He’s sitting cross-legged beside me, hunched over like a crumpled mountain. His eyes are locked on mine the moment I blink. Bloodshot. Wild. Terrified.
“Kragna…” My voice croaks out like wind through ash.
“Shh.” He leans in quick, one clawed hand on my forehead, the other cupping my cheek like I might vanish if he blinks. His fingers tremble. “You’re burnin’ up, little bird.”
I try to sit up. The pain answers first—red and sharp and merciless. I let out a strangled sound and drop back down. Sweat slicks my back against whatever animal hide he’s laid me on.
His hand moves down to my thigh, and I flinch before I can stop myself. The wound’s been bandaged, but the ache is ever present. Like it wants to eat its way out of me.
“Arrow was poisoned,” he mutters, not looking up. “Blackroot. Vile shit. Slows the heart, clouds the mind. I got most of it out. I think. Might’ve swallowed some. Don’t care.”
I stare at him. At the jagged line of his jaw, at the blood smeared down his neck—his or mine, I don’t know. His shirt’s torn open. His arms are scraped, bruised, filthy. There’s dried mud in the crease of his brow and his hair’s sticking up like a storm blew through him.
But his eyes never leave me. And I realize—he hasn’t moved. Not really. He’s been right here. Watching. Waiting. Hoping I’d wake.
“You look like shit,” I rasp, trying to smile.
His laugh cracks out sharp and sudden, like he wasn’t ready for it.
“Yeah, well. You try carryin’ a human through the woods while she’s leakin’ blood and mutterin’ about ghosts.”
I remember running. I remember falling. I remember his hands, rough and desperate, yanking the arrow from my leg with a snarl like he was ripping through flesh and time. I remember his mouth on the wound, hot and wet and frantic. And I remember him whispering things I couldn’t quite hold onto.
Now I reach for him. My hand’s shaking, and he catches it halfway, pressing his palm to mine like it’s holy. His skin’s warm. Callused. Familiar in a way that twists something low and deep inside me.
“You stayed,” I say.
“’Course I did.”
“Nobody stays.”
His jaw tightens. “I ain’t nobody.”
I want to kiss him. I want to pull him down into the heat and let it burn away every nightmare, every brand on my back, every time I’ve been someone else’s weapon. But I also want to cry, and I don’t even know why.
“You should’ve left me,” I whisper. “I was slowing you down.”
“I’m not leavin’ you, River. Ever. Not unless you tell me to.” He leans in, close enough that I can smell the leather on his breath and the blood under his fingernails. “Even then, I might not listen.”
I close my eyes. The fever’s still there, pulsing like war drums in my veins, but his voice cuts through it. Steady. Low. Holding me here.
“What… what did you whisper? When I was out?”
He stiffens. Doesn’t answer at first. Then:
“I told you not to die.”
My eyes flutter open.
“I told you I’d burn Kyrdonis to the ground if you did.”
I laugh—a broken, wheezing thing—and tears spring up without warning. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”
He brushes my hair back from my face, gentle like he’s afraid I’ll crack.
“You scared me,” he murmurs. “I don’t scare easy.”
“I know.”
