27
SABLE
The first time it happens in front of me, there’s no ritual, no warning, no dramatic flare of power.
Just wood.
Just a blade.
Just a mistake.
Corin stands in the yard near the split log pile, sleeves rolled up, hair tied back again with that same strip of black cloth that’s beginning to look like a permanent fixture. The morning air smells like damp bark and cold iron, sharp enough to sting when I breathe too deeply. The ground is still uneven from everything we did weeks ago, though grass has begun reclaiming the edges like it’s stubborn enough to forgive us.
He brings the blade down too fast.
Not sloppy.
Too fast.
The edge bites through the wood cleanly—then skids, just slightly, because the grain shifts at the last second. The motion carries through, and before he can correct?—
The blade kisses his palm.
It’s not deep.
It’s not catastrophic.
It’s enough.
Blood spills instantly, bright against pale skin, running along the curve of his hand and dripping onto the log beneath. The smell hits me sharp and metallic, cutting through the morning air like a warning bell.
“Damn it,” Corin mutters.
I’m already moving.
“Hold still,” I snap, grabbing his wrist before he can even think about brushing it off.
He blinks at me. “It’s a scratch.”
“It’s bleeding.”
“It’s always bleeding when cut, Sable, that’s the general expectation?—”
The blood stops.
Not slows.
Stops.
Right in front of me.
The wound closes like it’s being pulled together from the inside, skin knitting cleanly without scar, without hesitation, without any of the fragile, human delay I know too well.
I tighten my grip on his wrist.
“Don’t move.”
“I wasn’t?—”
