But it was not the wound that held her gaze.
It was him.
His hair, thick and dark, skimmed his shoulders, touched faintly by the damp of either rain or sweat, she could not tell which. It framed a face carved with sharp planes—strong jaw, high cheekbones, and a brow that held a quiet intensity even as he sat in silence. There was something in him that did not rest easily, something held tight and controlled.
Arella and Leya stood on either side of the man, their attention fixed on the wound.
“It is deep,” Leya said, studying the torn flesh with a careful eye. “Too wide to leave. It will need stitching.”
Arella gave a slight shake of her head. “The edges are not clean. Stitching might prove difficult. Searing might be a better choice.”
The man remained still as the two women debated how to tend to him. His jaw was set firm, and his gaze fixed somewhere beyond them, as though the pain was of little consequence.
Then, as if sensing Bria’s presence, his gaze landed on her, lingering on her face.
“You, healer,” he said finally, his voice steady despite the painful wound. “You have no opinion?”
Bria was caught off guard. No one had ever asked for her opinion. She quickly gathered her senses and said, “I am not a mender.”
“Bria is a comfort healer,” Arella said, not looking away from the wound. “Her touch will ease your pain.”
He stared at Bria as if making his own assessment of her, then said, “That will be welcomed.” He glanced between Arella and Leya. “Stitch it and be done.”
Arella gave a brief nod. “Then we begin at once.” She glanced at Bria. “Come. Lay your hand on him now, so he is eased before we start.”
Bria stepped forward.
She had done this countless times—offered calm, drawn pain away, steadied those who could not steady themselves.
There was no thought to it and never any hesitation. And yet… she paused.
Her gaze moved over him, taking him in now with purpose rather than passing notice. The strength in him was undeniable, held in the tension of his muscles as he sat rigid and unmoving. His skin was smooth, marked only by the occasional scar—faint lines that spoke of past battles endured and survived.
A warrior.
There was no mistaking that. But a warrior for whom?
The thought came unbidden, lingering just long enough to stir her curiosity before she set it aside. This was not the time for questions.
She stepped closer and reached out, placing her hand against his shoulder—away from the wound—her touch meant to steady, to soothe, to ease what pain she could before the work began.
It came without warning.
A sudden rush—sharp and consuming—nothing like the quiet easing she was used to giving. Heat flared through her, swift and startling, stealing her breath for the briefest moment. It was not pain, nor fear, nor anything she had ever known in another. It was something else entirely. Something that made her hand falter, though she did not pull it away.
His gaze lifted to hers.
For an instant—no more—his dark eyes burned with fierce and unmistakable desire.
It flashed there, sudden and intense, and then it was gone. Gone so quickly she could not be certain it had been there at all.
His expression settled, controlled once more, as though nothing had passed between them.
But Bria felt it. Felt the echo of it still stirring through her, unfamiliar and deeply unsettling.
She drew a slow breath, steadying herself, forcing her focus back where it belonged—to the wound.
“Keep him calm,” Arella said, already reaching for needle and thread. “We begin now.”
