Bryn kept going. “Honestly, I’ve seen better wrappings on roast poultry. At least those get basted.”
His touch was surprisingly meticulous for all his chaos, and he worked quickly, muttering to himself as he applied pungent salves and unstoppered a bottle of something that smelled like lightning.
“Jakobav wouldn’t say,” Bryn remarked as he stitched a gash with swift, practiced hands, “but I assume you’re the reason the First Guard is still surrounding the castle.”
Ella flinched, and not from pain.
His eyes lingered too long at her collarbone, locked on the spot where the tattoo should have been. It was hidden, yet under his gaze she felt exposed, as if he could see straight through to the mark she carried.
“Don’t move,” Bryn murmured.
Ella held her breath as he closed the stitching and covered the wound.
Then he leaned in, voice pitched low. “Not that it’s any of my business, but whatever you are, you’ve got the Prince rattled. And believe me, that’s rarer than a sober Fae.”
He studied her, eyes glinting with amusement rather than malice. “You planning on breaking him?”
She narrowed her eyes. “What in the hell are you talking about?”
Bryn winked. “Good. Keep him guessing.”
She exhaled in a rush, too drained to laugh but too honest to hide the hint of humor. “You’re deranged.”
“Your injuries are just starting to heal. Try not to get gutted like a goat at a solstice sacrifice,” Bryn said briskly, already shifting to her leg. “Or at least do it somewhere less tedious for me to sew shut.”
Her eyes fluttered shut as the salve burned, then cooled, her limbs sinking until her mind grew too foggy to resist the pull of sleep.
Bryn’s voice followed her down into the dark. “Rest now. You’ll need strength. To survive your enemies…and allies.”
He rose, brushing a sprig of something that had to be illegal in all four kingdoms from his sleeve. “Dravaryn has never been short on either.”
8
SECRETS KEPT
Ella sank under, time tilting strange as voices rose and fell around her like waves against rock. She blinked once, and Jakobav was back, thunder riding his shoulders as he stood too close to Bryn’s basket of vials, his presence glorious in its fury, the kind that promised violence but not for her. And Ella didn’t quite know how to explain that. In fact, she wasn’t at all sure how to explain what she was feeling.
Bryn pinched the cork back into the small glass vial of pale liquid, shaking it once like it was no more remarkable than water. “Kethramin. Common in these parts. Medicinal, mostly. Pain relief, helps with muscle repair, keeps your lungs steady instead of making you gasp for air. Kicks in fast, too. Like a hammer through the skull, if you’re not used to it.”
Jakobav’s head snapped up, his voice edged sharp enough to cut. “You gave her Kethramin?”
“Yes,” Bryn replied, unbothered as always. “Would you rather she kept bleeding through your nice floors and fancy gold-trimmed sheets?”
“That’s not the point.” Jakobav stepped forward, his hand closing around the vial, lifting it against the light where theliquid caught a faint green shimmer. His jaw clenched. “This isn’t just medicine. Soldiers pass this around bonfires on long campaigns. It’s a distraction. A poison for the mind.”
Ella blinked, forcing herself half upright on the pallet, her body still heavy, stitched together with fever and threadbare strength. “Why?” Her voice rasped. “What does it do?”
Before Jakobav could answer, Bryn leaned in with that crooked grin, the kind that might have won Ella’s trust outright if not for the spark of genuine thrill at the thought of her experiencing whatever madness he’d just poured into her veins. “Sends them walking through their own skulls, that’s what. A little trip of the mind. Quite fun, actually, if you’re ever interested. But that would take a higher dose. I only gave you the battlefield standard.”
Jakobav’s head whipped toward him, all fury and disbelief. “The battlefield dose? You gave her all of this? Bryn, that much would drop a grown Dravaryn-born who’s had tinctures of Kethramin since he was teething.”
“Correct,” Bryn chirped, then froze, his brows lifting as if he’d only just realized he’d handed a dagger to a child. “Oh, fiddlesticks in the mix, I’ve overdone the fix.” He winced, then leaned conspiratorially close to Ella, lowering his voice. “Well, my dear, I do hope you’re interested in that trip…because I’m afraid you’re about to go on one.”
Drugged in an enemy stronghold and about to start hallucinating. Perfect.
Bryn cleared his throat and shuffled toward the door, already gesturing as if he had somewhere else to be. “I’ll, ah—yes, I have others I need to attend to. Best be going.” And just like that, he disappeared, humming to himself as his voice trailed down the hall.
Jakobav’s gaze followed him with the edge of a blade. “We’ll have words,” he muttered, too tightly wound to hide his anger.
