory guiding hands that trembled slightly.

  "Through here," he managed, leading Elara through the beaded curtain into the back room.

  The clinic looked exactly as he'd left it—shelves of carefully labeled tinctures, clean bandages stacked in neat rows, the smell of dried herbs and antiseptic. Home, in a way his rented room had never been.

  Elara's eyes widened slightly as she took in the organized space. "Your friend is well-supplied."

  "He's thorough." Xion moved to the cabinet where he kept the stronger medicines, his hands finding the right bottles without needing to look. "Here. We'll need this for the infection, and this for the pain."

  He set them on the workbench, then reached for clean bandages and the bottle of clear alcohol he used for cleaning wounds. The familiar routine steadied him, pushing back the fever fog through sheer force of habit.

  "You seem very familiar with his system," Elara observed.

  "I've helped him before. He showed me where everything is." The lie came easier than it should have. "Sit. I'll walk you through treating it properly."

  "Shouldn't you be the one sitting?"

  "I can't see my own shoulder." He gestured to the stool. "Besides, if you're going to travel with someone who gets stabbed, you should probably learn basic wound care."

  Something that might have been amusement flickered across her face. "Is getting stabbed a regular occurrence for you?"

  "Hopefully not." He managed a weak smile. "But Kaha'an is dangerous for people trying to change it."

  Elara settled onto the stool, and Xion found himself acutely aware of how small the clinic suddenly felt. With just the two of them in the space, there was nowhere to retreat to, no way to maintain the careful distance they'd kept while walking the city's streets.

  "First," he said, falling back on the clinical tone Mira had taught him, "we need to remove the old bandage. It's going to hurt when it pulls on the wound, so don't hesitate. Quick and clean is better than slow and gentle."

  He turned slightly, giving her access to his shoulder. Her fingers found the edge of the bandage, surprisingly steady for someone who'd probably never done this before.

  "Ready?" she asked.

  "Just do it."

  She pulled, and Xion bit back a curse as fabric tore away from inflamed flesh. The pain was sharp and immediate, but over quickly.

  "Sorry," Elara murmured.

  "You did fine." He took a breath, willing the room to stop spinning. "Now look at the wound itself. Tell me what you see."

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  There was a pause. "It's red. Swollen. There's... is that pus?"

  "Probably." Xion reached for the alcohol bottle, his hand shaking slightly as he passed it to her. "Which means infection has set in. We need to clean it thoroughly before applying fresh bandages."

  "This is going to hurt, isn't it?"

  "Yes." He appreciated that she didn't try to sugarcoat it. "Pour it directly into the wound. Don't stop halfway—you need to flush out the infection."

  The first splash of alcohol felt like liquid fire. Xion's vision whited out for a moment, his hand gripping the edge of the workbench hard enough to make his knuckles crack. But Elara didn't stop, didn't hesitate, just kept pouring until the bottle was half-empty and the wound was clean.

  "Good," he managed through gritted teeth. "That's good. Now the infection powder—the green jar, there."

  His shirt was soaked with sweat now, clinging to his skin. The fever made everything feel distant and immediate at the same time, sounds too loud and colors too bright.

  "Xion." Elara's voice cut through the haze. "You need to take that off. I can't treat the wound properly with fabric in the way."

  He knew she was right. The shirt was ruined anyway, blood-stained and sweat-soaked. But the thought of removing it, of being that exposed in front of her, made something tighten in his chest.

  Professional, he reminded himself. This is medical treatment. She's not—this isn't—

  "Right," he said aloud. "Of course."

  He fumbled with the buttons, but his fingers wouldn't cooperate. Fever and pain had stolen his coordination, turning a simple task into an exercise in frustration.

  "Let me." Elara's hands covered his, gently moving them aside.

  She undid the buttons with quick efficiency, her touch impersonal and careful. But when she eased the fabric off his shoulders, when her fingers brushed against bare skin, Xion felt something electric run through him that had nothing to do with fever.

  He kept his eyes fixed on the far wall, trying to ignore how close she was, how he could feel her breath against his shoulder as she examined the wound. This was medical necessity. Nothing more.

  "Talk me through it," Elara said quietly. "What do I do next?"

  "The green powder." His voice came out rougher than intended. "Apply it directly to the wound. It'll sting, but it draws out infection."

  Her fingers were steady as she worked, surprisingly gentle for someone trained in combat. She listened carefully to his instructions, asking clarifying questions when needed, never rushing despite his obvious discomfort.

  "You're good at this," he said without thinking.

  "I had good teachers." There was something warm in her voice. "The Arol Batae believe an empress should understand battlefield medicine. Never know when you'll need to treat injuries in the field."

  "Smart."

  "Mmm." She smoothed the powder carefully across the wound. "Though I suspect your friend's techniques are more refined than theirs. This clinic is... impressive. For a back room operation."

  Xion's pulse quickened. Had he given something away? "He's very particular about organization."

  "Clearly." She reached for the clean bandages. "How long have you known him?"

  "Long enough to trust him with my life." That, at least, was true. "He's helped me before when I couldn't go to regular physicians."

  "Because of your identity?"

  "Because of what my father would do if he knew I was visiting healers who treat the poor." Xion shifted slightly, trying to ease the ache. "Master Fen doesn't ask questions about who needs help or whether they can pay. That makes him valuable to people like me."

  "People trying to change things."

  "People trying to survive long enough to change things."

  Elara's hands worked steadily, wrapping the bandage with surprising skill. "The Arol Batae taught me battlefield medicine. But this—" she gestured to the organized clinic, "—this is different. More refined."

  "Master Fen takes his work seriously." Xion kept his voice neutral, fighting the urge to elaborate. "He believes everyone deserves proper care, regardless of their station."

  "He sounds like someone worth knowing."

  "He is."

  She finished tying off the bandage, her movements thoughtful. "You're lucky to have a friend like that. Someone who shares your values."

  "I am." The words felt both true and false.

  Elara moved around to face him, still close enough that he could see the exact moment her eyes shifted from blue to something warmer. "There," she said quietly. "That should hold until the infection clears."

  For a moment, they simply looked at each other. Xion became acutely aware of how near she stood, how the afternoon light from the window caught in her dark hair, how her expression held something he couldn't quite name.

  This close, he could see the faint scar on her chin—probably from training. Could count the exact shades her eyes cycled through when she wasn't guarding them. Could feel the warmth radiating from her in the small space between them.

  She reached up, and he thought for a dizzying moment that she might touch his face. Instead, her fingers found the edge of the bandage, checking its security with professional detachment.

  "There," she said quietly. "That should hold until the infection clears."

  "Thank you." His throat felt dry. "For not letting me pretend it was fine."

  "Someone has to keep you from bleeding out through sheer stubbornness." The corner of her mouth quirked. "Besides, I need you alive. You're my only guide to this city."

  "Just for that?"

  The question came out before he could think better of it. Elara's eyes met his, and something passed between them—recognition, perhaps. Or possibility.

  "No," she said simply. "Not just for that."

  The moment stretched, fragile as spun glass. Xion knew he should step back, should put distance between them, should remember that she was the imperial heir and he was the son of her enemy. Should remember that Farleen had loved him and it had ended with a dagger in his shoulder.

  But he didn't move. Neither did she.

  "You should rest," Elara finally said, breaking the spell. "The fever needs time to break."

  "We should keep moving. Staying in one place too long—"

  "Is less dangerous than you collapsing in the street." Her voice carried that imperial tone again, the one that expected obedience. "We'll stay here tonight. Master Fen won't mind if we use his clinic when he's not here."

  "He won't," Xion agreed, the irony not lost on him.

  She was right, of course. His body was already betraying him, exhaustion and fever pulling him toward the cot in the corner—the one he'd slept on more nights than he could count, though Elara didn't need to know that.

  "Just tonight," he conceded.

  "Just tonight," she agreed.

  But as Xion eased himself onto the cot, feeling Elara's eyes still on him, he wondered if either of them believed it.

  The clinic's familiar sounds settled around them—the creak of old wood, the rustle of dried herbs, the distant sounds of the city beyond. Tomorrow they would have to leave, to keep moving, to plan their next steps.

  Tonight, for the first time since Farleen's blade had found his shoulder, Xion let himself feel safe.

  And maybe, just maybe, he wasn't entirely alone in that feeling.