She narrowed her gaze at him. “A male witch with enough power to be the head healer? I’m impressed.”

“I think you’ll find the lines between us are more blurred than our language allows.” Cole’s eyes crinkled. “Saying there are no powerful male witches is as ridiculous as saying there are no powerful female warriors.”

“I like you, Cole.” Bri huffed. “I can see why Queen Thorne picked you.”

Looking to one tree peeking above the palace’s roofline, he whispered the Western prayer: “May we see her spirit in the rustling leaves.” He spoke it in the common tongue of Ific, but she could tell he’d translated it from the witches’ language of Mhenbic.

“I’m sorry for your loss.” Bri bowed her head. “I’m sure you’re exhausted after the attack. How many were injured?” If anyone were to know the severity of the injuries, it would be the head healer.

“It was worse than the council let on,” he murmured, gazing down along the quiet streets. He led his horse out to a side road, moving away from the bustling markets up ahead.

Bri’s horse followed, clomping down the tussock-colored bricks. “How many casualties?”

“Twelve,” Cole replied. “Many more injured.” He tapped the saddlebag. “I’ve just come from the mountains. We needed more supplies than our gardens could grow, even with the aid of green witch magic.” He had a calm, warm tone, so common amongst healers.

The Western Court palace probably had teams of witches of every color—green witches who grew gardens and cooked delicious foods, brown witches who made healing elixirs, red witches who could animate objects, and blue witches who Saw the future. The violet witches of the East had long since disappeared . . . or so Bri had thought. She shuddered, thinking of the purple smoke that filled the sky during the battle in Valtene. What ancient magic had Augustus Norwood tapped into to curse armies of witches and make poisonous smoke? Worse, he’d never been found after the battle. He fled along with his remaining soldiers, his armada sailing out into the Callipho Sea.

Bri eyed the deep furrows cut into the street, giant gutters leading toward immense drains. The Southern Court had similar features, though she wasn’t sure the West had quite the same monsoons. The deep gutters told her enough—when it rained, it rained hard.

“Delta? How is she?”

Cole cleared his throat. His expression darkened, and Bri clenched the reins tighter in her grip. It was bad, then.

“I was being earnest when I said you were needed here,” he said. “Delta needs urgent care but . . . I think she is waiting until you arrive to let me—”

Bri’s pulse drummed in her ears. “Let you what?”

His gaze dropped to his hands. “Her arm was nearly cut off in the battle. She has no feeling in it anymore. . . . It needs to be removed.”

Disbelief coursed through her. “No.”

Delta would be devastated. Her greatest pride was being the Captain of the Queen’s guard. Bri’s mind whirled, grasping for some way to ease that blow. Delta could still fight. She could train for one-handed combat. It would be okay, Bri tried to reassure herself.