Page 149 of Smoke, Mirrors, & Misdemeanours

He knew she’d bled herself into this gift, to turn hope into this blue liquid.

He wouldn’t let it go to waste. Not a single drop.

Jaw set, Ark turned and pushed back through the ward doors. The surgeon looked up when he entered. She was a human woman with silver-threaded temples and the unmistakable steadiness of someone who’d held lives between her fingers.

“We’re nearly ready,” she said briskly.

“I want my father to drink this,” Ark said, his voice leaving no room for debate. “But you may check if it will negatively impact the surgery.”

The surgeon accepted the vial with a raised brow, uncorked it, sniffed once, and passed it wordlessly to the elf physician beside her.

Ark’s eyes shifted to Healer Virelinne of the Sélwyn House. He knew her by reputation alone—an elf physiomancer and the first to pioneer magical suspension therapy, still too experimental for the Meredith medical board, but too effective to ignore.

Human surgeons excelled with precision tools and advanced technology, but even the best machines could not overcome the fragility of mortal flesh. A body wracked by disease—or worn thin by time—could falter under the strain of hours under the knife.

This was where magic stepped in. Through enchanted stasis, the body could be gently suspended—its functions steadied, its thresholds stretched. Blood flow slowed without clotting. Pain dulled without chemical anesthesia. Vital systems preserved in delicate balance, allowing the surgeon’s hands to work longer, steadier, safer.

His father couldn’t have been in better hands—in theory.

It was a fusion of disciplines, still considered risky. But when it worked, the results bordered on miraculous—proof, Ark thought, of what the Four Factions could achieve together, if they’d only stop tearing each other apart.

Virelinne turned the vial in her palm, disappeared down the hall, and returned minutes later. “No toxins. The brew is stable.” Her gaze lifted to Ark’s. “It has healing properties, but it’s unlike anything I’ve worked with. I can’t predict how it will interact with the stasis field. It could bolster or fracture it. We cannot guarantee the outcome. If he drinks it, the effects—positive or otherwise—will be beyond our control.” She held his gaze. “This decision belongs to the patient. And to the family.”

Ark pressed his lips together. “I will ask him.”

The surgeon nodded. “If he agrees, we’ll deliver it intravenously. It’s the fastest way to circulate the magic through his system.”

Ark went back into his father’s sickroom. Upon the door latching, Kassenor slowly opened his eyes. His gaze found the vial in Ark’s hand, and recognition flickered behind the exhaustion.

“Ah,” he murmured, a ghost of something wry in his voice. “So she kept her promise.”

Ark’s brow furrowed. “Promise?”

A faint curve of a smile appeared on his father’s lips. “She found me in the conservatory on the night of the ball.” A pause, shallow breath drawn in. “She told me . . . she’d perform a ritual and beg the sea goddess for a healing elixir. She said it eased her father’s suffering.”

Ark stared. He hadn’t known that. Hadn’t even imagined she’d had the time that evening. “You spoke that much with her?”

At that, Kassenor finally looked up. “She’s a difficult one to ignore. Your Cassia.”

Ark’s throat tightened.

“Yes,” he said softly. “She is.”

The lull that followed was heavy, brimming with all they hadn’t said over the years. Now, they had only minutes. How did one condense three decades of unsaid words into a handful of minutes? How did one convey the depths of hope, despair, and love buried so deep when such a great challenge lay ahead?

Ark stepped closer to the bedside and sat, the weight of the moment pressing down until he couldn’t hold it in anymore. He placed the elixir on the bedside table and took his father’s hand. “You have to come back.”

Kassenor’s expression didn’t change, but his gaze focused.

Ark pressed on. “I haven’t always made things easy for you. We don’t talk—not like other families. But I’m not ready to let go.”

His throat closed. He forced the words out. “You’ve never seen where I live. You don’t know what I do when I can’t sleep. I never asked what you were like before Mother—or if you were proud of me after I left.” His jaw locked. “I spent years thinking I didn’t matter to you. And it turns out, I just never asked.”

Kassenor didn’t speak. His hand reached, slow and trembling, to rest over Ark’s clenched fist.

“I want more time.” Ark’s voice cracked. “I need you to fight. Please.”

His father held his gaze for a long moment. Then his eyes drifted past Ark’s shoulder, toward the foot of the bed.