“There is more healing I need to do,” I say at last, my head turning towards a cottage across the village.
He follows my gaze. His jaw tightens. “Reon will be grateful to see you, but Ronin...” Daed exhales. “Part of me wonders if I should’ve cut his throat instead of the ropes. Released him from the pain.”
I shake my head. “No. Not when I can take the pain away.”
“You’re really going to heal him?” Daed asks.
“I must.”
Daed’s eyes narrow, searching mine. “After all that human has done to you? After everything he took from you, you would still bless him with your gift?”
He takes my hands gently, his thumbs tracing slow circles over the delicate skin of my wrists. I do not let him see what that touch does to me, the dizzying sweep of warmth that climbs up my arms and pools low in my stomach.
“You are one to talk,” I murmur, lifting a brow. “You saved his life, did you not?”
His frown deepens, the realization dawning slowly across his face.
“Besides,” I continue, voice softer now, “another warrior to face Gygarth is not something we can afford to waste. Especially one as skilled as Ronin.”
Daed scoffs, the sound low and rough. “Let’s not get too poetic. He’sadequateat best.”
I squeeze his fingers, smirking despite myself. “Estra deserves every soul brave enough to fight for her. Even theadequateones.”
He turns his head, reluctant as ever. “Of course she does,” he mutters.
So I pinch his hand, a light reprimand. He winces dramatically, even though I know he felt nothing at all.
“Go then,” I tell him, my voice softening. “Rally the Fae. I will join you soon.”
He nods, chin tilted high, ever the proud prince. Still, there’s a touch of sulk in the set of his jaw that makes me want to laugh.
I rise onto my toes, and though he doesn’t meet me halfway, he dips his head just enough. I press my lips to his cheek, breathe him in, smoke and leather and the faint sweetness of rain. Even now, beneath the leather and the grit, there is tenderness in himhe only lets me see and for all his brooding, my dark prince still melts against my touch like wax to flame.
“As you wish,” he grumbles.
He walks away, our arms stretching between us, fingers clasping until they finally slip apart. The distance aches more than I expect. I stand there a moment, watching him go, before drawing a slow, steadying breath and turning toward the healer’s cottage.
Vellis stands near the door, refilling a jug from a rain barrel. She looks older now, more sure of herself, with a yellow flower tucked behind her ear and her warm auburn hair tied half-up, half-down. Once, she dreamed of becoming a Sister of the Vine, but the Souls never called her name. So she found her own way to serve, healing not with runes, but with herbs and potions, and perhaps she’s saved just as many lives as those of us who wear the marks.
She dips her head when she sees me approach, nearly dropping the jug in her haste. I step forward quickly and steady it in her hands.
Her cheeks flush. “Sorry, Amara.”
“There’s nothing to apologize for,” I say gently, relieving her of the jug and setting it aside.
She wipes her damp hands on her crinkled apron, voice dropping to a whisper. “Which one were you coming to see? The poor soul with the burns…” she frowns. “Or the one who keeps asking me to marry him.”
I stifle a laugh. “Both,” I reply. “But the one with the burns I fear needs me most.”
She nods. “I was just tending to his wounds again.” She glances toward the door, worry clouding her eyes. “They’re bad, Amara. Very bad. He won’t let me help him.”
“That sounds like him.” My chest tightens, a familiar sting crawling down my spine. I close my eyes briefly. “But I’ll help him, whether he wants it or not. He’s suffered enough.”
Vellis’ brow furrows. “You can… feel it?”
“Yes,” I murmur. “I feel everything.”
Her lips part, hesitation flickering in her gaze. “Does it hurt?”
