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“I didn’t think humans had powers like this,” Halima says, visibly confused.
I roll my eyes. Fae and their complacency, never bothering to explore the world outside of their magic. I suspend the lodestone above Destan with one hand and extend the pliers with another.
I focus the stone over the biggest shard first, praying that the lodestone is strong enough. I have to get it unnervingly close, and I’m terrified of misjudging and hurting him even more. Slowly, the first shard eases loose, and I snag it with the pliers as I feel it rise. Destan lies, unmoving except for his shallow breathing. He’s lost consciousness for a moment, but I hear a sharp intake of air from across the room. I glance over to see Halima looking on with fascination. Both she and Ruskin are pale, their faces beading with sweat.
“Are you okay?” I ask them, dropping the iron into a waiting bowl with a clink. The edge is jagged—I would wager some of it has definitely broken off inside him already.
“It’s the iron,” Ruskin says. “Just being near it is…uncomfortable.”
“You don’t have to stay,” I point out, but Ruskin simply shakes his head, clearly determined to endure this for his friend. Out the corner of my eye I see Halima tighten a shaking hand into a fist. I realize exactly how brave it was of her to try to pull the shards out herself. From the way she’s reacting to being the same room with the cold iron, I can only imagine grabbing hold of the shards directly would have been like shoving her hand into a white-hot flame. How fierce she is, to even consider it. And how glad I am that she doesn’t need to—that I’m here, with all my humanness, to handle this task instead.
Slowly but surely, I extract the most visible shards. Ruskin sends for healers, but they have to wait outside for the moment when they can actually do anything. The burning effect has at least done something in Destan’s favor: it’s cauterized his wounds, so he doesn’t immediately bleed out as I work on him. It’s crucial because we can’t start closing him back up until I’m sure every last bit is out.
“It’s okay, Des,” I say when he releases a long groan. As the bowl beside me fills up with iron shards, his eyes blink open. He twists his head to the side and vomits. I take it as a good sign there’s no blood. It seems the shards have missed his lungs and throat.
“Think carefully, Des. Do you still feel the burning?”
He moans a yes.
“Where? Can you show me?”
Des lifts a shaking hand, gesturing to somewhere near his collarbone, where a deep slash indicates one of the first pieces I removed. I hold the lodestone close, willing the metal to the surface, but part of me fears the fragments of iron are too deep and the stone’s not strong enough to pull them free. I will the iron to the surface…come on, come on.
But if the stone’s not strong enough, no amount of wishing can make a difference.
Except just like that, a few dark flakes of iron no bigger than my fingernail whizz out of his wound and stick themselves to the lodestone.
Destan releases a deep sigh.
“Is that it, Destan? Has the burning stopped now?”
“Yeees,” he winces, the effort of it costing him.
I nod to Ruskin, and he summons in the healers waiting outside. While he and Halima are pale, shaking messes by now, they look strong and ready, having stayed a safe distance from the iron fragments. Now I wrap the bowl up and pull out a lead cauldron from my equipment, dropping the parcel inside and closing a lid on it.
“I’m assuming that helps?” I ask. Ruskin and Halima nod grimly as the healers’ magic sparks between their hands and Destan.
“Good job on the extraction,” the female healer says, eyeing me with something that looks a little like respect. “There’s very little internal damage beyond the initial lacerations and punctures.”
“Is he going to live?” Ruskin asks. Now that I’m not focused on Destan, I can hear that unreleased scream in his voice again—all the fear and the pain.
The male healer nods. “Not too much blood loss. If the iron’s all gone, he should be fine.”
I turn, looking to see what I think will be a blessed relief or joy flooding Ruskin’s face. But he’s already gone. I just catch the sight of his back retreating out the door of the workshop.
“Where’s he going?” I ask Halima.
She shrugs. “He does that sometimes.”
“Runs away after someone nearly dies?”
“After things get hard.” Halima eyes me, then seems to make a decision. “Go,” she says, waving a hand at me. “If he wants to see anyone right now, it will probably be you.”
I have the petal and it’s not hard to find him in his quarters. I guess that he’s probably on the way to the rose garden. It seems the closest thing he has to a sanctuary in this place.
“Ruskin,” I call. “Rus. Come on, I know you like your new nickname.”
The humor does its job; he turns, raising an eyebrow.
