I sew the cut closed, one tiny stitch at a time, talking to Sevrin the entire way. Then I move on to all the other cuts that require stitching. “When we get back home, we’re going to have breakfast in bed every morning, and we’re going to snuggle whenever we want…” The words dissolve as the last stitch pulls tight and the skin puckers together. It’s not my finest work, but he’s whole.
I tie off the thread. My hands are slick with blood, but I barely notice.
“Comfrey,” I say, glancing at Gareth as I point to what I need, then wash my hands. “Smash it into a paste. It goes over the bruising.” He does, mashing the dark leaves in the pewter until it’s a greenish sludge. When he’s done, I spread it over Sevrin’s ribs, where the skin is already turning black. The cool mash seeps into his skin in a thin layer on nearly his entire body, which is pretty much just one big bruise.
Sevrin’s breathing slows.
“Now more yarrow,” I tell Alaric. He sprinkles it over the stitched cuts, and the smaller ones that didn’t need to be sewn, the yellow powder settling like pollen on fresh earth.
“More willow bark?” I ask.
“Right away,” Lucien says, hurrying to get it for me.
“Just a little.” I repeat the dose, making him swallow. He doesn’t react this time.
“Linen,” I tell them. “We need to wrap him up tight.”
The three of them work together, bandaging Sevrin’s chest, side, legs, and arms. I watch, bone-tired, vision tunneling in and out. When it’s done, I take a small sachet of lavender and chamomile from the shelf—someone, at some point, believed in comfort—and tuck it beneath his cheek.
Sevrin stirs. His eyes open, the gold so faded it’s nearly gone. He finds me, focuses, and his lips twitch into something like a smile. “My Heart,” he says, so soft I almost miss it.
I lean in, brush his hair back, and kiss him just above the brow, where the skin is warm and unharmed. “Rest,” I whisper. “You’re going to be okay.”
His eyes close, and his body relaxes.
I try to stand, but the world tilts and I pitch forward. Lucien is there, catching me before I hit the floor. His arms are warm, his voice frantic in my ear.
“You’re hurt,” he says.
“I’ll live,” I whisper.
Lucien lifts me up into his arms, holding me close. Gareth and Alaric come to stand beside me.
“We’ve got you,” Gareth says, voice raw.
“You’re hurt too,” I protest.
“Rest. We can wait. You’re safe,” Alaric whispers.
And for the first time tonight, I know I am. I close my eyes, the smell of lavender and blood thick in the air, and let the world fall away.
25
One year later…
Harper
There’s a perfect spot at the top of the cliffs near the Hollowborn’s new home on their Dravari lands, where parrot tulips and honeysuckle mix with the grass, and you’re protected from the sting of the ocean. Just a short walk down from the cliff, there’s a small but bustling town of Hollowborn utilizing the lands for crops, to hunt animals, and to raise their young. All of us have been living here since the very beginning, helping to create this safe haven.
It’s a place that represents everything we’ve worked for. A place that’s wild and beautiful, where our dragons fill the sky with their family.
Even now, Ebron and a squadron of baby dragons are doing aerial somersaults, all chaos and shrieks a short distance away. I’m flat on my back in the grass, chewing on some honeysuckle, the sunlight on my face. Above me, a dragon baby, bright red with stubby wings and tiny horns, belly-flops into another, and their shrieks echo all the way to the ground. The adultsat the cliff’s edge, Sylvara, Verdraxa, Nythera, and Rosanthra, watch the spectacle with the tired patience of veteran mothers everywhere.
Beside me Lucien is using my stomach as a pillow while humming off-key. On my other side, Sevrin picks honeysuckle blooms and sticks them behind my ear, one after another, until I’m half-convinced he’s going to build me a flower crown and then laugh at me for wearing it. Alaric’s just past him, lying on his side with his eyes closed, breathing as if sleeping, but I know he’s not. Gareth is sitting up, chewing on a blade of grass and studying the clouds in the distance.
It’s been a year. One entire year since the attack at Gore Rock. We’ve all had more than enough time to heal, but I don’t think any of us will ever forget that night. Or forget what it was like to come that close to losing each other.
I let my hand flop over and tangle with Sevrin’s. His fingers are stained with purple and gold from the flowers, but they’re the only colors he wears. His Hollowborn face paint has been worn less and less as the days have passed, which I hope means he doesn’t see the need for it any longer. I squeeze his hand, and he squeezes back, but he doesn’t say anything. He knows I don’t need words. Not right now.
