“Take in his scent,” I bid with urgency, striding forward despite Flick’s warning glare. “Trust me. You will want to save him.”

“I don’t⁠—”

“He is your son.”

Zadok frowned, already shaking his head in denial. He opened his mouth, presumably to argue, but we didn’t have the time.

My mate felt stone cold in my arms.

“I’m begging you,” I implored him. “He’s dying.”

Zadok drifted closer as if compelled, despite Flick’s insistence that he stay behind him. I bit my tongue hard to distract myself from the clench of possessiveness in my gut as the Fae reached out, tendrils of purple magic emanating from his palm. His nostrils flared, and I knew he sensed the tie in their blood the moment his pupils bled the same violet hue. He flinched backward, disoriented and incredulous.

“Rosemary?” he muttered under his breath, peering at me as if seeking confirmation. “My son?”

I nodded, and for a moment a haunted expression flitted over his face—memories resurfacing that he’d willed away, heartache and grief and pain—before he sobered. He snapped into focus, a sense of determination overtaking his previously timid manner. “Come inside.”

“Zad…”

“It’s alright, beloved,” he assured his companion, caressing his arm.

With a reluctant sigh and a wary glance in my direction, Flick moved aside, and when I passed, the wyvern glared, but otherwise didn’t react. I retracted my wings before ducking inside, following Zadok hastily through the winding corridor and up a short flight of stairs. He halted at the top, pointing to the end of the corridor. “Through that door is my workshop. Lay him out on top of the bed. I’ll be there in a moment.”

“Please hurry,” I said, uncaring if I sounded pathetic. Zadok nodded once in acknowledgment before dashing off in the opposite direction.

I did as instructed, shouldering open the door and barely taking in the room before positioning my mate carefully on the cotton sheets. He looked so small in the center of the bed, so still, too still, and I had never felt more useless. For all the training I had endured in my life—learning how to take a throne I did not want, being shown how to behave, how to act, how to protect and defend—there had never been a lesson on how to save a life.

I’d had no need of the knowledge as a youngling. Not with guards and a ward keeping me protected, and I had foolishly thought it would be enough to ensure his safety too. I had no skills in potions, and I could not wield healing magic. I was smart in the way of politics, I had the instincts to use myself as a shield, I had wit and fucking charm, but I didn’t know what to do as my mate lay dying.