Rhea Vance has mended a hole in a child's heart, one cell at a time. The Temple calls it blasphemy.
She has also kissed Crown Prince Lucien in the middle of an argument, and she still can't tell who won. He has started making her decisions for her: the prices, the cables, the names allowed through her gates. The suspended knight outside her door has a fresh sword cut and a real name he almost tells her.
Then a call from Earth, at three in the morning, tells her what her logs have been used for.
And the ailing king publishes a list. Eight names for the Harvest Week, the seven days every five years when the storms over the Hollow Verge go quiet. The prince is on it. So is Rhea, invited with a list of rare medicines. The knight is not.
In eight, out eight. The sky counts.
Months later, she writes the prince a letter. It's four lines long. It begins Dear Prince, and it promises an invoice.