He scowls at me. “Stop with your scheming. Just heal him with your magic and be done with it.”
My magic pours over Roan's chest, ignoring the bite to his tone. “My options are limited, and even the strongest healers still need help.”
Prince Soren shakes his head. “There are no other healers to help you. If there were, you’d be assistingthem.”
Even after he's watched me dig poison barbs out of his best friend's chest, he still has the nerve to hurl around such words. “I’m not talking about another healer—I'm talking about the fact that those cupboards are bare and the shelves filled with rotting and decayed supplies. I have tinctures of milk thistle and nothing else, not even food or wine. My magic is strong, but no magic is limitless.”
He moves toward the workbench, placing his hands against the wood as he leans over Roan's chest to peer at the wounds, still open there as my magic works through them. “He’s healed from worse. It'll hurt like a Fates-cursed bitch, but he'll heal from this too.”
I glance up to shoot him a sardonic look. “And how long have you been an expert in poisons? You got him here in time to save his life, but without assistance, he's going to be bed bound for the rest of his very long life. Is that the future you want for him?”
His mouth tightens into a line, looking down at his best friend for another moment before jerking his head at the soldier. “Go to the barracks and get cleaned up. See Firna for food and prepare yourself to ride back out. If Tauron and the rest of the soldiers aren’t back here by noon, we’re going back to the Outlands after them.”
Reed nods and leaves, casting one last look at the prince before ducking out the door.
Soren walks to the small wooden chair by the bed and pulls it over to the workbench, stretching out his long legs as he takes the seat. There’s the briefest hint of a wince on his face, a flash that he hides so quickly, I almost miss it.
“Are you injured too? I can take a look once I've finished what I can for Roan.”
Soren’s voice is a snarl. “It's bad enough you've gotten inside Airlie’s head and now you’ll work your way into Roan’s with your magic. I'd rather bleed out.”
I don't know whether to be insulted or flattered by his estimations of my abilities, but I watch him from the corner of my eye as I work. I can’t help it; with the pull of the Fates between us I couldn’t ignore him even if the entire kingdom depended on it, and though I’m thorough and careful in my work, I’m still far too aware of my Fates-cursed mate.
He looks exhausted.
In the long weeks since I arrived at Port Asmyr, I haven’t ever seen him falter. He’s been furious, enraged, cold, completely unreadable as he faced the Unseelie Court, in command and even weary as he’s dealt with the games and gossip, but nothing like this. The high-fae males of Yregar all wear their hair shoulder length or a little shorter, no braids or leather ties to hold it back, and as he leans forward and rubs a hand over his face, his spills over his shoulders, ash and dirt stark in the silvery-blond strands.
The cold and cruel Savage Prince is now nothing more than a false rumor in my mind, the gossip of courts and the petty creatures within, and in his place is the very real and compelling Prince Soren. I see far too much of the soldiers I’d come to love and respect in the Northern Lands within him, an integrity and honor that cannot be faked, and it only makes his distaste for my people all the more cutting to me.
Blood covers him, too much of it, including a streak running across his cheek that I notice when he leans back once more. That one’s not his own, but my heart clenches all the same. I’ve seen the worst of what war can do to a male, respected and loved many who fought on the front lines, but there’s something about that red streak that makes my heart pound harder in my chest.
I hope he assumes the hard work of the healing is making it do that and not the Fates’ cruel devices.
My magic spreads through Roan's veins, healing some of the smaller areas of damage, but the cluster around his heart is the most dangerous, and I have a difficult decision to make.
Would his own body’s healing abilities do a better job of repairing the damage without scarring? Healing with magic is faster and can save lives, but it’s not as perfect as the high fae’s own healing ability. Any magic-aided recoveries always leave behind a scar, the white slash across Prince Soren’s face a testament to that.
If I repair his heart myself, I could doom Prince Roan to a life of limitations, while his own body might be strong enough to renew the organ to complete health. An impossible decision but with only one correct answer.
Laying my hands on the workbench, I hunch over, sigh, and squeeze my eyes shut, my head throbbing as though it’s going to burst.
“Tapped out?” Prince Soren says.
I shake my head. “It would take me an age to explain to you the nature of magic and how it works with fae bodies. There are other, more pressing things for me to do.”
I look at one of the soldiers still guarding the door, though he doesn't meet my eye or acknowledge me even as I clearly motion to gain his attention. Prince Soren just watches me, not intervening, and my patience shortens even further.
I say, voice clear and commanding, “I must speak with Firna, urgently. Prince Roan's life depends on it.”
The soldier still doesn't move until Soren jerks his head, dismissing him on the errand. I study the wall of vials, praying as though the Fates might’ve hidden some fae flowers there, or maybe a sealed vial of dragon’s tears, but the same useless supplies stare back at me.
“You have to know that your behaviors are suspicious. Sitting in a dungeon for weeks on end when you could have fought back, only to run eagerly into a birthing room with a high-fae child’s life at stake, and now suddenly you claim you want to help us? You saw the desperation the curse plunged us into and used your magic to exploit our weakness.”
It’s the first time any of his tirades have made perfect sense to me.
Centuries of watching their people wither and die—not just the babies, but the soldiers out there dying by Kharl’s orders, and the defenseless villagers at the mercy of these acts—it’s warped his view of the entire race of witches.
By his age, I know that he's known nothing but conflict with my race, and I don't blame him for that, but I do blame him for assuming we're all the same.
