Infection. I know the signs. I should have let Cook dress the wound last night.

“Who were you talking to?” Veturius asks.

“N-no-no one, Aspirant, sir.” Not everyone can see them, Teluman had said of the ghuls. It’s clear Veturius can’t.

“You look terrible,” he says. “Come into the shade.”

“The sand. I have to take it up or she’ll—she’ll—”

“Sit.” It’s not a request. He picks up my basket and takes my hand, leading me to the shade of the cliffs and setting me down on a small boulder.

When I chance a look at him, he is gazing out at the horizon, his mask catching the dawn light like water catching the sun. Even at a distance of a few feet, everything about him screams violence, from the short black hair to the big hands to the fact that each muscle is honed to deadly perfection. The bandages that encircle his forearms and the scratches that mar his hands and face only make him look more vicious.

He has just one weapon, a dagger at his belt. But then, he’s a Mask. He doesn’t need weapons because he is one, particularly when faced with a slave who barely comes up to his shoulder. I try to scoot away further, but my body is too heavy.

“What’s your name? You never said.” He fills my basket with sand, not looking at me.

I think of when the Commandant asked me this question and the blow I received for answering honestly. “S-Slave-Girl.”

He is quiet for a moment. “Tell me your real name.”

Though calmly spoken, the words are a command. “Laia.”

“Laia,” he says. “What did she do to you?”

How strange, that a Mask can sound so kind, that the deep thrum of his baritone can offer comfort. I could close my eyes and not know I was speaking to a Mask at all.

But I can’t trust his voice. He’s her son. If he is showing concern, there is a reason for it—and not one that favors me.

Slowly, I push back my scarf. When he sees the K, his eyes go hard behind the mask, and for a moment, sadness and fury burn in his gaze. I’m startled when he speaks again.

“May I?” He lifts a hand, and I barely feel it when his fingers brush the skin near my wound.

“Your skin’s hot.” He lifts the basket of sand. “The wound is bad. It needs attention.”

“I know that,” I say. “Commandant wanted sand, and I didn’t have time to—to—” Veturius’s face swims for a moment, and I feel strangely weightless.

He’s close then, close enough for me to feel the heat of his body. The scent of cloves and rain drifts over me. I close my eyes to stop everything from lurching, but it doesn’t help. His arms are around me, hard and gentle all at once, and he lifts me up.

“Let me go!” My strength peaks, and I shove at his chest. What is he doing? Where is he taking me?

“How else do you plan to get back up the cliffs?” he asks. His broad strides carry us easily up the winding switchbacks. “You can barely stand.”

Does he actually think I’m stupid enough to accept his “help”? This is a trick he’s plotted with his mother. Some further punishment awaits. I have to escape him.

But as he walks, another wave of dizziness hits me, and I clutch his neck until it passes. If I hold on tight enough, he won’t be able to throw me to the dunes. Not without getting dragged down himself.

My eyes fall on his bandaged arms, and I remember that the First Trial ended yesterday.

Veturius catches me looking. “Just scratches,” he says. “Augurs left me in the middle of the Great Wastes for the First Trial. After a few days without water, I started falling down a lot.”

“They left you in the Wastes?” I shudder. Everyone’s heard of that place.

It makes the Tribal lands look almost habitable. “And you survived? Did they at least warn you?”

“They like surprises.”

Even through my sickness, the impact of what he’s said isn’t lost on me. If the Aspirants don’t know what will happen in the Trials, how can I possibly find out?

“Doesn’t the Commandant know what you’ll be up against?” Why am I asking him so many questions? It’s not my place. My head must be addled from the wound. But if my curiosity bothers Veturius, he doesn’t say so.

“She might. Doesn’t matter. Even if she knows, she wouldn’t tell me.”

His mother doesn’t want him to win? Part of me wonders at their bizarre relationship. But then I remind myself that they’re Martials. Martials are different.

Veturius crests the cliff and ducks beneath the clothes fluttering on the line, heading down the slaves’ corridor. When he carries me into the kitchen and sets me down on a bench beside the work table, Izzi, scrubbing the floor, drops her brush and stares open-mouthed. Cook’s glance falls to my wound, and she shakes her head.

“Kitchen-Girl,” Cook says. “Take the sand upstairs. If the Commandant asks about Slave-Girl, tell her she’s taken ill and that I’m tending to her so she can get back to work.”

Izzi picks up the basket of sand without a sound and disappears. A wave of nausea breaks over me, and I’m forced to drop my head between my legs for a few moments.

“Laia’s wound’s infected,” Veturius says when Izzi leaves. “Do you have bloodroot serum?”

If Cook is surprised that the Commandant’s son is using my given name, she doesn’t show it. “Bloodroot’s too valuable for the likes of us. I’ve tanroot and wildwood tea.”