“It’s a miracle you haven’t, frankly. And it’s continued to worsen since then?”

“No. It leveled off fairly quickly.”

“I see.” Wren chewed on the end of her pen and considered everything she knew about this disease. A gradual onset of symptoms, followed by a sudden spike and plateaued progression. No infected people at the time of his arrival—not that it mattered, considering no viral or bacterial cells were present in his bloodstream.

So where had it come from? What was it?

If magic wouldn’t work, she had to try something else. Although she had researched diseases thoroughly, she wasn’t especially practiced in treating them. As a combat medic, she rarely dealt with things on a microscopic level, or things that systematically attacked the body. Soldiers’ injuries were often dramatic but always contained, deep gashes and simple poisons, strangely angled limbs and torn ligaments. Hal’s illness, meanwhile, was deep and invisible. It eluded her.

Wren opened her satchel—something Byers had always made fun of her for carrying around all the time. That thing is a bottomless well of torture implements, he’d told her when she’d once procured a scalpel to use as a makeshift letter opener. The memory panged like a knocked-against bruise, hitching her breath.

Not now, she thought. Please, not now.

Hal Cavendish would never see her wounded again. Shoving through the fresh wave of grief, she kept her eyes lowered until it settled around her as she rummaged through her bag for the supplies she needed. Out came a tourniquet, a bottle of alcohol, a syringe, and three glass vials.

“What’re you doing?” Hal asked.

“It’s clear that I’m missing something. Drawing blood will help me see what exactly it is.”

He seemed to consider her response carefully. “Danubian healers don’t usually practice medicine outside their magic.”

A statement, she noted, although he waited on her response as if seeking confirmation.

“Not usually.” Wren paused. “And?”

“You do.” Hal tilted his head, as if it were obvious. “That’s notable.”

His tone was observational, his face blank, but she still felt a small spark of pride at his recognition. “Thank you?”

He seemed vaguely amused by her response. “It’s only a statement of fact.”

Wren resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “I didn’t realize you were collecting information on me.”

“Only some.” He fixed her with an assessing stare, as if he hoped to glean more from her. “For example, you favor your left leg slightly, and you crack your knuckles after your magic fades. However, I don’t need to look hard to find your tells. Your face telegraphs your moods so plainly.”

Wren stared at him. “You do realize how unsettling that is, don’t you?”

“Force of habit, I’m afraid,” he replied. “Observation has allowed me to survive this long.”