“What the hells just happened?” Duke George Louis asked into the sudden silence.

Greg was still staring at the door, falling closed behind Morgulon. How was he supposed to explain…He was still trying to wrap his head around what Morgulon had done. Why she had done it. And why now? Why hadn’t she offered Bishop Larssen her powers the moment she had stepped onto the Grande Gallerie?

Or at least as soon as his allegiance had been confirmed?

Could the healers have saved Desmarais with her help?

“How long was I out?” the duke added.

Greg blinked when a glowing ember flew past his face, flying up from a smoldering piece of what had probably been bandages before, prepared on a table in the corner. He got up, flicking the fabric onto the ground, to stomp at it before anything else started burning.

It was a miracle that Pierre’s spell hadn’t set the whole room on fire.

A miracle, or Morgulon’s magic.

“How long—”

“About half a day and a night,” Greg interrupted the duke, before he could ask again. He turned to the empty beds, to make sure there were no flames hiding in the linens there. George Louis watched him, then turned to stare up at the clock.

“And what happened here?” the duke asked. “What were—those two—doing in my room?”

“Bishop Larssen healed you,” Greg replied. “Morgulon helped him.”

The duke frowned at him. “The bishop healed me?” he repeated. “I thought he couldn’t do that. I’m fairly certain I was told that over and over in the past few days. That even all the healers together would barely be able to keep me alive, and only at the expense of everyone else’s lives.”

Greg nodded. “He couldn’t do it alone. Morgulon had to give him the magic for it. Pierre wasn’t happy about it, though. He thought it would be better to make everyone take the coin toss. So they, uh, fought it out, I guess.”

“And she won?” the duke asked, turning to look at the door.

“Yes, Morgulon won. And I didn’t know that she could do that,” Greg added. “Heal you, I mean. Or—at least—help heal you.”

The duke nodded slowly. “I believe that,” he said. “If only because you wouldn’t have waited this long while your mother suffered.”

Greg paused, rubbed his own arms. George Louis was right: He wouldn’t have waited. Who would, while their loved ones suffered? If Morgulon had made it known on the first day, what she could do. Would she have been drained now, just like the healers were barely able to help?

But what difference would that make, as long as they got healed? Did it really matter who exhausted their powers first, Morgulon or the healers?

But then, the healers weren’t at risk of being killed by the traitors as long as the werewolves stood guard over them.

“Picot’s secretary—the one who killed the man who provided the poisonous mushrooms—was apprehended yesterday,” Greg said. “He started talking last night. I reckon Morgulon must have finally felt save to show her full powers, now that there’s nobody left who can stop her from saving people.”

The duke nodded slowly, staring down at the yellowish skin of his hands, resting on the covers. “What day is it? Must be full moon soon?”

“Tonight is the first night of full moon, yes,” Greg said.

“Where is Bishop Larssen now?” the duke asked. “Was he present, during the fight? He didn’t get injured, did he?”

Greg shook his head. “He left before Pierre got here. He’s resting. He promised he’d help more people in a bit. As long as Morgulon can provide the magic needed.”

“Do you think she can heal everyone who was stricken?” George Louis frowned, and added: “How many people are even still alive?”

Greg grimaced. “Morgulon didn’t really elaborate much. And then Pierre barged in, to—to stop her.”

He took a deep breath, and added: “Are you—aware—that Duke Desmarais died?”

“Yes, I remember that part. I remember Lady deLande challenging Picot, too. And the outcome. When was that?”

“Two days ago.”

“Right. So this is the sixth morning since the attack? And what has the death toll been since then? How many could have been saved, if Morgulon had spoken up sooner?”

“I don’t know how the night went,” Greg said softly. “When I fell asleep, twelve people were dead. Many through their own hand. Others, like Duke Desmarais, in the first sickness. I don’t think the healers could do much about that. After all, they were all rested at that point.”

“That number is far lower than I feared,” George Louis admitted.

When the door opened, they both jumped, though not as hard at the Royal Healer, who nearly fell backwards through the door again upon seeing his charge sitting upright in bed. His face was white as teh bedsheets, and there were lines etched into his face that hadn’t been there a week ago. His previously round cheeks were sunken and sagging.

As Greg and George Louis stared back at him, he rubbed his bloodshot eyes, as if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

“What’s going on here?” he finally managed.

So Greg explained again what Bishop Larssen had done, what Morgulon had helped him do. The Royal Healer shook his head the whole time, and finally asked: “This werewolf—she is at the Grande Gallerie now? And she has more magic still?”

“I believe so,” Greg said.

“Go find her, Maitrise,” Duke George Louis said. “I am feeling quite fine right now. And there are others who still need help.”

The healer went. Greg decided to follow, to see how Imani was doing—her, and everyone else. However, before he made it out of the door, the duke slowly, carefully, swung his legs over the side of the bed, and leaning forwards. Testing their strength, by the look of it.

“Is this a good idea?” Greg asked, when the duke heaved himself up, basing one hand against the wall for balance. He still didn’t look good—his skin hadn’t yet lost that unhealthy yellowish pallor it had taken over the past days, most noticeable in his eyes. His abdomen and legs were swollen, and there were little red lines showing all over his face.

He fell back into his bed after a few seconds, cursing even as he struggled to get his breath back. After a few seconds, he gave up, basing his elbows on his knees.

“What’s the situation outside the Grande Gallerie?” he asked. “Any news from David?”

“Not… really,” Greg said slowly. “Not since the lieutenant arrived here two days ago. Do you…?”

He trailed off when the duke nodded impatiently.

“But you have heard rumours?” George Louis wanted to know. “There must have been something in the past two days? What are the newspapers saying about the situation?”

“Lane and I have handled the press,” Greg said. “They got some good pictures of Picot, some personal stories of the sick, and there’re calls for recruits everywhere. There’ve been very few articles on the battle yet. Well, and Pierre said—well, I don’t know if we can even trust his word on this. But he said that he tried to call Ragna and Rust, David’s captains, and that they ignored him. He concluded from that that David must continue to be alive, because they wouldn’t be staying in the south otherwise. But I reckon they might have gotten captured themselves just as easily.”

“I like Pierre’s logic better,” the duke said darkly. “Even if he’d have watched me die. If David is still alive… Mithras, I hope it’s true.”

“I hope he’s alive, too,” Greg said. But he couldn’t stop himself from pointing out: “Even if he is, he’s probably still sitting in the same cage as he was when the lieutenant first informed us of his survival. And even if he were to escape, he’s not going to be able to make much of a difference.”

“I’m aware,” George Luis said, glaring up at him. “I’m not expecting him to.” He was quiet for a moment, then glanced around the room, before adding: “I just miss him.”

“You’ve hardly seen him for the past, what, twelve years?”

“You think that makes it easier?” George Louis growled at him. “I had accepted the situation. I had managed to convince myself that he’d never speak to me again, that it was over, he was done with me, and then he walked straight into my company headquarters, looking for you. That was the first time he didn’t just walk backwards out of the room again upon seeing me. I didn’t have a clue what had happened to you, but I was glad for whatever it was. I’m still glad.”

“Thanks,” Greg muttered. His fists clenched into fists—the moonphase didn’t help. His teeth ground together, too, and he had to make a conscious effort to stop himself from snapping at the duke.

“If you’ll excuse me, I’ll be checking on my mother.”

The duke just waved at him to go.

For the first time since half moon, there was something akin to hope in the air of the Grande Gallerie when Greg entered. Bishop Larssen stood with Morgulon—by the looks of it, he had just finished explaining what she had done. As Greg made his way over to Imani, the rest of the healers pressed in on the elder. Concerned relatives and exhausted nurses and curious servants watched and murmured in awe as a halo of radiant light appeared around Morgulon’s head.

Showing off, Greg thought, or maybe demonstrating the point. She hadn’t needed the light earlier, had she?

The sussuration grew louder when Laurent trotted over, his fur lighting up in a similar way. Monroe and Malinda were next, and then Pierre followed, limping ever so slightly.

The apprentice who had focused on Imani left the cluster of healers and werewolves, staring at his hands and moving gingerly, as if he carried a glass filled to the rim with water. It took him forever to settle down next to her, and when he reached for her with his hands, he cried out softly. Light flared between his hands, throwing his face in stark relief.

A strong smell of rotten eggs surrounded the bed. The young healer curled in on himself, eyes huge and his face distorted as if he were in pain. After a few halting breaths, he reached out again, and this time, he managed to control the power Morgulon had lent him. Greg could tell from the way Imani inhaled, the rigid posture of her legs and hands relaxing that it was working, too. It was beautiful to see, but he had no time to watch: Some of the healers produced worse than a bit of bad smell, and the elders could barely move for all the mages who wanted their power.

Of course, it just had to be a bucket of excrements, of all things, to come to life, first.

By the time Greg had cleaned himself up enough to be around people, patients were sitting up in their beds, just like Duke George Louis had. Thoko hugged Greg with a grin almost as bright as Morgulon’s magic fire, and Imani smiled at him, too, wrapped tightly in Bram’s arms.

It was disaster averted—at least for a few days. All they could do was pray that the full moon would be enough to replenish their elders’ reserves enough for the healers to repeat the miracle afterwards.

And still. It felt like victory. As the sun sunk behind the city and the elders dragged themselves down towards the cells, even Pierre too tired to complain about the magnanimous treatment, as the healers fell asleep wherever they found a place to settle down, a sense of celebration spread throughout the palace. Greg couldn’t stop smiling as he carried the cubs with Thoko up towards Lane’s office, to watch them over full moon.

Finally, he could breathe properly again.