I woke to the sound of my mother's disapproval.

  My eyelids felt weighted with lead, but I forced them open. My bedchamber swam into blurry focus—faded tapestries that had once been vibrant, furniture polished to a shine that couldn't quite hide the wear.

  Mother—Lady Vivienne Greywers—stood at the foot of my bed, ramrod straight despite her advancing years, engaged in a hushed argument with Willem.

  "Absolutely not," she said, though her eyes briefly flickered to the blue patterns visible at my collar. "No son of mine will resort to such... alternatives."

  She turned away too quickly, her fingers unconsciously brushing the emerald signet—our last valuable heirloom—as though weighing different kinds of sacrifice.

  "My lady," Willem was saying, his voice low and urgent, "the blue marks have spread to his chest. The surgeon says—"

  "I know what the surgeon says." She waved a dismissive hand. "We'll call for the Royal Corps healer."

  I tried to speak, producing only a dry croak. Both turned to me, argument forgotten in an instant.

  "Magius." My mother glided to my side, resting a cool hand on my forehead. Despite her stern demeanor, worry lines creased her brow. "Don't exert yourself."

  I gestured weakly for water. Willem poured a cup and held it to my lips.

  "The summons," I managed after swallowing. My voice sounded as though I'd been gargling gravel. "How long?"

  "Eleven days now," Willem said. "You've been in and out for three."

  Wonderful. I struggled to sit up, ignoring the protests from both my body and my companions. The movement sent daggers of pain through my shoulder, but I needed to see for myself. I pulled aside the bandages covering my wound.

  What I saw nearly made me vomit.

  The puncture itself was an angry red circle, stitched closed with the surgeon's neat, even sutures. But surrounding it, spreading outward like frost on a windowpane, were intricate blue lines that pulsed faintly beneath my skin. They followed no pattern I recognized—not veins or muscle fibers, but something almost... deliberate. As though someone had drawn a map across my flesh in glowing ink.

  "What in all hells is this?" I whispered.

  "Language, Magius," my mother chided automatically.

  I stared at her in disbelief. "I'm growing a luminous blue spiderweb under my skin, and you're concerned with my vocabulary?"

  Her lips thinned to a bloodless line. "Panic won't help. The Royal Corps will—"

  "The Royal Corps will document it, submit forms in triplicate, then inform me that 'exotic contaminants' aren't covered under my policy," I said. "By which time I'll either be dead or turned into something from a traveling carnival."

  Willem cleared his throat. "There's another option. I've heard of a company—"

  "No." My mother's voice could have frozen flame. "Those charlatans prey on the desperate. We are not desperate."

  I gestured pointedly at my glowing chest.

  She ignored this. "We still have your father's emerald signet. It will cover a proper healer."

  The signet ring—the last valuable heirloom our family possessed that wasn't essential to maintaining our fa?ade of relevance. She'd been saving it for a political alliance, a final bargaining chip to restore some measure of our lost standing.

  "And then what?" I asked softly. "I appear at court in eleven days wearing borrowed finery, with no reserves left? How does that serve the family?"

  Her eyes flashed. "Better than consorting with hedge-witches and contract-mongers."

  Willem, bless his weathered soul, chose that moment to intervene. "My lady, perhaps some rest would help clear your mind. I'll stay with Lord Greywers."

  She looked as though she might argue, but exhaustion won out. With a final warning glance at me—one I'd seen since childhood, promising this conversation wasn't finished—she swept from the room.

  The moment the door closed, I slumped back against the pillows. "How bad is it really?"

  Willem's face said everything his words wouldn't. "The regular surgeon won't touch it anymore. Says it's beyond his knowledge."

  "And the Royal Corps?"

  "Sent a letter." He retrieved a piece of parchment from a side table. "Says they'll need to consult with specialists about coverage for 'unconventional magical contamination,' and that the review process typically takes four to six weeks."

  I laughed, the sound catching painfully in my dry throat. "How considerate of them to outline the timeline for my funeral arrangements."

  Willem didn't smile. "There is another option."

  "The one Mother forbade us from discussing?"

  He nodded, glancing at the door. "They call it the Twilight Covenant. Operates out of Stetdon."

  "I've heard whispers." Usually accompanied by crossed fingers and warding signs. "Desperate knights, miracle cures, mysterious costs."

  "Not just knights," Willem said. "Anyone the regular companies won't touch. Or can't afford."

  I examined the blue lines again. They'd definitely spread since I'd last been conscious, now reaching my collarbone. "And their success rate?"

  "Better than dying," he said bluntly.

  I couldn't argue with that math. "The city's a day's ride in my condition."

  "I've arranged a covered wagon. Comfortable enough, if not exactly fitting your station."

  I raised an eyebrow. "Rather presumptuous of you."

  "Learned from the best, m'lord." A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "Your father would have done the same."

  That struck deeper than I expected. My father—the man who'd struggled his entire life to maintain our family's position while watching our fortunes slowly crumble. Who'd died still believing one grand gesture might restore everything we'd lost.

  "When do we leave?" I asked.

  "Nightfall," Willem said. "Less chance of your mother intercepting us."

  I nodded, already feeling exhaustion pulling me back toward unconsciousness. "Willem?"

  "M'lord?"

  "If this goes badly... take care of her."

  His gnarled hand briefly clasped my good shoulder. "Save your strength for complaining about my driving."

  ***

  The city of Stetdon hadn't changed since my last visit—it still stank of too many people living too closely together, with occasional wafts of perfume from the noble quarters failing to mask the underlying reek of the tanneries and fish markets.

  What had changed was my perspective on it. Slumped in the back of a wagon, swaying with every cobblestone and pothole, I saw the city through the eyes of someone searching for salvation rather than diversion.

  We passed the grand healing houses first—massive marble structures with colonnaded entrances where liveried attendants assisted wealthy clients from gilded carriages. The House of Celestial Mercy. The Royal Amaranthine Company. The Immortal Phoenix Collective. Their banners hung pristine in the morning air, gold and silver thread catching the sunlight.

  "Not stopping at any of those, I take it?" I asked Willem, who drove our modest conveyance with the grim determination of a man who expected trouble at every turn.

  "Not unless you've found a duke's ransom since we left home," he replied. He guided us away from the main thoroughfare, down increasingly narrow streets where the buildings leaned toward each other as if sharing secrets.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  The difference between districts was stark. In the space of ten minutes, we'd gone from gleaming temples of healing to cramped quarters where the sick huddled in doorways. Here, the only "treatment" came from herbalists with carts of dubious concoctions, or itinerant barber-surgeons offering bloodletting and tooth-pulling with the same unwashed tools.

  "This is where most of your villagers end up when they're injured," Willem said unnecessarily. "If they can make the journey at all."

  I already knew this, theoretically. But knowing something and seeing it were different matters. A young girl with a withered arm watched us pass, her hollow eyes following our wagon with neither hope nor resentment—just the dull acceptance that this was how the world worked.

  My wounded shoulder throbbed in time with my pulse. The blue lines had spread to my neck now, a fact I'd carefully hidden from Willem with a high-collared shirt. Some truths served no purpose but to worry those who couldn't change them.

  "How exactly do you know where to find these people?" I asked as we turned down yet another twisting alley.

  Willem kept his eyes on the narrow passage. "Sergeant in the Fourth Company. Lost his leg at Thornwood Ford. Royal Corps denied his claim—said he'd violated protocol by advancing without authorization."

  "And the Twilight Covenant helped him?"

  A shrug. "He walks again. Limps, but walks."

  "At what cost?"

  Willem's silence was answer enough.

  The streets grew marginally wider as we entered what had once been a fashionable district before the city expanded northward. Now it housed those wealthy enough to escape the slums but not important enough for the royal quarter—merchants, guild masters, successful artisans. And, apparently, alternative insurance providers.

  "There," Willem said, pointing to an unremarkable townhouse wedged between a candlemaker's shop and what appeared to be a retired courtesan's salon, judging by the faded red curtains.

  I squinted at the building.

  If I'd expected something overtly mysterious—black paint, strange symbols, perhaps a stuffed raven or two—I was disappointed. The only distinguishing feature was a simple wooden sign bearing the insignia of a crescent moon embracing a star.

  "You're certain this is it?" I asked.

  Willem helped me from the wagon, supporting my weight as my legs threatened to buckle. The blue lines had begun to itch fiercely, a sensation like ants crawling beneath my skin.

  "Got the address from a reliable source," he said.

  "The same one who recommended that 'foolproof' dice game in Westmark that nearly got us hanged?"

  He had the decency to look embarrassed. "Different source."

  The door opened before we could knock, revealing a thin man in his fifties dressed in formal attire at least three decades out of fashion. His silver beard was trimmed to geometric precision, and a monocle gleamed over his right eye. He looked more like a court accountant than a purveyor of forbidden healing.

  "Lord Magius Greywers," he said, voice crisp as new parchment. "Precisely on time."

  I blinked. "You were expecting me?"

  "Of course." He stepped aside with a slight bow. "Administrator Thorne, at your service. We've been anticipating your arrival since your... incident."

  I shot Willem a questioning look, but he seemed equally confused.

  "How could you possibly know about—"

  "We make it our business to know when potential clients might require our services," Thorne interrupted smoothly. "Particularly those with your... unique characteristics."

  The way he said "unique" sent a chill through me that had nothing to do with my injury. Nevertheless, I allowed him to usher us inside. The alternative was to collapse on the doorstep, which seemed unlikely to improve my situation.

  The interior was a study in contradictions. The reception area featured respectable, if outdated, furniture arranged with mathematical precision.

  Yet between conventional items sat objects of decidedly unconventional nature—a clock whose hands moved counterclockwise, a potted plant whose flowers opened and closed in rhythm with my breathing, a mirror that showed my reflection with a slight delay.

  "Please, be seated," Thorne gestured to a comfortable-looking chair that adjusted itself as I approached, conforming to my body as I sank into it. "Willem, if you wouldn't mind waiting in the antechamber? Client confidentiality is paramount."

  Willem hesitated, hand straying toward the knife at his belt.

  "It's fine," I told him, though I was far from certain. "I'll shout if they try to harvest my organs."

  After a moment's consideration, Willem nodded stiffly and allowed himself to be led to an adjoining room. The door closed behind him with a click that sounded oddly final.

  Thorne settled behind a desk cluttered with precise stacks of papers, ledgers, and small arcane instruments whose purpose I couldn't begin to guess. He regarded me through his monocle, which I now noticed magnified his eye to an unsettling degree.

  "Now then," he said, producing a blank form from a drawer. "Let's begin your assessment."

  For the next hour, I answered questions that ranged from mundane to bizarre. My age and title. My family history. Whether I'd ever died temporarily. If I dreamed in color. The precise shade of green of my eyes. My preferred sleeping position. Whether I'd ever swallowed a coin as a child.

  "Is this relevant to healing my injury?" I finally asked after being questioned about my grandmother's favorite flower.

  "Everything is relevant, Lord Greywers." Thorne made another notation in his ledger. "We provide customized coverage based on a holistic understanding of our clients."

  "Speaking of my injury..." I gestured to my shoulder, where a damp blue stain had begun to seep through my shirt.

  "Ah, yes." Thorne set aside his quill. "Perhaps you could show me the afflicted area?"

  Reluctantly, I unbuttoned my shirt. The blue lines had spread further, now forming an intricate latticework across my chest and down my left arm. Where they crossed, small nodes pulsed with an ethereal light.

  To his credit, Thorne's expression didn't change. He simply leaned forward, examining the patterns with clinical detachment.

  "Fascinating," he murmured. "Probability-altering serum with a Class Three targeting matrix. You're fortunate you didn't apply it directly to your bloodstream."

  "I didn't apply it at all," I said. "It was in a vial carried by raiders. One broke against a man's face, and..." I swallowed, remembering the horrific transformation. "He didn't fare as well as I have."

  "Indeed." Thorne made another notation. "And conventional treatment has been..."

  "Nonexistent. The Royal Corps is still processing my paperwork."

  "Standard procedure." He nodded sympathetically. "By the time they approve specialist intervention, you'd likely have transformed into something rather non-human. Possibly gaseous."

  I stared at him. "Gaseous?"

  "Or crystalline. The patterns suggest multiple possible outcomes." He closed his ledger with a snap. "Fortunately, we specialize in cases conventional companies find... administratively inconvenient."

  "At what cost?" I asked bluntly. "I should warn you that House Greywers isn't what it once was."

  Thorne waved a dismissive hand. "Our pricing structure is more flexible than our competitors'. We consider factors beyond mere coin."

  That didn't sound reassuring. "Such as?"

  "Services rendered. Information shared. Occasionally, objects of particular resonance." His monocled eye fixed on me with uncomfortable intensity. "We find value where others see only ledger entries."

  "You're being deliberately vague," I observed.

  A thin smile. "Deliberately precise, but in terms you're not yet equipped to understand." He slid a document across the desk. "Your proposed coverage plan. Basic treatment for your current condition, with optional extensions for future incidents."

  I examined the parchment.

  The language was as convoluted as any insurance contract, full of clauses and subclauses that seemed designed to induce migraines. The premium, however, was startlingly reasonable—about a third of what I currently paid the Royal Corps for significantly less coverage.

  "This can't be right," I said, tapping the figure.

  "I assure you, our calculations are meticulous."

  "It's too low. What's the catch?"

  Thorne's smile widened fractionally. "So refreshing—a client who assumes there must be hidden costs. Most simply sign without question when presented with a favorable rate."

  "I've found that when something seems too good to be true, it generally involves someone eventualy coming to collect my fingers as interest."

  "How colorful." He adjusted his monocle. "The 'catch,' as you put it, involves certain... accommodations you may be required to make regarding your treatment providers."

  "Meaning?"

  "Our healers operate somewhat... unconventionally. They may require access to your person, your dwelling, or your activities at times that might seem irregular."

  I laughed, then winced as the movement sent fresh pain through my shoulder. "You're asking me to grant complete strangers unfettered access to my life because they offer slightly discounted magical healthcare?"

  "I'm offering you the only chance you have to survive the next week," Thorne replied, his voice suddenly cold. "The blue patterns reaching toward your throat suggest you have perhaps three days before the transformation reaches your brain. At that point, whether you become gaseous, crystalline, or something more... creative... becomes academic."

  The room seemed to chill.

  For the first time, I noticed that no sounds penetrated from outside—no street noise, no murmurs from the anteroom where Willem waited. It was as if the office existed in its own pocket of the world.

  "Who exactly are these healers?" I asked quietly.

  "They prefer to introduce themselves." Thorne pushed the contract toward me again. "Your options are quite limited, Lord Greywers. Your condition is beyond conventional treatment even if you could afford it. The Twilight Covenant represents your only viable path forward."

  I stared at the contract, weighing my choices. Die slowly as the blue serum transformed me into something inhuman, or sign away aspects of my autonomy to mysterious practitioners of questionable methods.

  When framed that way, it wasn't much of a choice.

  "Do you have ink?" I asked.

  Thorne produced an ornate silver pen and a small crystal vial. "We require a more... personalized... signature method."

  He uncapped the pen to reveal a needle-sharp point.

  "You can't be serious," I said.

  "I am rarely anything else." He placed the pen in my hand. "One drop on the signature line will suffice."

  With a sigh that contained equal parts resignation and gallows humor, I pricked my finger and allowed a single drop of blood to fall onto the indicated line. The moment it touched the parchment, the crimson spread outward, forming the elaborate script of my full name and title.

  "How did it—"

  "The contract now recognizes you," Thorne explained, rolling the parchment and sealing it with wax. "And more importantly, they can find you when needed."

  "They?"

  A door I hadn't noticed before opened at the far end of the room. Through it, I caught a glimpse of a woman in a religious habit, a crescent moon tattoo glowing silver on her temple.

  "Sister Morgana will see you now," Thorne said. "The first phase of your treatment begins with her."

  As I rose on unsteady legs to follow, I couldn't shake the feeling that I'd just traded one form of transformation for another—and I had no idea which would prove more fundamental.