I leaned on Sahora as we climbed the stairs from the arena, pain radiating hot across my ribs and down my leg.
Castor took my other side once we reached the top. Between the three of us, we made it back to our room, slowly, leaving a trail of blood on the stone.
Castor released me at the door and moved to stand guard. “I’ll let you know if anyone tries to come in.”
The moment the door shut, my knees buckled.
Pain tore through me, sharp enough that my vision swam. The bond flared, and I felt Sahora take the hit too. She caught me anyway and guided me to the bed like she could will my body into staying upright.
The room smelled like incense. Too sweet. Too calm.
She turned to the wash basin and grabbed a clean cloth.
“Shirt off,” she said, wringing it out.
I lifted my hands to do it myself, but the movement dragged pain across my side, and my breath caught. My arms went weak.
Sahora crossed the room and hooked her fingers under the hem. She paused, just for a moment, then pulled it up and over my head.
“Lay back.”
“I don’t—” I started, trying to find the words through the haze. “You don’t need to do this.”
“I do.”
Through the bond, her guilt spilled into me without permission. I should have stopped this. It should have been me.
She pressed the cloth to my side.
The first touch sent fire through my ribs. I tried to swallow the sound, but a hiss still slipped out.
Sahora’s hands shook slightly as she cleaned the gash, like her body wanted to react even if her face refused.
“How bad is it?” I asked, voice tight.
“I’ve seen worse,” she said, calm in a way that made my stomach turn.
I forced a breath. “How much worse?”
Her eyes flicked to my face, like she knew exactly what I was doing, looking for a distraction.
She gave me one.
“One time in Serlane,” she began, returning the cloth to the basin. The water bloomed reddish-brown. “I was hired for a job.”
Her hands worked as she spoke, steadying the bleeding. “A famous singer. Big name. Big house.”
I tried to focus on her words instead of the pain.
“Little did I know,” she continued, dipping the cloth again, “he had a collection of maces.”
She pressed the cloth to my side once more, then leaned back. “We need to clean your leg now.”
I sat up with a grunt and reached for the fastening on my trousers.
Sahora turned around immediately. “Tell me when you’re ready.”
I worked my boots off, then carefully tugged my trousers down. The movement pulled at the wound on my calf, and my vision went white for a second.
“Ready,” I managed.
She turned back, eyes already locked on my leg.
The gash was ugly, ragged, swollen, and still bleeding. Sahora knelt and got to work without hesitation.
“Can you keep telling me your story?” My breathing was uneven. “Please.”
Her hands shook again, barely visible this time. She cleared her throat like it was nothing.
“I got into his house,” she said, wiping blood away with the cloth. “And found out he was prepared for me.”
She paused mid-motion.
Then, without ceremony, she rolled up her left sleeve.
She tilted her arm toward me, just enough.
A long, jagged scar ran down her forearm, slightly crooked where the bone had healed wrong.
My chest tightened. Not from pain this time.
I met her eyes. “Did you kill him?”
“Yes.”
She didn’t linger on the scar. Didn’t wait for sympathy.
I didn’t reach for it. I didn’t ask for more. I just let her give me what she’d offered.
Her sleeve fell back down. Her attention returned to my wound like the story had been nothing more than a fact.
And somehow, that made it heavier.
“Can you heal yourself now?” she asked, stepping back.
“Yes.”
I hovered my hand over my side. Golden light spilled from my palms. It was always slower for me to heal myself than it was for others. The skin stitched together gradually, the bleeding stopped, and when it was done, three large pink scars remained.
The pain was still there. Magic didn’t help the pain.
I flinched as I shifted to heal my leg. Hovering my hand over my calf, I saw the wound clearly for the first time. It was deeper than the one on my side, long and jagged.
My magic flowed through my hands and into my leg. I watched as the skin sewed itself back together.
When it was done, I fell back on the bed, my eyes heavy.
Sahora sat beside me. “You aren’t allowed to do that again.” Her voice was hoarse. “Not without a plan.”
I looked at her through half-open eyes and moved my hand closer to where hers rested on the bed.
She grabbed it.
“I won’t do it again without including you in the plan,” I rasped.
“Good.”
She moved closer, and I shifted so she could lie down beside me. She did. Slowly, always slowly, I slid my arm around her waist.
She leaned into me.
We lay in silence for a while. I listened to her breathing, something in it comforting me.
“I don’t know what I would do if you didn’t make it.” Her voice was smaller than it had ever been.
I breathed in deeply. “I am here, Sahora. I’m not going anywhere.”
Through the bond, I felt her ease into the words.
“I’m not either.”
She moved closer to me, as if my warmth was holding her steady.