The Wounded Return
? Ivy ?
By late afternoon, the fortress gates open, and the wounded reach the infirmary before the rest of us have fully dismounted.
Eastmere’s smoke followed us for most of the road. By the time the towers rose through the snow, it had settled into our clothes and hair, a smell the clean fortress air can’t take from us.
Nora’s apprentices carry the worst wounded inside while Eastmere’s families remain behind under Carr’s protection.
Mara keeps Tobin with her in the village, and Harl is buried beneath Eastmere stone.
Lysa and Brenna don’t return at all. The empty shelves, false receipts, and crown-marked wagon are sealed into evidence cases behind Holt’s seat.
Someone weakened Eastmere before the first torch was thrown.
Roman gives orders before his boots clear the snow: riders back to the old watch trail when the storm breaks, no pursuit past the ridge without confirmation, and every eastern transfer record delivered to Holt before noon. Holt accepts the evidence case with a face gone pale from anger.
Nora checks me as soon as we reach the fortress. My hands are cold, my head aches behind my eyes, and soldiers keep looking at me as though they expect Luna to mean I know what happens next.
“You’re exhausted,” Nora says.
“I know.”
“Then sleep.”
“I’ll try.”
Her eyes narrow. “That isn’t yes.”
“It’s honest.”
Eastmere took something from her too. Blood reached the cuffs of her coat and dried there during the ride. She hands me broth and decides not to argue.
“Try anyway.”
I lie down in the Luna rooms with the fire low. The fortress doesn’t sleep around me. Boots pass the door. Voices rise and fall in the corridor. Every sound becomes Eastmere if I close my eyes too long.
Ansel’s terror still lives beneath my skin. So does Mara’s grief, and the sight of a young wolf dropping to one knee because I gave him a word I don’t understand.
Exhaustion wins eventually.
Pain wakes me before dawn.
It sits beneath my left ribs, old and heavy, and the next pull of the mark gives it a name.
Roman.
I leave the suite barefoot, sending the guard for Nora as I go. The mark can’t show me a map, but it tightens when I choose the wrong corridor and eases when I turn toward the training wing.
The side-chamber door is open. Roman stands at the practice table with one hand braced against the wood and blood darkening the bandage at his ribs.
“You’re bleeding.”
“I reopened an old wound.”
“Alone, before dawn.”
“That part was deliberate.”
Pain moves through him, then through the bond. I catch the back of a chair.
His face closes. “You felt that.”
“Yes.”
“You should go back to bed.”
“No.”
“Ivy.”
“You don’t get to send me away from pain I’m already carrying.”
He looks down. “I know.”
The admission takes some of the heat from my anger. I stop an arm’s length away.
“Did the road do this?”
“The road, the fight, the ride back, and a poor decision about lifting an evidence case.”
“You carried the case?”
“Holt was on the wagon with the wounded.”
“So you chose the heaviest thing nearby.”
“I chose the thing that contained proof.”
“That’s not a defense.”
“No.”
He sounds tired enough that I can’t decide whether he’s agreeing or saving his strength.
“May I see it?”
“I can sleep elsewhere.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
After a moment, he nods.
The old scar has split along one edge. The wound itself isn’t deep, but the flesh around it is rigid with pain. I lift my hand toward it, then wait.
“Yes,” Roman says.
I touch the skin beside the wound.
Heat runs through my wrist, followed by grief, exhaustion, and the hard habit of standing alone whenever anything hurts. Behind it all is the ruined quarry bridge and the knowledge that two girls were taken beyond it while he was responsible for bringing everyone else home.
Roman’s breath catches. “Step back.”
“Is that what you want?”
“It’s safer.”
“For which one of us?”
He doesn’t answer quickly enough.
“You keep using safety when you mean fear,” I say.
“The last vow I trusted left this scar.” His voice is rough. “This bond feels nothing like it. That should make it easier.”
“It doesn’t.”
“No.”
I let my hand remain where it is. I don’t try to take the pain. I only breathe until his breathing begins to match mine and the tension beneath my palm eases.
The room tilts slightly. I grip the edge of the table with my free hand.
Roman notices. “Enough.”
“I’m still standing.”
“Barely.”
“That hasn’t stopped you all night.”
His mouth almost curves, then pain erases it.
A knock sounds at the open door. The guard I sent for Nora stands in the corridor with a folded relay slip instead.
“Healer Nora is with the Eastmere boy,” she says. “This came from the quarry scouts.”
Roman reaches for it. I take the page first because his other hand is still holding his side.
The storm has damaged the western trail, but the scouts found a torn strip of blue wool caught beneath the broken bridge. Mara identified the weave as Lysa’s coat. There’s no blood on it.
She isn’t safe or found, but she was alive when she crossed.
Roman reads over my shoulder. The grief inside him changes shape. It doesn’t lessen, but it has somewhere to move.
“Send two riders to the south quarry when the wind drops,” he tells the guard. “No pursuit past the old border post without Vance permission. Have Dane choose them.”
The guard leaves.
“You could have waited for Nora before giving orders,” I say.
“I could have.”
“You’re terrible at being injured.”
“I’ve had limited practice doing it well.”
His gaze drops to my mouth.
Mine does the same.
His hand rises, stopping near my face. “May I?”
“Yes.”
His fingers settle against my cheek. I lean into them, and the distance between us narrows until his breath touches mine.
Then he stops.
The rejection is small, private, and still painful.
“Ivy.”
“I know I’m tired.” I pull my hand from his side. “I know the bond is loud. I also know I want you.”
His control slips for one breath.
“I want you too.”
“Then why does your fear always get the final answer?”
His eyes close.
“My wound is open, and you’re still carrying Eastmere. I don’t trust tonight.”
“I can.”
“That’s the problem,” he says, then winces as soon as the words leave him.
Anger steadies me. “You trust me with frightened wolves, but not with this?”
Roman has no quick answer. I’m glad. A perfect answer would only make this easier for him.
Nora appears in the doorway with her sleeves rolled and murder in her eyes.
“Why,” she asks, “are both of you upright?”
Roman lowers his hand. “Ivy brought a scout report.”
“And did the report reopen your side?”
“No.”
“Then sit.”
He sits.
Nora points at me. “You too.”
“I’m not bleeding.”
“You’re barefoot, shaking, and holding yourself together out of spite.”
I sit.
Roman looks at me while Nora cuts away his ruined bandage.
“I’m not saying no forever,” he says.
“I know.”
“That doesn’t make tonight hurt less.”
“No.”
Nora glances between us and wisely decides not to interpret anything.
I stay until the new bandage is tied. Then I take the relay slip back to my rooms, still angry with Roman and still relieved that Lysa was alive when she crossed the bridge.
Both feelings survive the walk.