“No,” I whispered, pressing my hand firmer against the scorched wound at his side. “I didn’t. I couldn’t.”
The ravaged battlefield groaned beneath the weight of destruction.
The air stank of blood and charred stone. The only sounds were the crackle of something still smoldering and the ragged breaths of the barely living.
Jasira moved first, slowly and trembling. She tried to rise but faltered, knees buckling. Gideon caught her without hesitation, blood still seeping down his side from a vicious gash beneath his ribs. He pulled her close, standing between her and the worst of the carnage as if he could still shield her from it.
“If I die,” he muttered dramatically, voice hoarse but playful through the pain, “I want you to wear my armor and avenge me. Gloriously.”
Jasira let out a broken laugh. “You’re not dying.”
“I’m serious,” he wheezed. “Sword raised. Cloak billowing. Crying vengeance to the heavens.”
“Shut up,” she said, but her hands curled into his shirt like she wasn’t ready to let go.
Slipping an arm under Erindor’s shoulder, I helped him up. He was heavier than I expected, his weight sagging against me. His eyes met mine, pained but steady.
“Go,” he said, his voice low but firm. “Help them.”
“I—”
“Wyn, go.”
My hand froze on his arm, a tremor of doubt running through me. His answering pressure was barely there, a ghost of a touch, yet it urged me on. Every instinct screamed to refuse, but his plea, unspoken yet palpable, tugged deeper. With a ragged breath, I began to ease him back, each movement a battle against rising dread. I gave him one last look, long enough to memorizethe set of his jaw, the way the firelight caught in his eyes, before turning away.
I tore open the satchel at my side and pulled out the bandages, the salve jar, and the bundle of dried redflower bark.
“Hold still,” I told Gideon, already pressing a clean cloth against his wound. My hands were shaking, but I had practiced the movements. Years of study, of tending scraped knees and bruised ribs, flooded my memory. I knew what to do.
“This’ll sting,” I warned, as he raised his shirt so I could pour the tincture over the gash. Gideon hissed through his teeth.
“Sting? I feel reborn. Baptized in agony.”
I shot him a withering glance, but the corner of his mouth twitched upward, anyway. He was still bleeding, but the worst of it slowed. I packed the wound with herbs and bound it tight with strips of linen.
Jasira sat beside him now, her hand trembling as it brushed his arm. I passed her a poultice and guided her fingers to press it against the slice on his arm. “Keep pressure. Like that. Good.”
Alaric limped over next, his pant leg torn and streaked with blood. Bran was nearly carrying him, shoulder to flank. I dropped to my knees at his side, ripped open the fabric, and winced.
“Straight cut, deep. Missed the artery, but it’ll need stitches.”
“Lucky me. These were my favorite trousers too, you know,” Alaric muttered through clenched teeth.
“You’re lucky I brought a needle and gut thread.” The words were clipped, but a flicker of concern softened the sharpness in my eyes.
I cleaned the wound and sewed it closed, my fingers trembling but precise. He didn’t make a sound, though Bran let out a low, protective growl every time the needle pierced flesh.
When it was done, I sat back, wiping my hands on a cloth already soaked dark with blood. My knees throbbed from kneeling, my back burned from hunching, but they were alive.
I looked up. Alaric’s usual grin was gone. In its place was something quieter: gratitude maybe, or relief. He gave a small nod. Nothing more, but it was enough to make my throat tighten.
“What the hell happened?” he choked, his gaze sweeping across the blood-soaked wreckage and the battered faces of the survivors.
Silence.
No one looked toward the path where Riven had vanished. No one asked why I’d let him go.
Struggling to stand, and the world threatening to topple with every dizzying shift, I staggered my limp body through the clearing.
