Caeden walked through the Trade Manor, cursing his life. Not once since his rescue had he been left alone. They had treated him on the flight back to Landon, poking and prodding, ripping and cutting. His body pained, his head ached, and his left arm still felt like it was ablaze. Yet, those feelings were preferable to being bombarded with noise, both within his mind and without.

His mind was unravelling, he knew it. He could feel it come on faster than he could control. His burnt arm shook as he fielded questions about his experience before the explosion and after the collapse. He could hear the strain in his voice. The tired frustration. The growing irritation. His muscles bunched. So close he was to snapping.

Ser Morley had become a useless mute both now and on the entire journey back, his right hand was incapable of picking up the slack to allow him the peace to collect and conduct himself with propriety.

The Knight-Commander had been the first to break in the hours after the cave-in, curling into a ball in a corner and blubbering ‘It is the hybrid. She is an ill omen’ repeatedly. It had grated on them all, each muttering felt like a lesion ripping through their minds, but he had remained largely harmless.

It was King Raeburn who had turned violent. So suddenly had he lunged at Elize that it had taken them some time to realise what had occurred at first. He still could not understand why she had been his target. Caeden should have suspected something was amiss with him. The man had acted peculiar the moment they stepped into that accursed keep. Dealing with the paranoia that followed the wake of his destruction had been challenging. As each hour passed he had also begun to doubt what was real in that stifling darkness.

Relief flooded him when he finally burst into his room and sat on the bed. A relief that dissipated soon after, as the crowd followed him in, and he was immediately poked and prodded by healers. He rested his arm on his lap in the least painful position and noticed its shaking became uncontrollable.

“Leave me a moment,” he ordered the room.

“Your Grace, your arm needs treatment,” one of the Adepts told him as he placed a watery tray beside him.

“Leave!” Caeden yelled in his face.

The entourage stood stunned but filed out silently at Oswin's prodding. Their worried exchanges told him this incident would smear his image in their eyes, but he was too desperate to care how irrational he was becoming.

“You too,” Caeden told Oswin as the mage picked up one of the moist grafts floating within the watery tray.

Oswin plopped the graft back into the tray and bowed, leaving him.

Caeden pressed his palm to his throbbing forehead. This was hundreds of times worse. The scratching at the back of his mind intensified in the silence. The accursed wraith became a persistent and malevolent presence in the corner of his eyes, disappearing the moment he looked directly at it. He squeezed his eyes shut to block it out, but then the mocking laughter came, and his heart raced. He groaned as he tried and failed to get the noise to stop, and his legs shook.

His eyes shot open as a series of heavy grunts and moans echoed outside his balcony. He reached for Ava’s sword and stopped himself from charging out there, trying to determine if the noises were real. The door opened and Ava peaked in, scanning the room in confusion before entering and standing before the door.

“Miss Ava, why in Holden’s name are you sneaking about on the balconies?” he questioned, sheathing the diamond crust sword, and placing it a distance away. Until he regained his wits, it was the safest option.

“Well, I was not going to deal with the jumpy guards outside your door. And sneaking is not the word for it, I was trying to make noise because you seem a little – on edge. Perhaps that was not the best decision on my part,” she responded, her eyes dropping to his shaking hands.

“I should rephrase my question. Why are you here?” This was not the way he wanted anyone to see him. She needs to leave.

Caeden flinched at his pounding headache and pushed the palm of his hand between his brows to try and alleviate the pain. When he opened his eyes, the wraith was hovering behind Ava, a raised sickle for a hand poised to strike at her back. He lunged and pulled her behind him, lifting his uninjured arm to fend it off.

Azael was gone. Ava walked back around to study his face and the wraith followed, mocking him. She was surprisingly calm, despite the danger. The wraith was toying with him, making him seem crazy.

“You should leave. It is unsafe here,” Caeden told her, watching the shade intently and trying to determine its next move.

“Prince Caeden, look at me.” She touched his face, turning his head and dragging his gaze away. “Look only at me.”

He stared into her golden eyes, so bright it almost hurt, like staring into the sunset overlong. It was enough, the feel of her fingers on his chin and the scent of her freshly washed hair. She was real. He had to convince himself that the shade was not, but how could he when it refused to go away?

“Oswin came to my room and asked me to assist you. ‘Since I am the only one who can actively disobey a direct order without consequence,’ he said. Your burn needs immediate attention and cannot be left untreated any longer. Luckily, I do have experience with grafts. Now sit.” she said, indicating to the bed.

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He was too drained to chide her for ordering him around again and gently flopped onto the edge. She picked up the abandoned mug left on his vanity and brought it to his lips.

“Drink,” she commanded.

Caeden raised a brow in question. Azael still hovered menacingly. But if he kept his focus on her, the wraith felt less threatening. “What is it?”

“Tea. Judging by the smell, it has ginger and clove in it. Possibly willow bark extract as well.”

Caeden sipped the warm liquid and gagged at the taste. He gave the so-called tea back to her, but she pushed it back to his mouth.

“Drink all of it. It will help with the headache,” she said, sitting beside him and pulling the tray closer.

It was difficult to blot out the wraith from his view now and he dropped his gaze to the mug. Closing his eyes he downed the contents. She took it from him and placed it on the floor.

“Oh, before I forget,” she said, rummaging through her satchel. “Managed to retrieve this from the remnants of your armour when they cut it off.”

Ava handed him his golden pouch. Not so golden anymore. It looked like she had tried to clean it, but the embroidery stitching had been singed and soot had darkened the material. She upended it and the cool stones fell into his palm.

“You said they gave you strength before, perhaps they can do so once more?”

“Yes,” he responded with relief. His mind had become so clouded with darkness that he had forgotten about them. The noise they made as he shook them lightened his mind already.

Ava carefully placed his burnt arm across her lap and then set about preparing the grafts.

They made a sucking and squishing sound as she picked up the first translucent white piece. The pseudo-skin quivered disturbingly as she held it up and he recoiled.

“Are you sure you know what you are doing?”

“Yes,” she answered with innocent surprise. “I assisted Minervin. The Outpost could treat most of their basic injuries, stabbings and such, but they came to him to treat their burns. That and the occasional plague that spread beyond control.”

“I would not think such a small community would have many plagues being so isolated from the rest of the world. Did new exiles bring it with them?”

“Surprisingly not, most plagues were started by the denizens doing things they should not have, mostly to ingratiate themselves to Crastius. A particularly severe plague broke out when he convinced them to set up a mine close to the base of Wraith Mountains and they unearthed some long-buried disease.

“It took out a third of the population before I caught it. Came home from getting provisions feeling odd and by the next day I was bedridden with a fever Minervin could not break.”

“That is odd, Oswin was certain you had an innate resistance to disease,” Caeden said.

“Where did he get that idea?” she said, incredulously. “No, I get sick like any other person. Now keep still, unless you want this to grow out rough and uneven.”

She gently placed the graft on his shoulder, pressing and wrapping it over the damaged skin. It immediately replaced the persistent burning with a cold, stinging sensation.

“I have always thought of these things as the epitome of human innovation, magical ingenuity and natural remedy,” she marvelled as she continued the process with the rest of his arm.

“How did he break it?” Caeden asked, placing the stones on the bed to prepare for his prayer.

“What?”

“Your unbreakable fever? How did the wizard break it?”

“Oh, Frost Serpent venom,” she chuckled when his eyes widened in disbelief. “He was desperate and believed I would not survive much longer. He adamantly believed afterwards that every disease had a weakness, and that nature would always provide the solution. We need only to look for it.

“After my fight with the revenant, I am starting to wonder if that is not the case for all things…” she said, trailing off.

Even wraiths from Spectermere. In theory, he knew that to be true. But in practice, that was easier said than done. Information was what they needed most of all. It would be foolhardy to engage Azael without it. He was not particularly fond of risking becoming the wraith’s meat satchel while they stumbled around the frozen wasteland searching for it.

“Ava, I need you to kill me.”

“What?” she blurted out, stunned.

“If I ever fall to Azael and he takes control. It will be the end of the Empire. It will be the end of me. Promise me, if that happens, you will kill me,” he pleaded desperately.

“I won’t do it,” she bristled, the skin shook in her arms. “Ask Ser Morley or Oswin.”

“They will falter and fail…”

“No, I said! I won’t do it. Not – again,” she sniffled and collected herself. “You’re not thinking straight. Just – just don’t fall to Azael.”

Caeden massaged his pounding head. Perhaps she was right. He had allowed his fears to overrule his judgment and placed an unnecessary burden on her shoulders. She was still so young and had far too much to bear with that temperamental Frost Spirit already.

“I apologise, forget I said anything,” he turned to his stones and offered a prayer.

She listened to him in silence and the tense atmosphere calmed.

“All done!” she exclaimed when she placed the last piece around his wrist.

“Well Adept, what is your prognosis?” he asked, staring at the pale white pseudo-skin latching onto his numb arm. As disturbingly grim as it looked, it was a far better sight than the burnt flesh from before.

“It is still too early to tell but there is some pink colouring already. This is a good sign. There will be some scarring no matter how well the grafts foster healthy skin growth. Let me know immediately if it itches too much or turns grey. And whatever you do, do not fidget with it, or scratch it!

“Fortunately, it was only your arm and not your face,” she smiled proudly.

“Fortunate indeed,” he chuckled. “I would have hated to rob you of the very thing you admire most about me.”

“Bahg!” she exclaimed before smirking. “Oswin said delusions were a common symptom of the Ancient Madness. That particular one you are harbouring is quite worrying, to say the least.”

He laughed but decided to let her off the hook.

“How are you feeling? Oswin tells me the fight with the Revenant was trying.”

“It is only whiplash and a few bruises. I will probably feel them more tomorrow, do not worry about me.”

“Most knights struggle to take the creature down. Their gravity voids are difficult to counter. I am impressed. And thank you for saving me.”

“Thank – It – I had help, I doubt I would have succeeded if not for Oswin and Earland,” she said embarrassed. It amused him that she was so uncomfortable with compliments.

“Tell me about these spirits you are seeing,” he said, shaking the sleep from his head. His eyes drooped.

“Looks like the sedative is kicking in. Perhaps a conversation left for later. Lay back and rest.”

He pushed himself further up the bed and lay down. He closed his eyes for a moment and opened them when she came to hover over him. Gone were the bright golden eyes. In their place were vibrant red ones. The Frost Spirit floated behind her, cold and angry, a frosty palm gripping her head as twisting horns grew from her forehead and frost crept down her pale face.

Her clawed hand reached out to him. He smacked it away and reached for his sword.