Imogen turned to gather her notes, already forming a mental map of where to begin, when a hand brushed her wrist.

  Darius leaned in close, eyes full of something warm and unspoken, and pressed a kiss to her forehead.

  “You’re amazing,” he whispered. “But don’t burn yourself out trying to fix everything in a day.”

  She gave him a soft, knowing smile. “I’ll pace myself. Mostly.”

  He arched his brow. “Mostly?”

  “I’m still me.”

  Darius smirked, then gently let her go. “Go on, Dragon Queen. Stir up some miracles.”

  Later in the Apothecary Wing

  The apothecary was a flurry of movement by the time Imogen arrived.

  Herbs hung drying from rafters overhead. Apprentice healers rushed between stone counters stacked with glass jars, pestles, and rune-marked bowls. The scent of mint, lavender, and dragonroot clung to the air like incense.

  Imogen rolled up her sleeves, tied her hair back, and got to work.

  She moved through the chaos with confidence, calling out ratios and instructions. “Two sprigs of feverleaf per tonic. No more, or you’ll cause dizziness. The moonbloom goes in last and stir counterclockwise or it’ll spoil the binding.”

  “Who is she?” one wide-eyed apprentice whispered to another.

  “That’s the King’s betrothed.”

  “That’s a Dragon Singer.”

  Malachite stood leaning against the wall near the supply shelves, arms crossed, a smug little smile on her face as she watched Imogen effortlessly command the room.

  “You missed your calling,” she teased. “You could’ve run the Guild years ago.”

  Imogen shot her a playful glare over her shoulder. “Don’t tempt me. I could still take it over.”

  Malachite pushed off the wall, walking over to help sort jars. “You planning on letting me help, or am I just here to look intimidating?”

  “You’re already doing that,” Imogen said, smirking. “But yes chop those serpent’s tongue leaves. We’ll need as much anti-venom as we can brew.”

  “Stars, bossy.”

  “Efficient.”

  Malachite grinned. “Fair.”

  And for the next hour, the two worked side by side, queen and guard, friends, sisters in spirit hands stained with herbs and hearts steady in the face of war.

  The gentle grind of pestles and the soft rustle of dried herbs the only sound between them.

  Then Imogen spoke, "Eleanor taught me a lot of this, actually. She wasn’t a healer by trade, but she knew every root and brew by heart. Said it came from helping the border towns. She used to make me memorize the names by color and smell before she let me touch anything.”

  Malachite smiled faintly. “She’s a good one.”

  “The best,” Imogen said, then added more softly, “She’s the only mother I’ve ever really known.”

  Malachite’s hands paused over the firemint. Her voice dropped. “I don’t remember much about mine. I was told she died in battle, defending the Queen… But sometimes I get flashes. She used to hum, I think. When packing her gear. I remember the sound of jars clinking. And this strange little tin she always carried purple salve. Said it could stop bleeding and heartbreak.”

  Imogen looked over at her, expression tender. “Did it?”

  Malachite gave a breath of a laugh, not quite looking up. “Stopped the bleeding, maybe.”

  The quiet returned not heavy, but thick with meaning. Like neither of them needed to explain the ache of growing up with echoes instead of answers.

  “She must’ve been amazing,” Imogen finally said.

  “She was,” Malachite whispered. “But I never got to ask her anything. Not really. My father… he made it clear some things were better left buried.”

  Imogen reached over and gently touched her arm. “You don’t have to keep them buried forever.”

  Malachite looked at her and her chin dipped in a quiet nod. “Yeah. I think I’m finally ready to start digging.”

  Another pause.

  Then Malachite smirked, rolling her shoulders like shaking off the weight. “Gods, I’m getting sentimental. Must be the herbs.”

  “Don’t blame the plants,” Imogen teased. “You’re just soft on the inside.”

  “Blasphemy.” Malachite groaned, tossing a handful of leaves into the bowl. “Ugh. You and Axel are going to be the death of me.”

  Imogen raised a brow. “So you are thinking about him.”

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  Malachite nearly dropped her pestle. “I didn’t say that.”

  “You didn’t have to.”

  Malachite grumbled something under her breath and went back to chopping firemint with slightly more force than necessary. Imogen just smirked and leaned on the edge of the counter, watching her out of the corner of her eye.

  Her gaze drifted to the small leather pouch clipped at Malachite’s hip, the faintest glimmer of copper light peeking through the flap as she moved.

  “You know,” Imogen said casually, “I’ve been wondering… why don’t you wear the crystal around your neck?”

  Malachite paused mid-chop. Her shoulders stiffened ever so slightly before she set the knife down and reached for the pouch.

  She pulled the crystal out gently like it might break, even though they both knew it wouldn’t. Its coppery shimmer glowed softly in the warm apothecary light.

  “It was my mother’s,” she said. “She told my father to give it to me when I was ready.”

  Imogen smiled. “So why not wear it?”

  Malachite hesitated… then glanced away, looking almost sheepish.

  “I… don’t know how,” she muttered. “To wear it, I mean. It doesn’t have a chain. And I don’t know what it’s supposed to look like, or how she wore it. It just… came in this pouch.”

  Imogen blinked, then broke into a soft laugh, not mocking, just delighted.

  “You’re afraid of messing up a necklace?”

  “I’m not afraid,” Malachite said defensively, stuffing the crystal back in the pouch. “It’s just important. If I do it wrong, it’ll feel wrong. Like I’m trying to be someone I don’t understand yet.”

  Imogen’s smile softened. “Then we’ll figure it out together. I can help you find the right chain. Something strong. Something worthy of you.”

  Malachite rolled her eyes but didn’t argue. Not this time.

  “Maybe,” she murmured. “Someday.”

  The pouch was clipped back onto her belt but this time, her hand lingered over it a moment longer than before.

  Malachite went back to her firemint, clearly ready to drop the topic — but Imogen didn’t move from her spot. Instead, she crossed the apothecary room to one of the upper cabinets, standing on tiptoe as she opened it.

  Malachite glanced up. “What are you doing?”

  “Hold on,” Imogen muttered, shifting a few old supply tins. “I think something could be in here…”

  A moment later, she came back holding a small coil of wire and a slightly tarnished, but sturdy, silver chain. “Elanor used to keep old pieces for charm-pendants. In case one broke or a kid lost theirs. I figured this place could have something like that. I think this’ll work.”

  Malachite stared at her, brows knitting. “You’re going to… make a necklace?”

  “Well, we’re not exactly drowning in fancy jewelry artisans at the moment,” Imogen said, already straightening the wire out over the table. “But I’ve got decent hands, and you’re overdue for a little magic craftsmanship.”

  Malachite blinked. “You don’t have to-”

  “Shut up and give me the crystal,” Imogen grinned.

  With a reluctant smile tugging at her lips, Malachite passed it over.

  Imogen took her time, quiet, precise work. She looped the coppery wire gently around the stone, securing it with care rather than force, shaping it into a wrap that was snug but elegant. A cradle, not a cage. Then she threaded the chain through and held it up with a proud little hum.

  “See? Not terrible.”

  Malachite reached out, fingers brushing the metal, her voice low. “It’s perfect.”

  Imogen stepped behind her. “Hold still.”

  She slipped the chain around Malachite’s neck and fastened it. The copper crystal settled just above her heart, glowing faintly with steady warmth, like it was responding to touch.

  Malachite stood still for a long beat, one hand instinctively resting over it.

  Imogen smiled softly. “Looks good on you.”

  Malachite turned, eyes gleaming. “Thanks.”

  And for once… she didn’t deflect with a joke. She just let it be what it was.

  A gift. A promise. A little piece of belonging made real.

  A soft tap-tap echoed from the hallway, followed by the creak of the door opening just enough for the head healer to poke their head in.

  “Time for a short break,” they announced. “Rest those eyes and hands we’ve got plenty more to do after midday.”

  “Bless you,” Imogen muttered, cracking her neck with a sigh of relief.

  Before she could even stretch, Malachite was already unclipping her belt pouch, tucking it into her armor, and heading for the door.

  “I’m going to the training grounds,” she said, almost too quickly.

  Imogen raised an amused brow. “The break just started.”

  “Exactly,” Malachite called over her shoulder, the faintest bounce in her step. “Feels like I haven’t touched my hammer in ages. Poor thing’s probably forgotten how to crush things.”

  Imogen laughed, setting her tools aside. “Gods forbid.”

  She wiped her hands on a clean rag, unfastened her apron, and jogged to catch up.

  The two of them disappeared down the hall, footsteps, light and laughter trailing behind them two warriors heading back into the sun, where steel clashed and shields sang and the world, for a brief moment, felt almost simple again.

  The training grounds were already alive with motion, the clang of metal, shouted instructions, the dull thud of impact against dummies and shields.

  Imogen broke off from Malachite at the edge of the field, spreading a worn blanket beneath a shady oak that overlooked the grounds. She sank down with a satisfied sigh, flipping open her mother’s journal across her lap. Sunlight danced over the parchment as her eyes scanned familiar handwriting, the murmurs of drills and sparring a strangely comforting background hum.

  Meanwhile, Malachite strode across the field like she’d never left.

  “Malachite!”

  A chorus of familiar voices called out several soldiers grinning wide, clapping her on the back, bumping fists or offering mock salutes as she passed. One of them, a broad-shouldered man with a scruffy beard and a crooked grin stepped right into her path.

  “Jorn,” Malachite smirked.

  He let out a bark of laughter. “So it’s true! The forge didn’t swallow you whole.”

  “Not for lack of trying.”

  “Word was you traded in your hammer for a dress,” he teased, eyeing her chestplate and the newly gleaming copper crystal now hanging from her neck. “But look at you. Back and terrifying as ever.”

  Malachite rolled her eyes but couldn’t help the half-smile tugging at her lips. “The day I trade my hammer for a dress is the day you beat me in a spar.”

  “Oof, still spicy.” Jorn turned to a few younger recruits nearby. “Take notes, boys. That’s what a real guard looks like.”

  Malachite snorted. “Careful, or I’ll make you eat those words before lunch.”

  A few soldiers nearby whooped and started clearing space for a match, already hyping it up like a festival bout.

  Jorn tilted his head, eyes gleaming with challenge and maybe something a little more playful.

  “I don’t know,” he said, circling her slowly as the soldiers stepped back to give them space. “Dress might suit you. Something green. Brings out those murder-eyes.”

  Malachite let out a low snort. “Keep talking, Jorn. I’ll let you find out how good a dress looks while you’re flat on your back.”

  “Ooooh,” the crowd murmured, several soldiers chuckling as they started placing mock bets.

  Jorn flashed a wolfish grin. “Tell you what, you win, I’ll wear the dress to dinner. You lose, you owe me one.”

  “Deal,” Malachite said, already loosening her shoulders and rolling her neck.

  They squared off