Then, carefully, I folded it into a strip of cloth and tucked it into my armor.
Close to my heart, where it wouldn’t break.
Safe.
As I sat there, drenched and motionless, the only sound I could hear was the frantic thrumming of my own blood in my ears, gaze fixed on her. The image of her slipping away, a terrifying ghost, still clawing at my mind.
The subtle curve of her lips, a smile she wore with innocent obliviousness, totally unaware of her impact on everyone around her.
Each time it flashed, a jolt of something akin to a mortal wound pierced me.
Chapter Twelve
Wynessa
The rain had finally eased, but the damp clung to everything. The moss, the bark, the hair at the nape of my neck. Fog drifted like low-lying breath between the trees, and the fire crackled weakly, struggling to stay alive in the heavy air. The others slept in bundles of cloaks and blankets, their faces shadowed and still.
The night had remained quiet. But too many unknowns still lingered in the Wildervale for it to be peaceful for good.
That was when I heard it.
Jasira’s breath was too fast. I knew the sound before I even opened my eyes, the stuttering pull of lungs fighting against heat. Fever. I rolled over and reached for her instinctively, brushing her cheek. Her skin was hot, damp, and flushed far beyond what it should’ve been.
“Jasi,” I whispered, trying not to wake the others. “Can you hear me?”
She stirred, lips parched, murmuring something broken. Despite the thick blankets, a tremor shook her body, a shiver that seemed born of the stormy night and the dampness still clinging to her cloak. And now the cold had seeped in, beneath her skin, deeper than any blanket could reach. Panic rose in my throat, but I forced it down. I couldn’t risk losing control. Notnow. Not with her depending on me.
I’d felt this kind of fear only once before, when the apothecary’s son fell ill from tainted river water, and nothing I did was enough. I remembered the heavy feeling of the mother’s stare, how her hope vanished behind her lips when I gave an uncertain answer.
That helplessness had hollowed me out.
I was determined to prevent its recurrence.
I was already moving, slipping from my bedroll and kneeling beside her with my satchel. I checked her pulse, too fast, and her breathing, shallow and sharp.
The fever wasn’t the worst I’d seen, not yet, but I knew that could turn quickly. I tried to remember every page I’d ever read, every note I’d scribbled in margins late at night while the castle slept. I had learned about healing long before I’d ever picked up an herb knife. Books had been my first teachers, and in this moment, I clung to that knowledge like it was the only real thing in the world.
“I need feverroot,” I muttered to myself, my fingers scrambling around my satchel. “Pine bark, sun leaf. Something to heal her from the inside.”
“Tell me what to do,” came Erindor’s voice, low and steady at my shoulder. He didn’t flinch at my urgency and didn’t ask questions. Just listened.
“I need shelter, genuine warmth. Something dry to cover her. And I need time.”
He nodded and was gone in an instant.
Alaric stirred and was instinctively on his feet, eyes sharp. When I told him what was happening, he moved without hesitation. Gideon joined him. Together, they cleared a better path up the slope toward the shallow rock overhang we had passed the day before. It was a space that promised shelter fromthe worst of the rain. “It’s not perfect,” Alaric muttered, “but it’ll do.”
Gideon didn’t wait. He crouched beside Jasira and, with a soft grunt of effort, lifted her into his arms. “I’ve got you, sweetheart,” he whispered, careful not to jostle her too much. “Let’s get you somewhere dry.”
Every step beside them felt like an eternity. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic rhythm of utter helplessness.
The new shelter, though cramped and barely large enough for all of us, was much better than our previous spot. The stone above created a sloped ceiling that let the water slide off in thin rivulets. Erindor returned with his own cloak, several long branches, and a bundle of oilcloth from Gideon’s pack. Alaric and Gideon helped anchor the coverings, creating a makeshift tent that sealed out the worst of the damp and allowed us to build the fire higher.
Tyren stood outside the shelter’s lip, his sword unsheathed and resting across his knees as he kept a quiet watch. His eyes scanned the dark tree line without pause. Occasionally, he muttered a low prayer to one of the old gods, fingers brushing the carved token around his neck. As we settled Jasira under the layers of blankets, he stepped forward, knelt briefly, and placed the small wooden charm near her side, an offering of luck. Then he resumed his post.
Only when the heat gathered around her cheeks again did I let myself exhale.
“Thank you,” I murmured, glancing up at Erindor.
