There may not be any medicinal reason for it, but it’ll help my mood, if nothing else, and the high fae don’t need to know the details. I learned early in my time serving in the Sol Army that a task is often all a soldier needs to give them agency once more and defuse an impossible situation from escalating. The task I assign myself is to get off this bed and away from Soren before he snaps. I need less of an audience before I attempt to stand, the potential for a shameful display when I’ve already had my worse terrors exposed to them all a gut wrenching prospect, and Reed’s offer makes the request easy to give.
The sound of my voice breaks the hold they were all in, and Reed bows once more, then strides out of the room without waiting for orders from either of the princes.
Roan glances at Soren before he turns to me and nods curtly. “Prince Mercer is expecting us all to join him in the great hall. The celebration is already starting there. I’ll go down and make our excuses. Mercer saw your hands just as clearly as the rest of the soldiers did, he can’t expect you to endure his whims and the gallery of his household after you were injured in defense of his people."
I glance down at the ruby-charred skin and the blisters already fully formed before I shake my head. “We came here tosave Yrell and stop Kharl from gaining more purchase on the kingdom, but there’s another battle ahead. You said we can’t afford to lose a vote of the Unseelie Court. Why not strengthen the bond to be sure it’ll hold?”
“Fuck Mercer,” Soren snaps, but Roan shoots him a look before he turns back to me.
“Mercerisan important ally who we need to keep favor with until the regent is removed from power and Soren is on the throne.” Despite addressing me, his stilted tone is for the infuriated prince. “Your selflessness is admirable, Rooke, but no loyalties in the kingdom are worth risking your safety. Yrell’s walls stand because of your defense, but we’ll need to find better ways of protecting you before the next attack. This cannot happen again.”
He’s probably referring to my hands, but a flush creeps over my cheeks as the wrenching gasp I’d let out springs back into my mind. “May the Fates have mercy and give us more time before Kharl Balzog strikes again, but my hands will heal. There’s no need for any confrontation. I’ll join you all in the hall for the festivities. I’d like to clean myself up, though, if there’s time?”
The scowl on Roan’s face darkens before he nods again. “Take as long as you like, they can wait.”
He steps forward to hook a hand around Soren’s elbow and all but drags him from the bed. Keeping my gaze averted from them both, I don’t see Soren’s reaction to the forceful action as I carefully shuffle from the bed and stalk to the bathroom on surprisingly steady legs. I hear Soren’s grumble at Roan perfectly though, and I nudge the door with my hip with haste to seal myself out of the male’s proximity.
I’d scorch my hands all over again for a proper soak in a tub but, no matter Roan’s assurances, I don’t want to drag this night out. Instead, I use my magic to numb some of my pain and carefully wash my face and arms and re-braid my hair beforesweeping a hand over my robes to switch them out for a clean set.
The high fae are always dressed in their luxurious and elegant attire when entertaining like this and, in my robes, I’ll stand out. They’re made to ensure I have a full range of movement, the color chosen to hide the mess that healing can often make, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to wear any shoes but my boots tonight.
Avoiding the mirror until the last possible moment, I force myself to check for any missed spots. A lump forms in my throat as I’m overwhelmed by my grief thanks to my raw, exposed state. The witch staring back at me isn’t the regal or breathtaking beauty of the high fae, but she wears a shadow of my mother's face, an ancient wisdom shining in the silver depths of my eyes that once shone in hers too. The dark tresses of my hair belong to my father, and the dark eyelashes framing my silver eyes, sootier than my mother's, are another gift from him, one that he bestowed on Pemba and me.
I see my brother staring back at me as well.
My heart throbs with the same pain I felt when I left the Northern Lands, the intensity blinding me until I have to clench my jaw viciously to stop myself from screaming. Pressing a hand against my chest, I push against that wound, as visceral as the throbbing in my hands, and I turn sharply away from my reflection. It's far easier to avoid looking at myself than to remember all the things I left behind, all those whom I miss so deeply.
Extending my hand, there’s a pop of light and then my ribbon appears in my palm, an old comfort that I slip into the pocket of my robe. With my defenses shattered, I need all the help I can get to keep my mind from tumbling into the abyss of terror-soaked memories I’ve done my best to forget. I let the tips ofmy fingers rub the stained threads of embroidery for a moment before I step back out of the bathroom.
Only Prince Soren remains.
Tyton’s sound barrier still lines the perimeter, so he can’t be far, and there’s a tray on the small table by the window that says Reed made it back here, but Soren’s eyes alone track me as I cross the room to my small supply bag. He doesn’t move or say a word, just watches me with the same seething scrutiny he always has but without the vitriolic accusations at every turn.
When I pull out the small bundle of bandages, grimacing at the finicky task of wrapping my hands myself, he finally speaks. “I’ll do it.”
I scoff as he steps toward me. “You know how to bandage wounds?”
He plucks the bandages from my grasp with care, a stark contrast to the glower he levels at me. “Yes.”
A single word, growled at me in his most menacing tone, and yet the Fates dance under my skin like he’s offered me his highest praise or even a portion of his kingdom to rule over as my own. When I hide my flinch with a grimace, he stops again, his hand tightening around the bandage.
He doesn’t lash out at me, instead standing just out of my reach and watching me far too closely after this Fates-cursed day. It’s only when I take a deep breath, forcing my shoulders to roll back and relax, that he begins to unwrap the bundle.
As he takes my wrist in hand and moves my arm into position to wrap, he says in a low tone, not unlike the one I used on Nightspark to coax the beast into a submissive state, “This is the last time you’ll endure proximity to witcheswane. Any who question that will die by my sword. The Fates have decided that humbling me is the only true path to save the kingdom and the fae within.”
“You needed that lesson.”
The bitter words tumble from me easily but so does his reply. “I’m aware.”
Surprise halts my reply, ensuring my compliance as his fingers press at my wrist, gently adjusting my hands this way and that as he assesses the sorry state of my skin. “I was taught by soldiers, who learned the skill from healers, but only basic techniques intended to get the wounded to their capable hands with a pulse. If I’m doing it wrong, tell me and I’ll fix it.”
My eyes narrow as I press my lips together, sealing the long stream of pointless retorts that threaten to spill out. I give him a sharp nod instead. He wraps the bandages slowly, his fingers surprisingly deft as he holds sections until he’s working his way to my fingers. I don’t want to speak to him, but I can’t go out and face the waiting scrutiny without some use of my hands, so I’m forced to give him directions.
“The wraps are good, and my wrists are secure, but my palms need more pressure and my fingers tighter still.”
He scowls at his work. “Any tighter and it’ll hurt.”
I shrug. “It already hurts. I’ll have more use of my hands if they’re tighter and I can use my magic to ease them instead.”
