“I,” she straightens up from where she was previously bent over with her hands on her knees, “I never said I wouldn’t!” Fionera retorted to his earlier commenting of their location. Then in a fit of anger stomps her way over to where he'd made himself at home sitting leisurely at the only table in the room.

“You!” She suddenly shouted and rudely pointed her finger in his face. “Why did you drag me with you?!” 

Now that he was finally able to rest, Astil lazily pushes her finger away and looks at her down the bridge of the same nose she had very nearly jabbed. “They were right on our heels; I had to.” He excuses with all the smugness that came with being right—and they both knew it.

Except that..

“..that’s not the point!” Fionera hissed, aims her finger downwards, and pokes him in the uninjured portion of his chest instead. However, even she could see that her anger wasn’t entirely justified. 

Stubbornly, she persisted, “You should’ve asked me first!!”

“At the cost of your capture?” He shoots back, leisurely blinking and leaning a cheek on his knuckle.

Fionera momentarily stumbles but quickly reaffirms, “Yes—!”

“And possibly even your life?”

She stays silent at that and Astil has to purse his lips to stop a smirk from growing when a red hue begins to overtake her cheeks. “My apologies then.”

In the end she backs off and turns her head away. Astil could tell that she was upset at the fact that this whole ordeal wasn’t over and done with—which he could relate to, on a scale, so he didn’t take her ribbing to heart. 

A moment or two of silence passes.

“We need to get you some different clothes.” Fionera says, just shy of mumbling. It wasn’t exactly an olive branch—their disagreement couldn’t have even been called an argument. Still. She was (barely!) in the wrong and so it was up to her to make up for it.

Astil lightly hums in what could be taken as a sign of agreement. He doubted she had anything in his size here; it looked like she could barely fit her own stock of clothes in what little storage items she had furnished. A chest at the end of the bed, the thin draw of the vanity. But for all he knows, they could be enchanted, so he didn’t say anything and just let her do whatever she thought best.

Peeking a glance at him over her shoulders, Fionera didn’t hesitate to roll her eyes at his nonchalant attitude. 

What, now that they were in a relatively safe space he felt it prudent to act more princely around her? He could fuck right off if he thought she could just be treated as another one of his “subjects”. She’d seen how many of them had flocked around him in the Academy and disliked their faces of kissing ass. 

To be fair though, it’s not like Astil asked to be treated like that.

“Clothes.” She repeated. “I don’t have any in your size.” If he couldn’t even converse with her like she were a normal person, then she would just leave his wounded ass right here while she went off and called for the royal guards herself!

“I see.” He already assumed that to be the case. “Then I will make do with this.” He flicks his eyes down towards his body to indicate what he meant by that statement. 

Anyway, the blood on his clothes had already dried enough that if he bunched it up and shook it out the window, it would basically flake off — this seemed to be Astil’s entire thought process which was entirely unknown to his companion.

Was he serious?! Fionera had to bite down on her lip to stop herself from calling him an idiot! 

Regardless of whether the blood was wet, tacky, or completely dry: there was a fuckton of it!! Anyone with a bit of sense could see that it didn’t just belong to him— they’d be lucky if no one reported them to the authorities!

And what the hell was he planning to do about the large tear in the fabric? Looking at his expression that seemed so unbothered, she guessed he didn’t think too deeply about it..!?

As expected. She should just leave him here. Not only was he entirely unprepared for what came with “laying low”, but now that things have calmed down somewhat — Fionera is starting to notice the oddities in his appearance and demeanour that she had previously overlooked.

There were no such potions that could drastically alter your natural colourings like his had been. In fact, his situation looked more like albinism than anything magical. Except his eyes were purple so that couldn’t have been it. Partial albinism then? But again, it was an innate condition that would’ve shown itself from birth — having it suddenly occur like this was impossible. 

Whatever healthy hue he had to his skin during his academy days was nowhere to be seen. She’d noticed that his face had been quite pale for some time now and—

No, she interrupts her own thoughts, how the hell is he even still alive? Fionera was getting too hung up on the particular shade of his skin to notice the bigger picture which was: He. Had. No. Magic!

Whether he even had any to start with was up for debate—but if he didn’t then what could’ve been the cause for that abnormal healing stint? 

Forget it. This was way above her nonexistent pay grade! Fionera manages to hold back a frustrated groan by the skin of her teeth, instead running a tired hand down the length of her face as if that would pull away all her fatigue. 

She would have to heal him, right? They wouldn’t be able to continue running away with his wounds, no matter how impossibly he seemed unaffected by them. 

Damn it!

Throwing herself rather unladylike into the chair across from Astil, Fionera extended her arm and lay her hand down on the table, palm up. 

“Hand,” she demanded of him and flexed her fingers in a ‘gimme’ motion. Before Fionera could even begin properly treating him, she needed to find out if the method she was going to do that by, was feasible in the first place. This meant assessing the actual depth of damage done to him.

And to do that meant once again coming into contact with this prince’s blackhole that was his internal Mana Pathways. 

This whole time Astil had sat there in silence. It was rather amusing to see her change in expressions; whatever she was thinking must’ve been rather colourful.

Raising a thick and fair eyebrow at her request, Astil rather elegantly lays his hand upon her palm. She tuts before shuffling her fingers so they once again wrapped around his wrist.

“Stay still,” Fionera says with a level tone. She’d already done a cursory scan of his insides, the summary of which showed that he startlingly had no mana remaining in the entirety of his body. The man had the whole setup for it; the carefully constructed pathways reinforced with potions only available to the royal family. 

That is to say, he had the signs of there being a river, there was just no water to be seen. By all reasons of logic, he should be dead — or in a coma at least.

Ahh. She’s just repeating herself!

Suddenly, the tendril of her own Mana she had extended from herself comes into contact with something before it promptly gets swallowed.

Huh? Paying more attention, Fionera retraced her steps and poked that particular dark spot with another strand of her mana.

“Fuc—!” A series of colourful expletives fell from her lips before she decisively cut off the strand from her core. Astil was startled enough by her outburst that his wrist faintly shook. Fionera didn’t know what kind of expression was on his face but she briefly tightened her grip as if to reassure him. 

She hears him let out a puff of breath that she wasn’t sure was supposed to be a laugh or simple exhale in response. Either way—his faint shaking had stilled and that was enough for her. 

The situation was rather dire. She couldn’t afford to split her attention.

Spine snapping taut, Fionera frowned. If this was what she thought it was then, well. Astil was pretty much fucked.

To be sure she sent out another strand.

—no good. It also seemed to get “eaten”. 

Shit. 

With a light sheen of sweat above her brow bone, Fionera let his wrist go. There unfortunately wasn’t anything she could do—in fact, she’s sure that not even the doctors in the entire country could, either.

Double shit.

“You,” she started, pursed her lips, and paused. “How did—” No. “Where did you get this?” The inquiry came out in a quiet breath, barely above hearing level. Disbelief coated her tone, unbelieving of the disease that was only a myth in her village.

Miasma. A disease with a tar-like consistency that stuck itself onto compromised Mana Pathways. It typically formed on fresh battlefields, the mixing of different bloods and close contact with magic layering the place being a prime breeding ground. 

Just like an infection, it got into your system through an open wound. But in this case Fionera hadn’t seen any residue on Astil’s cuts. 

The Miasma that had absorbed her mana had left no trail, simply a pool of tar and darkness meandering around the hollow of his core with no blatant signs as to how it got there. 

The only way such a thing was possible was if.. it had been ingested.

Why, she thinks to herself on the verge of hysterics, is everything getting more complicated?!

The implication that this so-called treasured prince had been drinking some concoction for this Miasma to form was simply.. too much. And then there was the possibility of him knowing what it was and drinking it anyway— or even doing it by his own design!

Dread fills her stomach. In the end, Astil doesn’t grace her with an answer. From his silence Fionera is, for some reason, suddenly reminded of the various smells that stuck to him. On how the blood on his shirt didn’t fully belong to him, and that his mouth in particular held a faint tang of iron every time he spoke. 

He— “You’re not human.” Fionera blurts out with the subtlety of a forest fire. The sheer amount of Miasma present meant he was in the final stages of the disease where it should’ve already reached his brain and possessed him to go on a rampage to propagate itself.

But no. It stayed contained to one area as if there was something else keeping it in check. That was something no human was capable of. 

Astil simply stared back at her, frosty expression giving nothing away. Fionera refuses to be intimidated!

Stray barking seemed to break whatever atmosphere had borne between them. Fionera’s head snapped towards the window. Instantly she noticed that the curtains weren’t drawn. That was a mistake on her part. 

With a heavy heart she pushed her chair out, stood up, and leant over the table to pull the curtains closed. Before they shut completely however, she met the gaze of the same dog who’d barked, and her eyes briefly flashed a different hue.

Fionera watched as the dog shuffled back into the side alley it must’ve come from with a pathetic whimper; tail tucked between its legs. With a satisfied nod, Fionera straightened back up.

“What was that?” Suspicion greeted her.

“What was what?” She echoed and bonelessly collapsed back into the chair. Her eyes had returned to a familiar green as they clashed with Astil’s intrigued purple.

He hummed, the earlier iciness melting away into a more relaxed expression of amusement.

The rogue prince knew she was being ignorant on purpose.

“It’s.. really nothing,” she tells him. And although he was still curious about what she was hiding, Astil let it go. After all, he too held secrets no one could know about.

Eventually he goes to lean back in the chair as if to relax his posture. Fionera instantly notices the way he tries to hide a flinch. His shifting must've tugged at his—still very much untreated—wounds.

She tut. 

Sure, the miasma was an underlying problem Fionera couldn’t do shit about. But the surface wounds? You know, the cuts and slices? Those were doable.

“Hey,” she said, hinting towards the blood on his chest with her eyes.

That was it.

“Do you.. work here?” Astil blinks and says this instead of asking for help like a normal person would. 

“What.” Was he serious right now? Fionera’s mind blanks at the unexpected question. “Work where? Here?” Her hand waved around the air to roughly indicate the establishment they were in.

He shallowly nods.

“Why? D’you want some paid service?” She’d meant it as a joke more than anything serious. Anyway, if he wanted to avoid talking about his injuries? Well, she cared about him enough to oblige. 

As in: not at all.

“.. And if I did? Want your service, that is.” 

Fionera tensed. Was he serious? No, even if he was, she wasn’t—

But then he chucks a pouch of coins onto the humble table and her heart further speeds up in her chest.

“Fetch me a pail of clean water, fair lady Fionera.” He says with a tone that leaves no room for argument. It.. kinda makes her want to punch him. 

Who the hell was he to order her about like this!? “I’m not your servant,” she says but still snatches the pouch of coins in a bout of shamelessness that has him fighting off a smirk, “And I’m only getting you water because you stink!” Fed up with his arrogance, Fionera stands from her chair and goes to leave the room before he can order her to do anything else. 

..and if she comes back with a potion or two and some healing herbs? Well, she simply wouldn’t give them to him!

Ha!