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"You've got three minutes to prove you're not another fraud."
The voice came from somewhere above me. Cold. Male. Used to being obeyed.
I lifted my head. My skull felt like someone had taken a baseball bat to it, and my scrubs were gone. I was wearing silk. Heavy silk that didn't breathe, embroidered with cranes or phoenixes or some shit I didn't have time to care about because there was a man dying two feet in front of me.
Blood pooled under his head. His lips were blue.
"Hey." I crawled forward. My knees hit stone. "Hey, can you hear me?"
Nothing.
I pressed two fingers to his neck. Pulse was there but faint, irregular. His skin was cold and clammy. Shock, maybe. Poison, if the black veins spreading up his throat meant anything.
"What happened to him?" I looked up.
The man standing over me was tall, armored, and had the kind of face that made trauma surgeons quit their jobs and write romance novels. Sharp jaw. Dark eyes. Scar cutting through one eyebrow. He looked like he'd killed people before breakfast and felt nothing.
"Poison," he said. "Three days ago. Every physician in the capital tried. They all failed."
"So you grabbed me?"
"The oracle said the Miracle Healer would appear in the Hall of Eternity at the hour of the snake. You appeared. Heal him."
I stared at him. "I'm not a—"
"Three minutes," he repeated. "Then I'll assume you're another charlatan, and you'll join the last one."
He tilted his head toward the corner.
There was a body there. Throat cut. Still fresh.
"Jesus Christ," I whispered.
"Two minutes, forty seconds."
Okay. Okay. Triage. ABCs. Airway, breathing, circulation. I bent over the dying man and tilted his head back. His airway was clear. I put my ear to his mouth. Breathing was shallow, maybe four breaths a minute. Not enough.
"I need a bag valve mask," I said. "Ambu bag. Anything."
"Speak plainly."
"A bag. To push air into his lungs."
The armored man didn't move. "Use your spiritual energy."
"I don't have spiritual energy. I need equipment."
"Then you're useless."
"No." I grabbed the dying man's wrist and felt for a radial pulse. Barely there. "I can do this. Just shut up and let me work."
Someone laughed. It wasn't friendly.
I tuned them out. Thirty compressions, two breaths. That was the ratio. I laced my fingers together, positioned my hands on his sternum, and locked my elbows.
"What are you doing?" The armored man's voice was sharp.
"Saving him. Back off."
I started compressions. Hard and fast. The old disco song ran through my head, the one they made us sing in CPR training. Staying Alive. One hundred beats per minute. Push two inches deep. Don't stop.
His ribs flexed under my palms. The crowd around me went silent.
"She's attacking him," someone hissed.
"No," I said through gritted teeth. "I'm keeping his blood moving. His heart's not doing it."
"Liar. She's finishing him off."
"Fifteen," I counted. "Sixteen, seventeen—"
A hand grabbed my shoulder. I shrugged it off.
"Don't touch me. I'm working."
"You're crushing his chest," a woman said. She sounded old, authoritative. "Stop this madness."
"Twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty." I bent down, pinched his nose, sealed my mouth over his, and blew. His chest rose. Good. I gave him another breath, then went back to compressions. "One, two, three—"
"General Huo." The old woman's voice was tight. "She's desecrating your brother. Stop her."
So the armored man was General Huo. And the dying man was his brother.
I kept going. "Eleven, twelve, thirteen—"
"Let her continue."
The general's voice cut through the noise. The hand on my shoulder disappeared.
I hit thirty and gave two more breaths. Back to compressions. My shoulders were burning. I'd done CPR on a mannequin a hundred times. On a real person twice. Both times in the ER with a team and a crash cart. This was just me, stone floor, medieval armor-wearing assholes, and a pulse that wouldn't come back.
"Come on," I muttered. "Come on, work with me."
"Eighteen, nineteen, twenty—"
"How long will this take?" the general asked.
"As long as it takes. Unless you want him dead."
"Watch your tongue."
"Watch my hands. I'm busy."
Someone gasped. Probably at my attitude. I didn't care. Thirty compressions. Two breaths. His lips were still blue but his skin felt warmer. Maybe. Hard to tell.
I checked his pulse. Still faint.
"Damn it." I repositioned and started another round. "One, two, three—"
"She's been doing this for three minutes," the old woman said. "He hasn't woken. She's failed."
"He's not dead," I shot back. "That means I haven't failed. Thirteen, fourteen—"
"General, the hour is late. We should call for the Imperial Physician—"
"No." The general's voice was flat. "She continues."
I wanted to thank him. I didn't have the breath. Thirty compressions. Two breaths. My arms were shaking. I'd been awake for—how long? I didn't even know what day it was. Last thing I remembered was clocking out after a sixteen-hour shift. Then nothing. Then this.
I started another round. "One, two—"
The man under my hands jerked.
I stopped. Checked his pulse.
It was there. Stronger. Faster.
"Oh my God," I whispered.
His chest moved on its own. A shallow breath. Then another.
I sat back on my heels. My hands were numb. "He's breathing."
The throne room erupted. Voices overlapping. Someone shouted. Someone else sobbed. I didn't look up. I kept my fingers on his pulse and counted. Sixty beats per minute. Seventy. Climbing.
His eyelids fluttered.
"Hey." I leaned over him. "Can you hear me? Squeeze my hand if you can hear me."
His fingers twitched. Then curled around mine.
The general dropped to one knee beside me. Up close he smelled like leather and smoke and something metallic. Blood, probably. His hand covered his brother's shoulder.
"Jingchuan," he said. His voice cracked. Just barely. "Stay with me."
Jingchuan's eyes opened. Dark brown. Unfocused. He stared at the ceiling, then at his brother, then at me.
"Who—" His voice was a rasp. "Who is she?"
"The Miracle Healer," the general said.
"I'm a nurse," I corrected. "Grace. Grace Chen."
Jingchuan's grip on my hand tightened. He tried to sit up. I pushed him back down.
"Don't move. You were almost dead two minutes ago. Just breathe."
He didn't listen. He grabbed my wrist and pulled me closer. His breath was shallow and fast. Panic, maybe. Or the poison still working.
"The one who poisoned me," he whispered. "They're still here."
I went still. "What?"
"In this room. Right now."
The general's head snapped up. His hand went to his sword.
Jingchuan's eyes rolled back. His grip on my wrist went slack.
"No, no, no." I checked his pulse again. Still there. He'd just passed out. Exhaustion, trauma, poison. Pick one.
"He needs fluids," I said. "Clean water. Honey if you have it. And someone needs to figure out what he was poisoned with so I can—"
A blade pressed against my throat.
I froze.
The general was on his feet, sword half-drawn, but he wasn't looking at me. He was looking past me.
I didn't move. The blade was cold. Sharp. It didn't waver.
"Well," a woman's voice said from behind me. Soft. Cultured. Amused. "The Miracle Healer. How convenient."
The general's eyes were black. "Su Liyue. Step away from her."
"Or what?" The blade pressed harder. I felt the sting. Warm blood trickled down my neck. "You'll cut me down in front of the entire court? I think not."
"Try me."
"Let's make a trade," Su Liyue said. "The healer's life for the truth. Ask her where she really came from."
I swallowed carefully. The blade moved with my throat.
"I don't know," I said. "I don't know where I am. I don't know how I got here. I was at work. Then I was here."
"Liar," she whispered.
The blade bit deeper.
"General," someone shouted. "She'll kill her!"
The general didn't move. His hand was still on his sword. His eyes were locked on Su Liyue.
"Let her go," he said quietly. "Last warning."
Su Liyue laughed.
Then the blade