Page 3 of Prince of Darkness and Deceit

Obviously the man needed to be freed from the rubble, but carrying him a distance without properly setting any injuries would be excruciating and likely worsen his prognosis.

Unless the Gods allow my magic to have a say.

I crack open the seemingly endless tomb of knowledge my predecessor imparted to me while I was her apprentice. Bandages, splints, needles… I catalog all items I could need and what I have in my satchel. My pain medication is limited, but there’s nothing to be done about that now.

Energy buzzes through the muggy air as we weave through the unusually crowded streets.

That’s right… The Late King’s Festival begins in two days’ time.

No doubt, the Elders want our town to shine—as much as a town covered in dirt and surrounded by untamed forest can shine—when other humans from neighboring villages arrive.

Rocks stab my feet through my thin-soled flats, but I press on, my lungs aching from exertion.

Not a moment too soon, we arrive at a home with a slanted thatched roof that looks one heavy rainstorm away from collapsing. Wails of pain travel out of the open door, gripping my chest.

Our escort throws an arm toward the heart-wrenching sound. “He’s in there.”

I fold forward, resting my hands on my knees to catch my breath. Lev stops beside me, saying nothing.

I give myself a minute to calm my racing heart. Then I straighten and approach the home, unwilling to let the poor man suffer a moment longer without my help.

Fumes of hay, body odor, and the metallic tang of blood greet me as soon as I cross the threshold. A disheveled woman hovers over a small body lying on the threadbare sofa centered in the main room.

My breathing gradually steadies as healer instincts take over. I step to the other side of the weeping woman’s shoulder, only to find a boy lying on the sofa.

Not a man.

A boy.

The grip around my chest tightens into a suffocating vise.

The boy, Rolf, must be fourteen, though his cherub cheeks make him look years younger.

By the laws of men, he’s a man—old enough to swing a pickaxe in those smothering, unstable mines. Old enough to risk his life every day to earn coin for his family.

But he shouldn’t have to.

A throat clears behind me.

Lev meets my infuriated gaze, his eyes dim and haunted.

With a slow shake of his head and a pointed look at the writhing boy, he snaps me out of my fury-induced stupor.

I take a deep breath.

Rage won’t save Rolf. My grief won’t stop his pain. Bitching about fate and fairness? That won’t stitch him back together.

So I swallow it. All of it.

I roll my shoulders back and find the inner strength I wear like a second skin and say, “Excuse me?”

The weeping woman doesn’t react. She just keeps crying—soft, desperate sobs—her tears soaking into the grime on Rolf’s tunic.

Numbness slithers over my body. I step forward and lightly place my hand on her shoulder.

She stiffens, then whips her head towards me.

“I’m Healer Stonebloom,” I say gently. “I’m here to help Rolf.”