26. Phyllo-Based Joy #2
As we walked down the corridor, his thumb settled against the inside of my wrist where my pulse was probably betraying exactly how not-steady I actually was.
“Your hands are still shaking.”
“Residual adrenaline.” I said, my voice slightly breathless. “Physiological response to extreme stress. Remember? Perfectly normal.”
“I know what it is. Just making sure you're alright.”
And that was the problem, wasn't it? The gentleness. The way he'd held me and rubbed circles on my back until the trembling stopped. The way he kept checking on me, kept positioning himself between me and potential danger, kept looking at me like—
Like what? Like I mattered? Like he'd meant it when he said neither of us had to fall apart alone?
I'd spent so long being the defective girl with no ember.
The girl people looked at with pity and avoided with discomfort.
But Griffon looked at me as if I were someone worth protecting, someone worth saving.
But more than anything else, someone worth keeping.
My chest tightened in a way that had nothing to do with smoke inhalation.
“Wren?” His voice pulled me back.
“Sorry. Just thinking.”
“About?”
About how your hand fits mine, as if it were carved to match.
How safe I felt pressed against you in that alleyway, even though we were running for our lives.
And how I've started noticing completely inappropriate things like the dark green that borders your irises and the way your voice drops when you say my name.
“The festival,” I lied. “And whether the baklava will live up to my expectations.”
His mouth quirked, and I absolutely did not notice how it transformed his entire face. “Of course, that's what you're thinking about.”
“I have priorities.”
“Clearly.”
The palace physician was an older man with gentle hands and wrinkles around kind eyes. He welcomed us into the infirmary, which smelled of minty salve and clean linen.
“You first,” he said to Griffon, gesturing to the padded exam table.
“No, see to her.”
The physician arched a brow at Griffon. “You have a deep laceration on your arm and significant abrasions on your wrists. The young lady has minor—.”
“Her. First.”
Ah yes, the classic ‘I’m actively bleeding out but let’s prioritize the person with the paper cut’ approach to triage.
Very medically sound. I wanted to file an official complaint, but the look in Griffon's eyes stopped me. It wasn’t anger or stubbornness.
It was something else. Something that looked almost like fear.
The physician seemed to recognize it, too. He nodded slowly and turned to me. “Very well. Please sit.”
As the physician cleaned and bandaged my scraped palms and the burns on my ankles from the kindling, Griffon stood against the wall near the bright, ceiling-height windows.
Just watching. With his arms crossed, his eyes never left me.
When I winced at the sting of salve on raw skin, a muscle in his jaw jumped.
His knuckles had even gone white where he gripped his forearms. For someone who had just survived almost being set on fire with remarkable composure, he seemed quite distressed about watching someone else get minor first aid.
“All done,” the physician said finally, stepping back. “Nothing that won't heal in a few days.” He turned to Griffon. “Now, you.”
Griffon sat down reluctantly, as if leaving his post by the wall required physical effort. The physician began slowly unwrapping the soiled, frayed bandage on his forearm, revealing—
Twin gods above.
The wound underneath was worse than I'd thought. With ragged skin along the edges, it was deep enough that I could see muscle. My stomach turned.
“You tore the stitches,” the physician muttered, reaching for needle and thread.
Yes, well, breaking through steel manacles and fighting armed soldiers will do that. Just another day for Griffon.
He said nothing, just stared at the far wall as the physician worked. I watched his face for a reaction to the needle piercing his skin again and again. But other than the slight tightening around his eyes, there was none.
The manacles had caused deep grooves in the skin around his wrists.
Rubbed raw in places and bleeding, the bruising spread across his skin like storm clouds.
The physician cleaned and wrapped the wounds with practiced efficiency, then moved to the gash near his temple and his split knuckles.
Through it all, Griffon remained still and unconcerned.
I found myself cataloging his injuries like an academic exercise. Laceration, forearm, deep. Abrasions, bilateral, severe. Contusion, left temple. Multiple lacerations, both hands. As if reducing them to clinical terms would make them easier to look at.
It didn’t work.
“You’re quite fortunate,” the physician said as he tied off the last bandage. “These could have been much worse.”
Griffon’s mouth twitched as he stood. “I’ve had worse.”
That one sentence shouldn’t have been as unsettling as it was.
The cool corridor we stepped into was a sharp contrast to the infirmary’s warmth.
“We don't have to go to the festival. I can tell them you need rest.”
Something warm unfurled in my chest at the concern in his voice.
“I’m all right. Really.” I managed a small smile. “I want to go. Eat ridiculous amounts of baklava and feel normal for a few hours.”
He studied me for a long moment, as if trying to determine the truth in my words. Finally, he nodded slowly. “If you change your mind—”
“I’ll tell you,” I promised.
A servant appeared then, bowing low. “The bathing chambers are prepared. If you'll follow me?”
Griffon's protective instincts immediately kicked back in. “I’ll wait outside. In case—”
“Griffon.” My fingers patted his forearm. “I don't need help bathing.”
His nostrils flared. “That's not what I—”
“I know.” And I did know. He was worried. Worried that the events of the morning would catch up to me when I was by myself. “But I can do this.”
His concern slowly shifted to a mixture of understanding and a little respect.
I gave him a reassuring smile and followed the servant to a private bathing chamber filled with steam and the scent of rose oil. She bowed and retreated. As soon as the door clicked shut, my shoulders slumped. The enormity of the morning crashed over me. Alone. Finally alone.
I stared at the closed door for a moment before reaching up to latch the bolt . I pulled on the handle once. Twice. Three times for good measure. If ever I needed my trauma coping methods, it was now.
Turning toward the pool, I took a deep breath to calm my frazzled nerves.
The water was clear and inviting, its steam rising in lazy spirals.
For a moment I just stool there, trying to reconcile the girl who'd woken up this morning expecting to burn with the girl who was now preparing for a festival bath.
Life sure comes at you at lightning speed sometimes.
Sinking into the water, I hissed as the heat found every scrape and burn. But once I adjusted, it was bliss. The warmth sank into muscles I didn’t realize were still locked tight with fear.
I scrubbed away the smoke and sweat and terror until the water was gray with ash and dirt.
It occurred to me I was literally washing away the evidence of my near-execution.
The soot that had settled into every pore, the smell of burning wood that clung to my skin, the phantom heat of flames that had come far too close—all swirled away in cloudy water.
When I finally emerged, wrapped in soft linen that whispered against my damp skin, I found festival clothes laid out and waiting.
The fabric was impossibly soft, finer than anything I'd ever worn.
I ran my fingers over the embroidery of the ivory skirt, feeling the raised gold threads catch against my still-tender palms, and then slipped the short-sleeved top over my head.
The scarf was so delicate I worried I might tear it just by breathing wrong, but when I draped it over my shoulder, it fell in elegant folds that somehow made me look like I knew what I was doing.
I stilled as I caught my reflection in the mirror on the far wall. I didn’t look like someone who'd been on a pyre hours ago. Or like a girl who'd lived in the Citadel her whole life wearing nothing but wool robes.
Taking a breath, I tried to compose myself before facing Griffon again. Which was ridiculous. We'd survived airship crashes, escaped slave traders, and nearly burned to death. I'd seen him covered in blood and dirt, exhausted and injured. He’d held me through storms and stargazing.
But somehow the thought of him seeing me dressed in silk instead of rags, looking almost pretty instead of perpetually disheveled, made my stomach flutter in a way that falling from airships hadn't managed.
This was absurd. I'd bargained with kings and solved impossible puzzles. I'd collapsed scaffolding on armed men and said hello to a sea serpent. Surely I could walk down a corridor without my heart attempting acrobatics.
I straightened my shoulders and adjusted the scarf one last time. Then I opened the door, saw him waiting, and every rational thought scattered like startled birds.
His hair was still damp, slicked back from his face, and I could see the full extent of the scar through his right eyebrow.
He wore a long, fitted tunic in ivory with gold threading, paired with slim sirwal trousers.
I had never seen him in such light colors.
He looked taller somehow, his shoulders broader.
He looked less dangerous and more… polished.
Less ‘I could kill you seventeen different ways’ and more ‘I could kill you seventeen different ways but make it look dashing.’
His eyes tracked over me for seconds longer than I thought necessary. “You look…” He paused, searching for words. “Different.”