The corridors of the palace were quieter than usual the morning after the attack. Not the quiet of peace—the quiet of a household holding its breath. Servants moved with their heads down. Guards stood a little straighter at their posts. The blood had been scrubbed from the stones where the acolyte had fallen, but the memory of it lingered like a stain that wouldn't lift.
Paris woke to the smell of herbs and vinegar. Antiphus had come before dawn to change his bandages, his hands quick and impersonal, his expression unreadable. The wound in Paris's side was healing cleanly, he said. No infection. No fever. He would have a scar, but he would live. Miros had not been so lucky. The knife had cut deep, severing tendons that would take months to mend, if they ever did. Antiphus had done what he could. The rest was up to the body.
"Can he fight again," Paris had asked.
