Chapter 48
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
RYOT
I hate the infirmary.
Always have. Always will.
The stench hits first—vinegar sharp enough to burn, layered over by cloying herbs: aloe, calendula, yarrow. The ones they use when things start dying.
The ones they used on my mother. Just breathing it in sets my teeth on edge.
There’s no godsdamn privacy.
Elowen’s hovering again. Her soft hands are always there, reaching, fussing, full of well-meaning pity.
She pokes into things that aren’t hers—injuries I didn’t ask her to see.
Pain I’d rather keep mine. At least now that I’m conscious, I can growl at her to back off and be an asshole until she listens.
But I don’t know what she did when I was under.
Four days. Four whole godsdamn days flat on my back in this bed, unconscious while she pulled pain from my marrow, dug into memories that were never meant to be touched.
And judging by the look of her—jaw clenched, eyes shadowed, cheeks sunken—she did too much.
Siofra’s been in and out of the room, all sharp elbows and boundless energy, fetching whatever Elowen asks of her like she’s on some sort of divine mission. Honestly, if you ask me, the kid’s still young enough to need a nursemaid. She shouldn’t be elbow-deep in someone else’s blood.
Of course, no one does ask me, so her constant chatter fills the room. At least she’s talking about something useful.
“...and then Leina demanded they go after you! And then?—”
“How does a little girl know so much about Synod business?” I cut in, not even trying to hide the edge in my voice. Judging by the way Siofra’s describing it, she was practically in the courtyard when Leina lit the world on fire.
Sweet Thayana. What a godsdamn disaster. Because Leina didn’t have enough problems or enemies, she needed to publicly announce that she’s a walking, talking, breathing harbinger of death. Likely the most dangerous gifted of our times.
I run a shaking hand over my face. Again.
Siofra, oblivious to my inner turmoil, huffs, putting her hands on her hips. “I’m not a little girl.”
“Indeed you’re not,” Elowen says, playing peacemaker. “You’re a healer. Very grownup indeed.”
Siofra stands taller, taking a more regal stance, her chin lifted with pride and her shoulders squared, looking every bit the princess she is. She smirks, raising an eyebrow at me as if to say, you see, peasant ?
“And then an entire contingent flew after you, mostly Stormriven because Archon Robias led the contingent himself,” Siofra continues.
My eyebrows jerk up at that little bit of information.
I didn’t think anything would surprise me after hearing that Leina is a godsdamn veilstrider, but an archon leaving the Synod is a rare thing, indeed.
Elowen, never oblivious, watches me carefully, her eyes taking in every nuance of my expression even as she prepares another tonic. But I’m also watching her. And her hands shake before she sets down the jar she’s working on with a bit more force than necessary. The liquid sloshes to the rim.
“Siofra, come pour this,” she says. I narrow my eyes at her, to say: I saw that .
She meets my gaze, lips pressed tight in silent defiance.
Siofra doesn’t seem to notice the tension crackling between us. She bounces over, still chattering.
“...they were going to fly all the way to Solmire Island,” she says, grabbing the jar, “but Einarr had already gotten you to Carrisfal! Isn’t that wild?
They say he didn’t stop at any of the other islands, which shouldn’t even be possible, especially with the condition of his lungs from all the ash! ”
My jaw tightens. There's a weight settling in my chest again, slow and familiar.
Guilt.
Godsdammit, Einarr.
Elowen told me he was out cold for days, too.
But he finally came around yesterday, and from what she said, the healers for the faravars have been working on him nonstop in Carrisfal.
I can feel him now, tucked up against my mind like a stone wall—unyielding, silent, solid.
Even when he's irritated beyond reason—and he is right now—he’s still there. Still with me.
He’s making the flight from Carrisfal to the Synod today. Alone.
I hate that.
I’m restless. Edgy, and pacing even if only in my mind, waiting for him to arrive. Neither of us likes being this far apart.
Siofra brings over the tonic—a nasty mix of golden thread and yarrow—but I down it without comment. I know better than to complain to Elowen.
“When they brought you in, Leina was still supposed to be in the infirmary, too, but she convinced Elowen to let her make a pallet in your room. She slept on the floor with us, like she was a healer herself. She even changed your?—”
“Siofra,” Elowen says sharply. The girl blinks, startled, then clamps her mouth shut. I’m pretty sure Elowen is the only person she listens to. A rare silence follows—but not when I wanted it.
“I think that’s quite enough. It’s time for our patient to rest.”
I glare at Elowen. The princess-turned-healer looks away, avoiding eye contact with me. That’s another detail Elowen left out in her rendition of this story. Leina was here, with me. And knowing that ... Gods. It soothes something in me I didn’t even realize was raw.
I don’t know what exactly she changed while I was unconscious—and frankly, I’m not sure I want to. The possibilities are enough to make me cringe. But even so, I’d take all the embarrassment in the world if it meant she was close.
Safe.
I still ache to see her. The need crawls under my skin, fierce and quiet.
My mind won’t stop feeding me images—Leina, fierce and proud in a forest, defending her brothers. Leina curled in the sand of the pit after Tyrston’s attack. Leina falling from the sky into a battle she should’ve never had to face. Over and over, she’s hurting.
And then, like the gods decided to humor me for once, there’s a soft knock on the door.
Before anyone can speak, Siofra darts to it and flings it wide.
“Leina!” Siofra shouts. It takes every bit of willpower I have not to react to her presence; not to leap over the bed that separates us and scoop her into my arms. Not to rage at her for putting herself in danger.
Not to beg, plead, and trick her into staying behind stone walls forever.
Not to shove her back against the wall and show her exactly what she does to me.
Siofra wraps her skinny arms around Leina’s middle like they’re two old friends, then grabs her by the hand and drags her into the room. I crinkle my brow. When did that mismatched friendship develop?
Leina looks a little bemused but doesn’t hesitate to squeeze Siofra’s hand gently in hers.
“Look!” Siofra points at me. “He’s much better. You make a great healer.”
Then Leina’s eyes land on me—those amber eyes, flecked with gold—and just like that, everything else fades. Siofra’s endless chatter, Elowen’s subtle watching. Gone.
There’s only her.
And godsdamn, she looks good.
No—she looks dangerous.
She’s glowing, but not in some delicate, soft way. Her magic hums around her. There’s a wildness to her now, like she stepped straight out of a storm and brought it with her.
Being tethered to her beast agrees with her.
It’s in the way she stands—rooted, solid.
She knows exactly who the hell she is now.
She’s freshly bathed, the scent of lavender curling in the air, grounding and sharp.
Damp curls cling to her skin in wild spirals, unruly, framing her face with a kind of effortless rebellion.
There’s a flush to her cheeks, a glow that speaks of warmth and vitality.
And then there’s the scar—the golden spiderweb at her temple catches the light, a delicate, gleaming latticework that only deepens her beauty. The touch of a goddess lingers there, etched into her like fire into stone, but it is not the goddess's power that takes my breath away.
It’s hers.
And she’s wearing my shirt—the one I gave her before her first meeting with the archons. It hangs on her like a promise I never meant to say aloud. And deep in my chest, something snarls. Mine.
“So he is,” she murmurs to Siofra, running an easy hand over the girl’s messy hair. Leina tugs on her braid with the easy familiarity of sisters. “Though I can’t take credit for all your hard work.”
“It was Elowen,” Siofra says, her tone suddenly very old and knowledgeable. “Her healing is unmatched.”
I watch them—the easy way Leina folds into the space, how Elowen seems to breathe easier with her in the room. The way Leina’s hand trails gently down Elowen’s arm, grounding her. “I’ll stay with him.”
Elowen deflates, the exhaustion dragging her down. She gives Leina a tired, thankful smile. “Siofra,” she calls. “We need to go to the herb garden and harvest more yarrow.”
Siofra throws her head back in a dramatic roll. “Ugh. But we collected it yesterday,” she complains. “And Leina’s here! I haven’t seen her since she left for training this morning.”
“Come along,” Elowen says simply. Her eyes track knowingly between Leina and me.
Siofra storms out of the chamber like only a 12-year-old girl can, arms swinging at her sides, mumbling angrily as she goes.
Elowen closes the door with a last, hard look for me as Leina crosses the room. Be careful , it says.
Elowen sees too much. She always has. The door closes with a quiet click, and Leina comes to an awkward stop at the end of the bed.
“You’re very close to the healers,” I say, probing.
A wry smile. “Well. I’m in here a lot.” She runs nervous fingers over the wooden footboard of my bed. Her smile widens. “I have to admit, it’s nice to be the one on this side of the bed.”
That pulls a smile from me, but it doesn’t last very long.
There’s a hesitancy in her eyes, in the careful way she stands, that exasperates me. Like she’s unsure of me.
I know what I should do—drive that uncertainty between us like a blade. It would make things easier, safer.
But this girl? She’s a fracture in all my defenses.