“I’m here,” he whispered, his voice low and dark.
She could only nod as she attempted to step forward, but her body collapsed. Draven swept her up in his arms before she hit the floor, cradling her head against his chest. At first, she wanted to protest, but the burns on her skin and raw pain she could feel inside her were enough to silence her refusal for aid.
“Hang on. We need to get out of here before anyone finds you,” he said, hastened out of the burning stable. He scooped up her satchel and bow as they left, darting back to the servants’ stairwell entrance to the inn.
Just as they opened the door, surrounding merchants were shouting about the fire, pouring out of their homes. Patrons of the inn and the barkeeper burst out of the main door, carrying buckets of water.
Astraia felt Draven tug her tighter to his chest as they walked up the stairs. Within seconds he had kicked down the door to their room and gently laid her on the bed.
“Do not move,” he said as he left her side to close the door, then hurried to the washroom, returning with some rags and a basin of water.
She was acutely aware of every single burn on her body. The tip of her nose was black, singed and bone visible. Even her toes were charred, the skin between them completely eviscerated. Red blisters bubbled over her arms and legs, swelling as she lay recumbent, which only intensified her pain as the skin stretched to accommodate the fluid.
Draven knelt beside the bed, wringing the cloth with clean water. “I have to clean some of your wounds before they become infected. I can’t remove the manacles yet to let Sacrifice heal you, or you might flare again. We need to give you more time to recover your bonds.” A different kind of pain echoed back at her from his gaze.
She nodded, still afraid to speak should her throat combust from swelling.
“This may hurt,” he said softly as he began to dab at her worst wounds.
She flinched, her body shaking uncontrollably at the touch of the cloth on her flayed skin. Clenching her teeth, she closed her crusted eyes and tried to focus on a memory—anywhere but here.
But the manacles kept her mind eerily silent. Like a desert, with rolling dunes and no hope of water in sight.
She could feel the blood crusted to her eyes being wiped away. Then her face, every swipe as gentle and tender as he could be. The bounty hunter worked tirelessly, taking his time to cleanse the blood and burns. After a while, Astraia’s body grew numb—either from exhaustion or shock, she was not sure.
Draven made his way to her boots, removing them. He hissed as he surveyed her marred feet but continued to meticulously clean her wounds despite the damage.
Astraia had not noticed until now that his shirt was somehow intact, as though the fire burned only from within her body but did not scorch her boots or his tunic.
Hours had passed, and the sounds of the men outside putting out the fire were no longer noticeable. Either the stables had burned down, or they managed to douse the flames. Astraia did not care, as long as the horses escaped and the men’s bodies burned to ash—an oversight she should have rectified in the dining hall.
Draven finished cleaning her and pulled the chair to the side of the bed where she lay motionless, afraid to move and elicit pain once more.
“Can you drink some water?” he asked, weariness shadowing his eyes.
Astraia nodded slowly, trying to crane her neck from the pillow. Draven supported her head with one hand and brought a canteen of water to her lips. Carefully, he tipped the canteen back, allowing a small stream of water to glide down her scalded throat. She bit back a cry from the pain as she swallowed, her entire throat burning, but she was so thirsty she pushed through.
After she drank, Draven lowered her head , then slumped back in the chair, running a hand through his hair and letting out an exasperated sigh. “Try to sleep. I will remove the manacles after you sleep so you can heal.”
Astraia nodded again, letting her eyes close, willing her body to forget the rippling ache coursing through her body. Just as she felt herself surrendering to fatigue, a calloused finger grazed her cheek, making her burned skin tingle with relief.
A hushed whisper floated through the air as sleep finally took her.
“Forgive me.”
Chapter 13
The sacred thirteen Constellations lived harmoniously in the Empyrean since the birth of the cosmos, long before the written world.
The Shattering: A History
DAWN BROKE AND THE TWITTERING of birds outside the window aroused Astraia from sleep. It took a few moments for her to realize her eyes were swollen almost entirely shut, and the rush of memories from the night’s horrors came flooding back.
She attempted to shift in the bed, but her body was like a corpse in rigor mortis. Her back was stiff, aching and throbbing everywhere—even her insides were as though molten lava had been poured down her throat and settled in her gut. She dared not breathe too deep, as she realized her lungs were also damaged. Breathing was like ice shards stabbing her lungs, every inhale as painful as the exhale.
Forcing her swollen eyes as wide as she could, she peered at the chair next to the bed, and the bounty hunter sleeping there. Astraia could faintly make out his disheveled hair, his head at an uncomfortable angle, overextending his neck. She tried to turn her head, but was met with white-hot pain. An unsolicited moan wretched free from her throat, a searing throb following as the sound escaped.
Draven bolted upright, inhaling sharply, and his gaze landed on hers. Pity and remorse flickered across his eyes before he spoke.
