28. Willow
Chapter 28
Willow
A t the Nexus, the air shimmers with an unnatural stillness. Earlier in the week, grief hung heavy in the air. Today, laughter tinkles like crystal. Fae nobles twirl in dazzling gowns, their faces masks of practiced joy. But beneath the veneer, I catch flashes of strain—a trembling hand here, a too-wide smile there.
As we pass the Registration building, a commotion catches my eye. A cart laden with exquisite delicacies—glistening fruits, aromatic pastries, and meats so tender they seem to melt—is being unloaded. Bejeweled, well-dressed Radiants oversee the delivery.
“More supplies for the ball, I suppose,” Geraldine mutters, her voice tight.
I notice a group of Chaser workers, their glamour flickering to reveal gaunt cheeks and hollow eyes. One reaches for a fallen grape, only to snatch their hand back as a Radiant’s polished gaze sweeps over them.
“Don’t look,” Max warns us under his breath. “Noticing too much can be dangerous here.”
The stark divide between abundance and want knots my stomach. How had I missed this before?
It’s worse when we get to the heart of the Nexus—a new House of Stone Tower gleams, pristine and unmarred. There is zero evidence of rubble. Even the grass bears no scars. It seems impossible, illogical, and absurd that they managed to build a tower in the span of a few days. No one questions it. They just murmur about the incredible power of the Radiants and continue on their way.
“It’s like it never happened,” Geraldine whispers, her voice tight with disbelief.
Max nods, his eyes hard. “Welcome to Avorlorna, where inconvenient truths vanish faster than morning dew.”
The week passes with a surreal air of normalcy if such a thing exists in a tournament designed to train mortals as war fodder. Bodin escorts me to every class. Goodfellow doesn’t show. No one mentions the House of Stone debacle, their deaths, or their Shadow and Sylvanar. No one mentions Fox.
The House of Tides runs the morning Magical Defense and Counter Magic class. Much of what they teach is useless to mortals without charms. The message is clear: trust your Radiants and know your place. It reminds me of what Colin said—young mortals never achieve a better station than recruit. I worry he hasn’t turned up at the House of Shadow.
Max splits off to take a different class than Geraldine and I. Bodin waits until we’re safely inside before leaving to do whatever the Knight Protector usually does. We file into the House of Moonlight Tower classroom for medical training and sit in the second row.
Lady Selene commands the center of the room, her pale tartan dress shimmering like liquid moonlight. The Hollow Hunt gleams in her unnerving, luminous eyes as she surveys the settling students. Heath, her tall and slim Shadow, sits behind her with a box of medical supplies. Alfie, Irisa, and Becky huddle nearby, whispering. Alfie’s gaze darts to me, a silent promise of unwanted conversation. I’ll need to bolt after class to avoid him.
“Good tidings, precious dew drops,” Lady Selene’s melodic voice fills the air. “To understand the importance of battlefield triage, we must first grasp the concept of empathy and perspective. Let me share a tale as old as the stars: the fable of The Two-Faced Moon.”
Her eyes, luminous with the Hollow Hunt’s glow, sweep across the room. “In a realm long ago beyond mortal understanding, the moon was a living entity with two distinct faces: one radiant silver, basking in adoration, and one shadowed, often forgotten or feared. The silver face grew vain with constant praise, while the shadow face bore the weight of neglect.”
I lean forward, drawn in despite myself. Geraldine’s eyes widen with interest beside me.
“This imbalance,” Lady Selene continues, “caused chaos in the world below. Seasons shifted unpredictably. Tides behaved erratically. Rhiannon, a lesser-known fertility deity, heard the moon’s plight. ‘Why do you wobble so? she asked. The moon shared its woes, speaking of its divided nature and the chaos it caused. ‘Balance,’ she said, ‘is not achieved through dominance or neglect but by recognizing the worth of both sides.’ Only when the moon learned to rotate fully, integrating both faces, did harmony return. Now the beings on earth celebrate the full cycle, finding beauty and wisdom in both light and darkness.”
She pauses, letting the message sink in. “Just as the moon learned to embrace both its faces, we too must recognize the value in all aspects of ourselves and others, especially in times of crisis. True strength comes from balance and understanding the light and shadow within us all.”
I shift, acutely aware of my hidden darkness. This fable reminds me of home, of how Queen Maebh drew too much from the inky side of the Well and ended up creating a taint in the magic source. That taint warped my intention to wake an army of undead, instead waking so many more. Imbalance can tip both ways. We can’t eradicate the dark. We have to learn to live with it.
Lady Selene’s gaze lingers on me as she transitions. “Now, we practice. Empathy and perspective are our most potent battlefield tools. Pair up.”
Alfie’s voice cuts through the rustling. “With all due respect, Lady Selene, empathy has no place on the battlefield. This is my fifth year. Sentiment only gets you killed.”
A chill runs through me at his familiar mindset.
Lady Selene turns, her expression serene but her eyes sharp. “Ah, young Alfie. Five years, yet wisdom eludes you. Have you never relied on a comrade? Never drawn strength from shared struggle?”
Alfie’s smugness falters. His gaze flicks to me, then darts away. Lady Selene continues, her words shimmering. “Empathy isn’t weakness. It binds a fighting force and anticipates ally and enemy. Without it, we’re solitary moons, forever half-shadowed.”
The class nods. Alfie flushes, tapping an odd rhythm on his Chaser charm. My spine tingles—what’s he doing?
“Now,” Lady Selene says, “let’s begin. Remember—understanding others helps us understand ourselves.”
Heath approaches with supplies.
“Ready to play doctor?” Geraldine winks, nervousness beneath her smile.
“Sure,” I say. “That’s an old-world healer, right?”
Her expression falters. “I forget sometimes you’re not really one of us.”
I resist tugging my hair over my fae ears.
She quickly adds, “I meant an old-worlder. Not friend.”
“I get it. Don’t worry.”
But as we clear space to work, I feel less connected to her than I should. We settle on the floor amidst bandages and sour-smelling elixirs. Medicinal herbs mingle with Avorlorna’s sweetness.
“Okay,” I start, faking calm. “You’ve got a sprained ankle. What’s your name?”
Geraldine quirks an eyebrow. “Um . . . Geraldine?”
I nudge her. “Pretend you’re a stranger.”
She ponders. “Call me Scary Spice.”
“Weird name, but okay.”
Nearby mortals chuckle. I assume it’s a funny reference from her time and want to ask, but we’re ushered back into the exercise. Caring for another soothes me as we practice treating different injuries. It’s a return to basics, a reminder of the empathy often lost in quick fae healing. I guess that’s why the Folk have fables about it.
The door bursts open. Puck saunters in, his grin chilling me. Slicked auburn hair and green embroidered silks set off his stony gaze and chalky skin. White powder dusts his shoulders.
“Someone’s got a bad case of dandruff,” Geraldine mumbles.
Lady Selene’s smile tightens. “Your presence always brings . . . illumination, Lord Robin Goodfellow. Though one wonders if it aligns with Rhiannon’s teachings of balance and harmony.”
Puck grins wider. “Why, of course, I’d be delighted to take over your lesson.”
Her jaw drops, then closes. The Baleful Hunt’s eyes flash, and she forces a smile.
Interesting.
Now that he is dragon-bonded like her, she seems to fear him. Or at least is wary. She walks out of the way as he circles the room. He stops by Geraldine and me, his opaque eyes taking in our lesson.
“You know,” he announces to the class, “sometimes the one wielding the blade is most qualified to treat the wound. Isn’t that right, Nothing?”
The world lurches. I’m in a dark room, blood-scent thick in the air.
My own voice, younger and hollow, recites mechanically:
“Femoral artery severed. Ten seconds: Massive blood loss begins. Twenty seconds: Blood pressure drops precipitously. Thirty seconds: Consciousness fades. Forty-five seconds: Brain activity ceases. Sixty seconds: Heart stops.”
A whimper from the figure before me, bound and bleeding. My hands, slick with red, hold the blade that caused this suffering.
“Good,” Nero nods. “Now make it happen. Show me you understand.”
“Willow?” Geraldine’s voice snaps me back. Her warm hand grounds me. “Are you okay?”
I blink rapidly, banishing the phantom scent of blood.
“Fine,” I lie, unable to meet her eyes.
Under Puck’s tutelage, the lesson quickly escalates. Mock injuries become severe—crushed throats, eviscerated bowels. My earlier calm evaporates.
Heath offers gentle guidance amidst the tension. A commotion across the room draws my attention. Irisa kneels on Becky’s throat, pretending to be in a battle. Becky struggles, tapping Irisa’s knee.
Lady Selene quickly moves across the floor, saying, “Remember the moon’s lesson. In the darkness, we find light’s seeds. In pain, healing’s potential.”
As the lesson nears its end, Puck claps his hands. “Let’s make this fun, shall we? One final test—a real wound to treat.”
Lady Selene’s eyes flash. “Ser Robin, we tread dangerous ground. Rhiannon teaches growth through reflection, not forced trauma.”
Puck’s look silences her. “Sometimes, true learning requires sharp reality.”
“Balance is not achieved through dominance or neglect, but by recognizing the worth of both sides.”
“Are you saying we must recognize the worth of Nightmares robbing our people of children?”
Her lips part. No words come out.
“Hm.” He gives her a scathing once-over before addressing the class. “Sounds exactly like something a dragon-bonded would say. They’ve never fought in the belly of a battle, have they?”
Hesitant murmurs of agreement spur him on.
“It’s hypocritical, isn’t it?” He sneers at Lady Selene. “They preach about empathy, but do any of them feel our wounds when we’re sliced open by the enemy? This is why I will be your first member of the Shining Host to enter the thick of battle with our prevailing exhibitors.”
The voices of agreement grow louder, encouraging. I have to admit, Puck has a way of capturing approval without really proving himself. He’s a slimy sucker who doesn’t deserve this praise. Maybe that’s why I blurt out a fault in his claim. “How can you be the first? Aren’t the Knights?—”
“They have no working dragon,” he snaps, cutting me off. Visibly flustered, he quickly points to Geraldine and me. “You two demonstrate a battle wound. Make it real—needing stitches. This is battlefield triage, after all.”
Lady Selene protests, “We didn’t practice suturing.”
“I saw some playing with tourniquets and needles.”
“That’s—”
“Well, then this really will be an absolute lark,” Puck laughs. Sniggers ripple through the room.
The walls seem to close in, and I feel like I’m underwater. But as Puck’s challenge hangs in the air, a new resolve crystallizes. I may have been forged in cruelty, but I won’t let it define me. Not anymore.
I accept the dagger he gives me but offer it to Geraldine. I’d rather be the wounded one, not her. Unfortunately, the tremble in my hand cannot be stilled. My voice sounds less sure than it should when I say, “You take the lead.”
Her eyes widen. “You trust me to wound you like that?”
“Of course.”
“Is the Shadow afraid to get the job done?” Puck sneers. “If you don’t make it realistic, I’ll do it for you.”
Geraldine glares at Puck, then pushes the blade to me and says, “You’re not afraid, are you?”
Yes. “No.”
“It’s okay,” she whispers, squeezing my fingers on the hilt. “I trust you.”
Ten seconds: Massive blood loss begins.
Tension heightens. Eyes filled with morbid excitement and trepidation watch me. With shaking hands, I mentally map out Geraldine’s anatomy.
“Let’s not take all day,” Puck drawls.
“Fuck him,” Geraldine mutters. “You’ve got this.”
Twenty seconds: Blood pressure drops precipitously.
Her uncertain tone spins my head. Fear or doubt in my knowledge? My trembling hands might nick a vital spot if I don’t pull myself together.
Thirty seconds: Consciousness fades.
I point the blade at various spots on her body, murmuring to myself the safest places to make a deep wound.
“Upper thigh, away from the femoral artery,” I mutter, eerily calm. “Outer bicep, avoiding brachial. Lower abdomen, shallow to avoid peritoneum . . .”
Geraldine’s eyes widen, shock and confusion flashing. “Willow, how do you?—”
I don’t let her finish. With a swift, precise movement, I make a deep cut on the back of her upper arm. Her sharp cry of pain tightens my throat, but I hold her steady, hold her like I did my victims as they bled out in my arms. The blade parted flesh with sickening ease, and blood wells up quickly, trickling down her arm in rivulets.
Forty-five seconds: Brain activity ceases.
Time seems to slow as I assess the wound. My hands move with practiced efficiency, applying pressure that makes the bleeding appear worse than it is.
“Significant blood loss,” I announce loudly, my voice clinical and detached. “Possible muscle damage. Will require immediate attention and sutures.”
I catch Geraldine’s eye, slightly shaking my head. She understands and plays along with dramatic winces and moans. It’s not hard—all wounds hurt—especially the ones where friends lie.
I take a tourniquet and strap her upper arm like we were taught, but then I hesitate. I’m a killer, not a healer. I can’t stitch wounds. My mind whirls, trying to remember the techniques from this lesson. Heath swoops in with a needle and thread, steadying my hand and guiding my stitches. Geraldine’s eyes hold pain, confusion, and dawning realization of my inner darkness.
Sixty seconds: Heart stops.
“Well done, Shadow,” Puck’s sarcastic voice cuts through. “The blade-wielder truly is most qualified to treat wounds.”
I hate him with a passion bordering on insanity.
I finish bandaging, the dressing unnecessarily tight for show. The trust in my friend’s eyes has been replaced by something else—not fear, exactly, but a new wariness cutting deeper than any blade.
“Willow,” she whispers, barely audible. “What aren’t you telling me?”
Lady Selene ends the lesson, saving me from answering. Guilt and fear storm inside me, and I am the first to leave down the winding stairwell. Geraldine catches up, eyes stark with pain.
“I get it, you can’t talk about your past,” she says. “Just promise me you’ll make things better.”
“Bodin’s just outside,” I mumble. “He’ll heal you.”
“That’s not what I?—”
She stops when Alfie and his entourage approach, descending the stairwell with Puck behind them.
“Let’s go.” I grab Geraldine’s good hand and hasten my exit.
Bodin pushes off the wall and immediately demands an explanation of why he smells blood. I quickly point him in Geraldine’s direction. It’s not until he’s halfway through healing her that I remember something odd from the lesson. Alfie tapped his Chaser charm minutes before Puck turned up and singled me out with a challenge highlighting my violent skills.
How much has Alfie told his mentor about me?