"How do you possibly know?" Lucan asked.
"Because I grew up here," Casteel snapped with a show of teeth.
The passage was torture, every bump and scrape threatening to jostle the arrow lodged between Nero's ribs. Makim walked backward, constantly monitoring his patient's condition by the light of a single shielded lantern. Twice they had to stop whenNero's breathing became too labored, the healer administering drops of some stimulant to keep him breathing.
When they finally emerged into the ruins of the old temple, dawn was breaking over the city. Smoke columns rose from multiple points across Abergenny, evidence of Eryken's coordinated assault on Doran's power base. The temple itself was a shell of its former glory—crumbling stone walls overgrown with vines, the roof long since collapsed.
"Down here," Casteel directed, leading them to a stairway hidden behind fallen masonry. "The chamber below is intact."
The underground room had clearly been used as a sanctuary in years past. Stone benches lined the walls, and an altar dominated the far end, but everything was covered in dust and neglect. Most importantly, it was hidden, secure, and had the clean water Makim would need for his work. The rebels gently laid Nero's litter on the altar itself, stripping away rotting ceremonial cloths to create a clean surface.
"Everyone out except the healer," Lucan ordered, his men filing back toward the stairs to establish a perimeter. "The commander will want a report."
"Commander?" Casteel looked up sharply. "Eryken is here?"
Lucan's expression hardened. "He awaits us at our fallback position. This...complication wasn't part of the plan."
"Complication?"Casteel's voice cracked with disbelief. "Your archers shot my mate!"
"We knew nothing about your relationship," Lucan countered, something like regret flickering across his weathered features. "The mission was to eliminate the so-called savior before Doran could use him to seize complete control. No one expected..." He gestured toward Nero's unconscious form. "We thought it was artifice."
"Get out," Casteel snarled, wolf-gold flaring in his eyes. "Before I forget you're trying to help us."
Makim moved with swift efficiency, unpacking his medicines and instruments. "I need water, clean cloths from my pack, and more light," he instructed, his tone brooking no argument.
Casteel complied without hesitation, filling a basin from the spring well and lighting additional lanterns he found in a dusty storage niche. Nero's face had taken on a gray pallor, his breathing shallow and wet.
"The arrow must come out now," Makim said grimly, cutting away the blood-soaked fabric around the wound. "Hold him steady—even unconscious, his body will fight the pain."
Casteel positioned himself at Nero's head, hands gripping his shoulders with gentle firmness. Through their bond, he projected all the strength and comfort he could muster, though fear threatened to choke him.
Makim worked with methodical precision, first administering a tincture to slow the bleeding, then carefully exploring the wound's edges. "The shaft is lodged against a rib, which may have prevented it from penetrating the lung fully. If we're fortunate, extraction will be clean."
The healer's weathered hands gripped the arrow shaft, his eyes meeting Casteel's in silent communication. Then, with a single, fluid motion, he withdrew the missile from Nero's flesh.
Blood welled immediately, bright crimson against pale skin. Makim pressed clean cloths against the wound, his movements swift and sure as he applied poultices and bandages. Casteel felt Nero's pain spike dramatically, then recede as the healer administered more of his tinctures.
"Now we wait," Makim said finally, washing blood from his hands in the basin. "I've done what I can. The rest depends on his strength and the gods' mercy."
"Will he survive?" Casteel's voice cracked on the question, his hands still clutching Nero's as if he could physically anchor his mate to this world.
Makim's weathered face revealed nothing as he checked Nero's pulse once more. "The wounds themselves are grave but not necessarily fatal. It's the blood loss that concerns me most." He met Casteel's desperate gaze with unflinching honesty. "The passage until darkness will tell. If fever doesn't set in by nightfall, his chances improve significantly. You know—"
But Makim didn't finish even though Casteel could guess. Nero's death would cause his.
Casteel knew right at that moment he didn't care. Somehow this stubborn soldier had weaved his way into his heart. It didn't even matter if Nero didn't feel the same. No, he knew Nero didn't feel the same. But as long as Nero lived, nothing else mattered.
Casteel nodded, unable to form words past the knot in his throat. Through their bond, he could still feel Nero's presence—weak, distant, but stubbornly persistent. Like a flame refusing to be extinguished.
"I must prepare more medicines," Makim said, gathering his bloodied instruments. "Keep him warm and try to get water past his lips if he wakes. Even a few drops will help." He hesitated. "And be close. Skin to skin."
Once alone with Nero, Casteel removed his bloodied shirt and carefully stretched out beside him on the wide stone altar, mindful of the fresh bandages. He pressed his forehead against Nero's temple, one hand splayed protectively across his mate's chest to feel each precious breath.
"Don't you dare leave me," he whispered fiercely. "Not now. Not after everything."
The sound of approaching footsteps jerked Casteel from his vigil. Multiple sets, moving with military precision down the stone stairs. He rose fluidly, positioning himself between Nero and the entrance, something primal and dangerous rising within him.
When the tall figure stepped into the chamber's dim light, Casteel's world narrowed to a single point of rage. Eryken. The rebellion's commander. The man whose archers had shot Nero.
