Chapter Thirty-Seven
To Bleed and to Belong
He gave his blood to the fire, and she gave her heart to the man it left behind.
The border lights flared at last—lanterns burning in a grassy rise, doors carved into the knoll like hollow mouths.
Relief struck sharp in Amerei’s chest. Hours of riding—Viktor fading in and out against her father’s back, every breath thinner than the last—and now they were here.
Elváliev.
The scent of rain and pine cut through the smoke, the first breath of peace after hours of ruin.
Storne called ahead, “Matteo—ride! Tell your father to ready for surgery.”
The young soldier spurred forward, hooves drumming twice the pace of the others. By the time they reached the stables, he was already back, breathless, waiting.
Storne’s horse dropped to its knees. The straps came loose. Soldiers eased Viktor’s weight down, his head lolling, a broken groan spilling as they hauled him between them.
“The delirium’s worn off,” Storne said, grim.
“Storm help him.”
“Inside,” Matteo gasped. “Quickly.”
Amerei stumbled after them. Her father intercepted, thrusting a tunic into her hands.
“Cover yourself. And stay out.”
“I’m not leaving him.”
Her voice snapped, steady despite the tremor in her fingers.
“Amerei—”
“I won’t leave him. I won’t let him suffer alone.”
Her stare made him falter. Dask, she looked so much like Cassandra. Duty warred with something older—love, fear, the memory of another battlefield and another daughter’s cry. At last, he caught her hand, pulling her with him. “Then come.”
They reached the door just as Viktor’s scream ripped the night apart. The sound gutted her, tore her open.
The room smelled of herbs and smoke, lanterns throwing long shadows against the mud-brick walls. An elven man waited inside, sleeves rolled past scarred forearms, a leather apron hanging heavy at his chest.
“Lay him here.”
With one sweep of his arm, he cleared a long wooden table.
Storne met his eye and gave a short nod. “Roland.”
The healer inclined his head once, already reaching for his instruments. His hands, worn and ready, wasted no time with questions.
Scalpels gleamed in the lamplight as he worked mercilessly at the burned flesh, cutting fabric away, peeling charred velvet from raw skin.
Amerei pressed her face to her father’s arm, nails digging through his sleeve, eyes shut against the sight until she heard Viktor gasp for air again.
Matteo looked up, sweat streaking his face.
“We’ve opened one side. He’s working the other.”
His voice dropped, grim with truth.
“This is worse than anything we’ve seen.”
Storne swallowed hard.
His gaze narrowed on Viktor, on the veins bulging beneath his skin with every cry.
“Do what you must,” he ordered. “Just—keep him breathing.”
Matteo hurried back to the table.
Storne stood rigid, one arm locked around Amerei’s shoulders, holding her firm as Roland worked. Each strip of cloth peeled from Viktor’s body revealed new ruin—blistered flesh, torn raw, blood slicking his chest in rivers.
In the pause between cries, Storne dragged Amerei to the far wall and pressed her quivering arms against a basin. His voice left no room for argument.
“Stay here.”
This time, she obeyed.
He crossed to the head of the table, giving Matteo and his father space, and braced Viktor’s arm against the wood.
Viktor’s eyes, wild and fever-bright, found his for an instant. Helpless. Pleading.
Storne cupped his face, shutting his lids with his thumb—
because neither of them should see what came next.
Viktor’s scream tore the rafters.
Roland ripped away what still clung to his collarbone. The skin beneath was raw, angry, bleeding—like a cuirass carved from the hide of some conquered beast.
Matteo caught his father’s look, then bent close to Viktor.
“We need to sit you forward to reach your back. Do you want to rest a moment?”
Viktor’s breath shuddered.
“No,” he ground out. “Do it.”
They lifted him.
And his cry rattled Amerei’s bones.
Matteo caught him across both arms, shouting over his shoulder, “Lady Zrynon—water!”
Amerei startled, then rushed to the basin, fumbling for a pitcher. She filled a cup and pressed it into Matteo’s hand, then dug for a cloth as ordered. Storne caught the panic in her eyes, the way her fingers shook as she pressed the towel into his hand.
Viktor swallowed, sputtered, and could drink no more. Storne wiped his brow, forcing his voice into steadiness.
“Thank you, Amerei,” he said to her. “Now—go back to the basin.”
She didn’t move.
Her gaze clung to Viktor’s broken body, to the ruin seared into him. Words trembled at her lips, but before she could speak, Storne cut her off, sharper than he meant:
“Amerei. Please.”
She willed her breath not to shake—Viktor needed her calm, not her grief.
A single tear slipped free, tracing her cheek. She turned away at last, each step from him tearing something loose, like leaving half her heart bleeding on the table.
Roland was waiting, iron instruments in hand. “Ready.”
Matteo lifted Viktor’s chin. “Your shoulders bore the worst. If we can take it in one piece—”
“Yes,” Viktor rasped. “Just do it.”
Matteo shoved a stick between his teeth. “Bite down.”
Storne moved to the far side of the table at Matteo’s urging. The soldier’s whisper was low, dire. “Don’t let him move.”
Storne nodded once. Without a word, he wrapped both arms tight around Viktor’s waist, bracing for the storm.
Roland gave the count. “Three… two…”
The knife sank in.
Viktor arched against Storne’s hold as they slit the scorched skin of his back, peeling melted cloth from blistered flesh.
Blood ran hot over Storne’s arms. He only held tighter, jaw locked, as Matteo and his father worked in rhythm, trading instruments in silence while Viktor groaned against the wood.
“I should promote you for this,” Storne muttered, voice low at Viktor’s ear.
Viktor bit hard on the stick. “Keep your fecking charity.”
A faint smile ghosted Storne’s mouth. “Stubborn bastard.”
Roland gave a curt nod, and all at once the men ripped the last of the fabric from Viktor’s back.
His scream split chamber.
Blood spilled hot and fast, a cruel echo of the flames that burned him.
“Breathe,” Storne urged, bracing him through the shudder.
The stick clattered from Viktor’s teeth as he gasped for air.
Roland’s sharp eyes found the blood soaking Viktor’s thigh.
“Matteo. Shears.”
Steel snipped through charred fabric.
Matteo tossed the leggings aside and glanced toward Amerei.
“The paste. Quickly.”
Her hands shook, but she obeyed, grinding herbs to pulp. The scent of savorspear cut sharp through smoke and blood. Roland tested the bowl she returned with, his ears lifting.
“Good.”
He bent close to Viktor.
“This will bite, Captain, but it dulls the fire beneath the skin. Enough to get you through the night.”
Viktor’s eyes flickered, a sliver of trust breaking through pain.
The first touch of salve seared. His back arched, a hoarse scream tearing from his chest as if the flames had found him again.
“Hold him,” Roland barked.
Storne tightened his grip, arms locked across Viktor’s chest. Amerei covered her ears, tears streaming.
Matteo worked fast, covering blistered shoulders, chest, and arms. With each press Viktor cried out—ragged, guttural, shattering the stillness—
until at last silence fell, heavy as grief.
Storne bent close, whispering into his ear, “It’s done now, Captain. Rest.”
Relief sagged through Viktor’s frame.
Matteo bound the linen tight, sealing the salve into ruined skin.
Only then did Viktor turn his head, eyes cracked open, finding Amerei in the lamplight. She caught his hand, pressed it to her tear-stained cheek, and kissed it as if sealing a vow.
Storne’s chest twisted. He forced his gaze away, nodding to Roland.
“My men will take him to a bed.”
Roland gestured toward the archway. “Four doors down. Quiet room.”
Storne gave the order, then touched his daughter’s shoulder, steering her gently back.
“Come, Amerei. Let them carry him.”
Roland stepped forward, steady, certain. “He’ll keep through the night, my lady. Savorspear’s a blessed thing. He’ll hold.”
Her eyes clung to Viktor’s, her lips parting with a thousand unsaid words. Tears welled, brimming over.
Not here, Amerei… Storne’s hand lingered at her back, guiding her toward the doorway. Not in front of them. Not while he still suffers.
The next hour blurred.
Viktor dimly remembered voices, the sting of spirits pressed to his lips, the weight of hands binding fresh dressings across raw flesh. Storne’s command carried him through it—It’s over now, Captain. Rest. Then silence.
He lay unmoving in a bed not his own, the rafters of a stranger’s house shadowed above him.
Roland’s wife had come with her gentle hands, smoothing his brow, coaxing water past his cracked lips, loosening the braids that had cut into his scalp. Her care had been quiet, kind—and fleeting.
Now he was alone.
Every nerve screamed, but worse was the stillness, the thought that if he let go, the dark might claim him at last. He swallowed, throat raw, and tried to draw a steady breath.
The world swam, stitched together by pain and the scent of herbs.
Somewhere, a woman’s voice prayed—maybe his mother’s, maybe hers.
Muffled sounds pulled Viktor back from the dark.
“You’re the princess,” Gabriel pressed low, sharp. “You can’t stay here. I’ll keep watch—go back to bed.”
“I know who I am, Gabriel Feindoran.” Amerei’s reply cut quiet. “Do not think I need reminding.”
Gabriel blocked her path, hand braced against the doorframe.
“If you see him like this, it won’t be the burns you’ll carry—it’ll be the choice. To bind yourself to a man the realm will never let you keep.”
Her eyes flashed.
“That isn’t for the realm to decide.”
His jaw worked, grief and anger warring in his face.
“Amerei, he’s Aerdanian. No title, no name the nobles will honor. They will call him nothing—and they’ll call you worse for choosing him.”
She drew a biting breath, but he pressed on, softer now, almost breaking: “I can’t let him destroy himself for it.”
Her fingers tightened around the latch.
“Then let me in, Gabriel.”
Her voice trembled, but her will did not.
“Because he already has.”