The flames were slowly yet surely devouring the palace. A violet glow mingled with searing red, and together they turned the corridor walls into a spectacle of fire that consumed both the living and the inanimate, leaving only devastation in its wake.

Quincey felt the tongues of flame lick at his skin and tear at his blood-soaked garments, but he barely heeded them. The only thing upon which he could fix his mind was forward motion. He could not stop—for if he did, he would never rise again.

The wound in his gut still bled, despite his effort to staunch it with a hand that was losing its strength, and his senses began slowly to abandon him. The edges of his sight darkened, giving him the strange feeling that he was walking through a tunnel, at whose end waited the gaping maw of a dragon full of fire.

A numbing chill crept into his limbs and slowed him, yet he fought to ignore it. All his remaining strength he poured into walking, into straining to hear where he must go, though most sounds of battle reached him as if he were beneath water. He could no longer judge the direction of any noise, and the already chaotic battlefield had become a maze with no exit but death.

Quincey knew not why Cassian had left him alive, though it grew ever clearer that the king had trusted the wound to finish what he had begun—letting him die in agony rather than granting him a final mercy blow.

The brown-haired knight could not fathom his final words, nor whence such cruelty had sprung within him. But he could not seek answers alone. Not in this state. Not while his people still needed him.

Within him warred anger at a friend’s betrayal and fear of death and though he was only twenty-five years old, his sense of duty burned as fiercely as those other passions. He might not have served the realm as long as some who now risked their lives, but he would not falter before them.

Each step weighed heavier than the last, and every movement cost him more of the blood he needed to live. Still Quincey did not halt. Not even as the flames slowly encircled him and the path ahead grew ever narrower.

He needed answers. He needed to fulfill his duty. He needed…

It took no more than a shard of fallen stone—once, perhaps, a pillar of the palace—to rob him of balance and cast him to his knees. He began to cough, tasting iron upon his tongue, and saw red drops fall to the floor beneath him.

Now he sensed that this time, in all likelihood, he would not rise again.

The heaviness of his own body became unbearable, feeling as if invisible hands were keeping him in place by the shoulders, and he could not so much as lift his gaze. It was a wonder no dagger had found him yet, yet with the smoke thick about him and the heat ever drawing nearer, he was scarcely surprised.

This was it.

Quincey was to die in the flames.

Red, orange, violet… 

Nothing of him would remain but ash.

With the onset of resignation, his eyes slowly began to drift shut.

“Quincey!” 

He thought he heard his name, but the sound was so distant it could easily have been a figment of a dying mind.

“Quincey!”

The weight upon his shoulders suddenly grew firmer, stronger, and all at once, the brown-haired knight saw not only the pool of his own blood in front of him but a pair of knees clad in dark trousers dropping into it.

He gathered the last of his strength to raise his head and see who had come to him in his final moments.

Though he was certain his face could no longer show it, his eyes and mind were filled with astonishment.

“Le—” he could utter no more.

“Quincey!”

The younger prince looked wretched, yet the first thing Quincey marked was the desperation upon his face, and the look in his eyes—more anguished and compassionate than he had ever expected. Especially after the long years in which they had exchanged little more than courteous phrases, their childhood friendship long forgotten.

“Quincey.” Leander’s tone was startlingly gentle, and when the knight managed to focus more clearly upon his face, he saw that his cheeks were not only blackened with soot, but wet in places with tears. The younger prince knelt before him and was the only reason the knight did not collapse entirely, for he no longer had strength to hold himself upright. Leander gripped him by the shoulders and forced him to look at him—and him alone.

“You cannot die, Quincey.”

The Messenger-at-Arms strove with all his failing might to heed his words, yet it seemed a futile hope. Leander was clinging to the impossible.

The air about them ceased to be merely hot and grew searing, like newly forged steel, piercing their lungs and turning each breath into torment. Quincey felt as though a thousand needles stabbed him from within, and he knew the prince must feel it also. Yet still he remained at his side.

Though his eyes were failing him, even a slight glance around gave the knight his answer. Leander had nowhere left to flee. They were condemned to perish together.

The flames had reached the ceiling, and burning beams and fragments rained down around them. The tapestries upon the walls burned fiercest of all, and shreds of them were borne upon the wind that bent the flames toward the two men.

“You must live, Quincey. The true heir must… live, else all was… in vain.” Leander was barely breathing, yet he seemed to believe his words had to be heard, even as his lungs rebelled.

The scar-chinned knight did not understand what he meant, nor how it concerned him. The only heir to the throne after Cassian was Leander—and he had voluntarily allowed himself to be trapped in this cage of fire beside him.

“You… you are… the true…” Leander’s voice dwindled into a rasp as his skin reddened. Quincey watched at close hand as blisters rose upon it, while the flames slowly but surely devoured his garments.

He himself must look no better, yet the wound in his gut and the loss of blood smothered all else. He had no strength left to feel pain.

“Qui—”

He had not realized he had closed his eyes until the prince tried once more to call his name.

The only thing he saw, his head bowed and unable to lift it again, was a small, sharp-edged vial filled with a radiant liquid. It gleamed like molten gold, like the glint of Cassian’s crown whenever it caught the light.

“Drink.”

His awareness faltered again; he did not know when Leander had pressed the vial to his lips. He felt only the thick liquid upon his tongue and forced himself to swallow.

The scent of something burning struck his nose. At first it seemed sweet—then it turned, recalling the stench of scorched flesh.

He opened his eyes once more—and wished he had not.

What remained of Leander was no longer a prince. His long raven hair was ablaze, casting an orange halo about him, while his skin blistered and split, and the fabric of his garments fused to his flesh, leaving ruin of red and black.

The prince’s grip slackened—not only from Quincey’s jaw, but from his shoulders as well—and instead of holding the knight upright, Leander fell forward into his arms with a blood-curdling scream.

The last thing Quincey heard, before he closed his eyes and surrendered to the flames, was a cry somewhere in the distance, like that of a wounded beast. He was certain it belonged to someone he knew, but he no longer had the capacity to wonder.

Then everything was swallowed by merciful darkness.

.

.

.

.

"Aaah!"

Quincey’s eyes flew open with a cry, and he jerked upright at once. His lungs expanded in a frantic gasp, as though striving to expel smoke that was no longer there, and his nostrils drew in deep breaths of air that did not burn anymore.

The knight looked about him in confusion, only to find himself within his modest chamber, no longer upon the floor of a burning corridor.

Was it possible he had survived?

Still dazed, he glanced down at his body. Surely the flames must have left their mark.

Yet his upper form, clad only in a sleeping shirt, showed no sign of burns at first glance. He rolled up his sleeves, but his arms were smooth, unmarred by any fresh wound.

What about…

With the same ease with which he had risen to sit, Quincey swung his legs from the bed and stood. Where before he had scarcely been able to remain upright and had felt as though leaden boots dragged him toward the earth, now he stood without effort. In fact… he felt better than he ever had.

With quick strides that betrayed his urgent need for truth, he crossed to the mirror and the first thing he did was lift the hem of his shirt.

Upon his smooth skin lay a scar—precisely where Cassian’s blade had pierced him. Yet for a fresh wound it was wholly healed, pale and old in appearance, as though it had been borne for many years.

In disbelief, the knight traced the raised tissue with his fingers, yet he felt no pain.

It made no sense.

None of it made sense.

“Quincey!” came a voice from beyond his chamber door, followed swiftly by a knock.

Still in shock, the knight gave no answer, and whoever was behind the door took it as an invitation to open it and look inside.

To Quincey’s surprise, Malcolm appeared in the doorway. Although he looked somewhat different this day, the knight could not at once discern what had changed.

“There you are.” The other man seemed relieved and stepped forward, while the brown-haired knight hastily released the hem of his linen shirt and let it fall back into place. “I thought you of all men would wish least to miss Prince Cassian’s coronation.”

“What?” The word slipped from Quincey’s lips before he could stop it.

“Good Lord, Quincey, are you still half asleep?” Malcolm came nearer and halted so that his reflection stood beside Quincey’s in the mirror. He glanced at himself for a moment, then cast an amused look back at his fellow warrior. “Are you preening yourself to be the handsomest man at the coronation? I doubt it will be needed. All know King Cassian means to grant you the title of his Messenger-at-Arms.”

“What are you talking about?”

Quincey’s frown deepened, much to the other man’s amusement.

“You think word does not travel? Everyone knows you are the prince’s favorite and that he has long awaited the hour to bestow the title upon you. The lads were even wagering whether he would make you a lord and grant you lands,” Malcolm explained.

The bewildered knight barely heard him, still struggling to find firm ground beneath his thoughts. But then the other man said something that drew his full attention.

“Still, Messenger-at-Arms? For only being two years into service, it’s a massive honor.” Malcolm raised his hands. “Not that you haven't earned it.” He gave him a supportive slap on the shoulder.

“Yes… it is,” Quincey answered mechanically, striving to sound at ease—though he failed utterly.

“I shall leave you to prepare.” Malcolm gave him another look, caught somewhere between concern and confusion, no doubt thinking his comrade had lost his wits entirely.

“Thank you,” Quincey murmured, though his mind had long since ceased to heed the other’s presence and was fixed instead upon what he had learned.

Two years in service…

Every knight entered full service at one and twenty, and Quincey had been no exception. If he had only served for two years…

He didn't want to believe it, but the gentle rays of morning sunlight spilling into his chamber—rather than searing tongues of flame—spoke louder than words. 

He knew not whether it was the potion Leander had poured down his throat, the violet fire that had consumed his body, or the masked stranger who might have wrought some deed after Quincey had lost consciousness. Yet all signs pointed to one thing.

Was it truly possible?

Perhaps he was indeed dead, and this was his own vision of heaven—or of hell, considering how many men had met their end upon the edge of his sword.

Quincey had no choice but to see with his own eyes. Despite his fear and confusion, he performed his morning routine and resolved to leave the safety of his chamber.