Sweat dripped so profusely from his face that he could taste it when the tip of his tongue brushed past his lips. Heron squinted, attention sharp on the targets to tackle, lined a dozen gallops ahead.

Heron gripped the hilt of his sword, palm aching against metal.

On his weakest hand, the reins were already loose. He kicked his legs and his stallion hurled into an ever-speeding gallop toward the targets to slay: human-like shapes conjured with wraps of old fabric and stuffed with hay. Robust sticks erected and rooted the figures to the ground. Each stood one arm away from the other in alternating diagonal lines.

The distance between the targets was so small, Heron would have mere seconds to transition between hits.

It's a training of agility and precision, Lomeon had said. A training, not a test, he'd made a point to repeat it.

Reins held one-handed, he decreased the galops' speed, sunlight scudding along his sword. The horse ran past the first target, the blade ripping through cloth and hay without resistance. It was exhilarating.

In front of him, dust and crisps rained, blocking his vision long enough for him to miss two targets. The third in line went down. But he missed the following three.

Frustrated when he tackled the next, he swung his blade hard, eyes shut. He relied solely on his memory. That was it. He memorized what came ahead, timed his attacks, and executed them. Again, and again, teeth gritted, imagining rebels decapitated where his blade ripped. He let his rage turn his surroundings pitch-black and invisible. He let it make revenge his only desire.

Eventually, his stallion tensed under his saddle, abruptly straying off course. His attempt to steady himself was unfruitful, a desperate fumbling ensued. But he was going down.

The sword was the first to go. Hanging askew, his strongest hand kept him mounted. But then Heron wished it hadn't. "Ancients, no." The horse rushed him straight against a target still standing.

Heron did let go. It was too late, however.

"Heron—" He could recognize his father calling. But the rest of his words never reached his ears.

As if purposefully willing to end Heron's life, the stallion passed the pole just close enough for his chest to take a mind-splitting impact. The type where the pain comes after a fleeting moment of unconsciousness. Dizziness ensues. Then nausea, just before the air starts bursting with stars, all the while one's ears stir with a distant ringing.

He was so consumed in his daze that he had not noticed the gathering around him, casting a spot of shade on his face.

Lomeon crouched beside him, his face creased with worry. "Lady Zuna, please."

"She's here, Lord," chimed Master Salmior. "If Lord will allow the Lady to intervene."

If the headhealer had been summoned to the training fields of the guards, it meant Heron had been out for a while.

Heron sat before Lady Zuna could brush a finger on him. Fumbling to escape her, he finished into his father's arms.

Heron felt a strange pressure on his chest at the slightest movement. But if Lady Zuna had allowed a rebel among her nurses, she could not be trusted.

As if realizing the awkwardness of the way he held Heron, Lomeon helped him to stand. He tentatively let go of him, thinking better of it when Heron began to drift to the side. "You'd prefer to sit down, perhaps?"

"No."

Luckily, Lady Zuna seemed to understand Heron's aversion to her and stopped in her tracks.

"I am well." Heron finally let go of his father.

It was Master Salmior who interrupted the silence that ensued. "Ten out of the sixteen targets successfully tackled." Hands tucked behind his back, he scuttled forward, scanning the destruction Heron had wreaked on the field. "Marvelous."

Strangely, Lomeon sighed. "Well done, Ron. Lady, please, attend to him." In reality, Lomeon was asking Heron to let the headhealer take care of him. Because he never turned to Lady Zuna while speaking. "I must be leaving."

Lady Zuna watched Heron as if considering an open wound to sew shut.

"It's incredible what your father is doing. I'd be too optimistic to believe you could be among those to enlist with honor end of this Drought." Master Salmior said. "Still, you have much better control. Of course, there's quite a lot to correct. But I must say I am happy to see you finally making an effort toward a noble goal."

Heron lacked the energy to argue.

"Lady, please, do your work." At his turn, Master Salmior left the courtyard.

Heron exhaled.

"I understand you haven't had the best experiences with my nurses. But why such a flimsy façade to pretend you are well?" Lady Zuna asked, sliding her hands along Heron's shoulders, then moving around him. "I can smell your pain, you know?" She now stood behind him.

"Can you?"

She scoffed. Spirits! Davir had possibly ruined Heron's sense of reality forever.

"I would not need to, mind you." Fist pressed against Heron's lower back, she suddenly pushed him forward, stilling his shoulders with a grip. Wide-eyed from shock, he felt his articulations crackle. The pressure at his upper chest eased. "Better," said the Lady, loosening her grip on him and patting his shoulders. "You have determination, I'll give you that. Obviously sick, and it seems you are training for war rather than your enlistment.

"You might think your sickness will go away. It won't, alas. The pale lines around your mouth don't lie. It has nothing to do with your fall. I can recognize a gimpy leg from a thousand gallops away. Even if a good liar owns it. What is it? She attempted to reach for Heron's leg but stepped away from her grasp. "Is it venereal?"

"What?" Heron glanced over his shoulders, horrified by her casual tone. "You should never ask that question like that!"

"Is it then?" Strangely she seemed even more interested.

"Of course not!" Heron snapped. "It's a cursed stab wound. You're not touching it. Ever."

"Well." She shrugged. "I don't usually go behind my sick, too. But I bet you'll come to me when the fever gets to you. That will be soon," she said. "I have to attend to my sick now, Lord. The ones who allow themselves to be healed because they have no other choice."

She was wrong. Occasionally, Heron already got chills and a fever at night. Still, the sickhouses were out of the question for now. After not hearing from him for ten days, Heron needed to find Davir in the city today. Staying away from any reminder of Amyra suited him well, too. Knowing that the lady had been sedating Davir in the sick houses was not reassuring either.

"Lady," Heron called. When the lady turned to him, a whiff of wind sent straight strands of hair to her face, for a moment hiding her strong features.

"That was a quick change of heart."

"The nurse. She— Amyra. She had mentioned you had been looking for information about Davir."

She cast Heron her skeptic green gaze, tucking her hair behind her shoulders to fully expose her square, brown face. "And you want me to tell you, Lord, I suppose. Well, I scoured all the Onus of Wisdom on the sections of Healing. I found nothing about men with a beating heart but without a pulse." She closed the gap between them. "I did find something somewhere else."

The expectation caused Heron to tense up to the tip of his hair. And Lady Zuna seemed aware of what she was doing.

"In the Nightales," the Lady said. "Gulgramen. You must remember it from scary stories your parents told you to keep you up during deepnight meals of mid-sprout fests. It seems wisdom cannot explain everything, does it not? Well, the man is not in my sickhouses anymore. So he no longer interests me. Now, if you allow me, my Lord."

Out of the courtyard, in his bedchambers, Elana sat in an armchair next to the window with a book held one-handed. Like the morning before, and the one before that. The light breeze moving the curtains covering the oval gap also lifted the edges of her white dress. She looked absent-minded, and Heron wondered if she was purposefully ignoring him. But then she bookmarked her book, turned to him, and beamed.

"How was training?"

Heron limped further inside the chamber.

"Oh."

"Master Salmior was happy enough."

She thudded her book shut, threw it on the bed, and walked up to Heron. "You look spent. That should be enough to deter you from going to the city."

"I have to go. I have lost enough time."

"Well, then while you're at it, make sure to mark interesting spots around the city. That we will hopefully visit soon. If I ask soldier Mainor to show me around the domain again, he will probably create an uprising of his own for a decree to deport me to my country."

"It's not the best moment for tourism," Heron said. "With the rebellions. It's dangerous."

"Not dangerous enough for you, it seems," she retorted. "Anyway, I see your mood is sour."

"Elana, I am sorry, I—" Her fingers were on his lips before Heron could utter anything.

"No need. You should keep your apologies for moments when you understand what you apologize for. Poor Mainor will suffer again."

She wanted to kiss Heron's cheek, but Heron turned to her lips. She flushed and shook her head, chuckling. She had already reached the door when Heron said, "And Ancients be with Mainor." He had to force a laugh while talking about his brother. "For the..."

"Twelfth time," she sighed. "twelfth time he guides me around the domain. Don't be surprised if you ever find us in bed."

Heron shrugged. He knew that would happen sooner or later. He suspected his father knew, too. Strange that he still felt jealous, knowing well he could never love Elana that way.

"Make sure to inform your Lord Lomeon of your leave."

"We have an agreement. I have the liberty to leave the domain now."

"Listen to your wife who knows much better than you when it comes to people."

Heron nodded with reluctance. "Ancients be with you, dear. I should join you and the ruling council at dinner in the main room before deepnight."

"I consider that a promise now. Be safe."

Heron dressed in his oldest clothes. The better he could blend with the city folks, the safest he would be. He filled his sack with provisions: Ceric coins, maps, liquor, and extracts of the book of wars.

Following Elana's advice, Heron passed by the courtroom to see his father. As soon as he announced his leave, Lomeon stood. He left the pile of scripts he had been busy with, his thigh bumping the polished wooden edge of his desk. He was joyous. "Yes, of course, Ron. We have agreed on that." After an uncomfortable silence, he said, "You have your weapons with you?"

Heron's hand slid to the dagger sheathed at his waistband, then to the sword by its side.

"Good," Lomeon said. Another silence. "I appreciate you informing me, Ron."

Heron nodded. He now understood Elana's advice. She had predicted this. He said his farewell.