Chapter 20
Merrilee
In the burgeoning twilight, the shack looked smaller than I remembered—like it had somehow shrunk in the hours I'd been gone.
Maybe it was because we'd just come from what amounted to a battlefield.
Maybe it was because I'd ridden with the Welati, their war cries still echoing in my ears.
Maybe it was because I'd seen Ahrick break his chains with his bare hands, watched the metal snap like thread.
Maybe it was because I'd watched Persico drive a sword through Hewes's chest and chop his head off with no more effort than I would squash a bug.
Maybe it was because everything felt different now. Changed.
Persico was back on his throne—metaphorically speaking, at least. The crime lord persona had slipped back over him like a second skin.
He'd offered Roone a position as a lieutenant, with a pledge to curb some of the violence in Fange City which Roone had accepted with a solemn nod and what looked like genuine respect in his eyes.
I could hope for a kinder, gentler Persico. I could hope that what I'd seen today meant something deeper than just posturing.
But I doubted it.
Still, it seemed like a step in the right direction. Baby steps, maybe, but steps nonetheless.
Back in his crime lord persona, Persico couldn't make too much of a fuss over healing Ahrick.
But he had done the bare minimum to keep Ahrick alive—a medi-kit tossed our way with a gruff order to "get that patched up before you bleed all over my floor," and a pointed look that said get him out of here before I have to pretend I don't care if he dies.
Starfield had carried us faithfully through chaos and violence, her iridescent coat now streaked with dust and sweat, her sides heaving from the hard ride.
We dismounted carefully, Ahrick moving stiffly as I helped him down. His wounds were stabilized but still fresh, and every movement made him wince despite his attempts to hide it.
I reached for Starfield's saddle, my fingers working at the buckles. "Come on, girl," I murmured. "Let's get you cleaned up and back in the pen. You've more than earned your rest."
"Wait."
Ahrick's hand closed over mine, stopping me mid-motion. His touch was gentle but firm.
I looked up at him, confused. "What is it?"
He was staring at Starfield with an expression I couldn't quite read—something between gratitude and sorrow, pride and loss all mixed together. His other hand came up to rest on the mare's neck, his fingers tangling in her mane.
"She deserves better than a pen," he said quietly. "Better than being just another mount in a stable, waiting for the next rider who needs her."
I frowned, my hands falling away from the saddle. "What are you saying?"
Ahrick's jaw tightened, and I saw the decision settle over him like a weight. "I'm saying she's earned her freedom. Or at least something close to it."
A Welati warrior approached, materializing from the shadows—a woman with intricate braids woven with copper light and eyes that held the kind of wisdom that came from a lifetime spent understanding animals better than people.
"The kuda," Ahrick said, his voice rough but respectful. He placed a hand on Starfield's neck, and the mare nickered softly, pressing her nose against his shoulder. "She needs proper care. A place where she'll be valued. I've asked the Welati to look after her."
The warrior's expression softened as she looked at Starfield. "She is beautiful," she said quietly, running her hand along the mare's flank with reverence. "Strong heart. Brave spirit."
"She saved our lives," I added, my throat tight. I meant it. Starfield got as much credit as anyone else today. If she hadn't carried me to the Welati in record speed, Ahrick would be dead.
The warrior nodded slowly. "We will care for her as she deserves," she promised, accepting Starfield's reins with both hands. "She will run with our herds, be honored among our people. When her time comes to bear foals, they will carry her strength forward."
Ahrick's hand lingered on Starfield's neck for a moment longer, and I felt the ache of goodbye—sharp and bittersweet.
"Thank you," he said simply.
The warrior inclined her head, then led Starfield away toward the mountains.
I watched until they disappeared into the shadows.
"She'll be happy there," I said softly.
"I know." Ahrick's hand found mine, our fingers threading together with easy familiarity as we turned toward his shack.
We stumbled through the door, exhausted and aching, and I caught sight of us in the cracked mirror hanging on the wall.
We looked like we'd walked through hell and barely made it out the other side.
Blood covered us both—dark streaks across Ahrick's chest, splattered across my face and arms. His shirt was torn where the blaster had caught his shoulder and chest, the fabric stiff with dried blood. My borrowed Welati armor was scratched and dented.
We were a mess—bruised and battered and marked by violence.
But we were alive. And together.
Ahrick swayed slightly, his face going pale, and I caught his arm before he could fall.
"Sit," I said firmly, guiding him toward the bed. "Before you fall over and I have to pick you up."
"I'm fine." His voice was rough, strained.
"You're still bleeding." I pushed him down onto the mattress. "And you've been shot twice. So sit the hell down and let me look at it."
He sat.
Smart man.
I moved to the small cabinet where he kept his medical supplies, my legs shaking with exhaustion. My hands trembled as I pulled out bandages, antiseptic, needle and thread.
Then I turned back to Ahrick.
"Shirt off," I said, my voice steadier than I felt.
He pulled it over his head—slowly, carefully, his face tight with pain. The blaster wound in his shoulder was ugly—a burn that had seared through muscle and tissue, leaving charred edges and raw flesh beneath. The chest wound was just as bad, though not bleeding any longer.
It should have killed him.
It would've killed a human.
But Ahrick was Vaktaire, built to survive things that would destroy lesser species.
I knelt in front of him and examined the wounds with hands that had cleaned injuries on horses and cattle and once, memorably, on my grandfather when he'd caught his hand on barbed wire and refused to go to the doctor.
"These need to be cleaned and stitched," I said quietly, meeting his eyes. "It's going to hurt."
"I know." His jaw was tight, his hands gripping the edge of the cot.
I poured antiseptic onto a clean cloth and pressed it against the burn without warning—because warning would only make it worse.
Ahrick hissed through his teeth, his muscles going rigid beneath my hands.
"Sorry," I whispered.
"Don't be." His voice was rough. Strained. "You're doing what needs to be done."
I worked carefully, methodically, cleaning away the blood and debris. The shoulder wound was deep, plowed through muscle and pelt, still seeping blood. The chest wound was deep but clean—the blaster's heat had cauterized most of it.
Small mercies in a universe that rarely offered them.
I applied healing gel on the chest wound and wrapped it in clean bandages. The shoulder wound needed stitches. My hands moved with practiced efficiency.
"Where did you learn to do this?" Ahrick asked, watching me work.
"My grandpa's ranch." I moved to the cuts on his arms—shallow but numerous. "We couldn't afford a vet for every little thing, so we learned to handle it ourselves."
"You're good at it."
"I'm competent." I cleaned another cut, my touch as gentle as I could make it. "There's a difference."
"No." His hand caught mine, stilling my movement. "You're good at it. You're good at a lot of things you don't give yourself credit for."
I looked up and found him watching me with an intensity that made my breath catch.
"You rode into battle," he said softly. "You brought the Welati. You saved my life."
"You would have done the same for me."
"That's not the point." His thumb traced slow circles on the back of my hand. "You're a warrior, Merrilee. A true warrior. Not because you killed or fought, but because you did what needed to be done when it mattered most. And I'm proud of you."
The words warmed me—unexpected and overwhelming.
Proud.
I blinked hard against the sudden sting of tears.
"Thank you," I whispered, my voice cracking.
He pulled me closer, his forehead resting against mine, his breath warm on my face.
"You're magnificent," he said with absolute conviction. "And I don't deserve you."
"Yes, you do."
"Merrilee—"
"Yes. You. Do." I pulled back enough to meet his eyes. "And I'm not going to let you argue about it. Not now. Not ever."
His mouth curved into a smile—small and tentative but real.
"Stubborn."
"You have no idea." I returned to my work, cleaning the last of his wounds with steady hands.
I finished bandaging his arms, wrapping the worst of the cuts in clean white cloth. He sat still through all of it, patient and quiet, watching me like he was memorizing every movement, every touch.
When I was done, I sat back on my heels and surveyed my work. He looked like he'd been through a war—which he had—but at least he wasn't bleeding anymore.
"Your turn," he said, standing slowly, carefully, his movements stiff with pain.
"I'm fine."
"You're covered in blood." He pulled me to my feet with surprising gentleness. "And you need to clean up before it sets."
He was right.
The blood was already drying on my skin, sticky and uncomfortable. My hair was matted with it—whether mine or someone else's, I didn't know and didn't want to think about. My clothes were ruined beyond saving.
Ahrick moved to the small basin in the corner and filled it with water from a barrel outside the door. He dipped a cloth in the water and wrung it out.
"Come here," he said quietly, his voice gentle.
I went.
He started with my face—gentle strokes that wiped away the blood and grime, revealing skin underneath. His touch was careful, reverent, like I was something precious that might break if he wasn't gentle enough.