She returned to wrapping my hand, this time more slowly.
I watched her.
She glowed, not with magic, but with something older. Truer.
“Well, well,” Alaric drawled, leaning against a crystal outcrop like it was a stage prop. “And here I thought you were allergic to compliments, Erindor. Was that…praise? In the wild?”
Gideon let out a low whistle. “Quick, someone writes it down before he takes it back.”
I stiffened. “You lot have nothing better to do than eavesdrop?”
Alaric grinned. “Not when you’re providing the entertainment. Honestly, I was half-convinced you were going to explode before saying something honest.”
Wyn buried her face in her hands.
“I hate all of you,” I muttered.
“Aw,” Alaric said, clapping me on the back as he passed. “He’s blushing. This is the best day I’ve had since we left the capital.”
…
I scrubbed my palms against my cloak as we moved away from the ridge’s edge, the sting of the cut across my hand grounding me more than it should have. The others murmured in uneasy tones, glancing at the glass now and then as if it might blink.
Alaric was the first to speak. Of course, he was.
“You alright, shadow boy?” he asked, brows raised with mock concern. “Looked like you saw your own funeral back there.”
I tried to reply, but my throat seized, a knot of silence where words should have been. Wyn walked ahead of me, completely unaware that I’d watched her die.
Gideon gave a low whistle. “This place feels worse than that one tavern in Greymere. And that place had a murder harpist.”
“No one was murdered,” Jasira muttered, adjusting her pack. “Just…emotionally scalded.”
“I’ll take scalding over mirrored death wishes,” Gideon replied, glancing warily at the ridge.
Wyn looked back, catching my eye. Her smile was faint, tentative, the kind she gave when she wasn’t sure whether to be brave or quiet. I nodded once to reassure her. Lying with my eyes, I’ve always been good at that.
We set up camp at the base of the ridge, where the ground leveled out in a hollow of shale and dry moss. The wind had picked up, ruffling cloaks and hair, but none of us spoke of what we’d seen. Some wounds didn’t want salt or curiosity.
I kept to myself, tending the fire, letting the others arrange bedrolls and shift nervously in the growing dark. Wyn crouched beside Jasira, whispering about food stocks. Alaric was nearby, polishing the hilt of his blade as if it had offended him.
I felt the heavy silence stretch between us.
Eventually, she came to sit near me.
“Hey,” she said softly. “How’s the hand?”
I held it up. The cut was thin, but deep. Red blended into purple around the scrape. “It’s fine.”
She reached into her satchel and pulled out a salve, unscrewing the tin with practiced fingers. “Let me see.”
“I said it’s fine, Princess.”
“I heard you, but I’m choosing to ignore it.”
Before I could object again, she took my hand gently into hers. Her fingers were small and soft but steady, sure, like someone who’d spent her life learning how to heal the broken things others left behind.
She didn’t speak, just uncorked the small tin of balm with one hand and dipped her fingers in. The scent of crushed herbs and pine resin rose into the air, clean and sharp.
