“Good. Now sit.” I pointed to a relatively clean patch of ground. “Let me see that shoulder properly.”
“I’m fine.” Lincatheron huffed, swaying. “But Isara,” his voice dropped lower, “what you did back there was incredibly reckless.”
I stiffened, preparing for a lecture. “I know, but?—”
He held up a hand, cutting me off. “Let me finish. It was reckless, and dangerous, and...”
He dragged a hand through his blood-matted hair. His jaw clenched once, twice.
Then, with visible effort, he added, “And incredibly brave.” He said it like the words tasted foreign in his mouth. “Thank you.”
A warmth bloomed in my chest. Not just from the words, but from who they came from. Lincatheron was a warrior. A leader. A male who did not offer thanks lightly. And yet, here he was, looking me dead in the eye, saying it anyway.
“You’re welcome,” I said, my answer soft but not small. “Though next time, maybe we could skip the part where you nearly get yourself killed?”
“I’ll do my best.”
“Good. Now sit down. Right now.”
“I’m fine.”
He was swaying. His face had gone too pale. The wound in his shoulder was bleeding more than I’d thought.
“For fuck’s sake, Lincatheron.” I threw my hands up. “Sit. Before you die out of sheer spite.”
Lincatheron’s jaw tensed, ready to argue, like it physically pained him to be told what to do. But then he sighed through his nose and sat down anyway, grumbling the entire time.
“This is going to hurt,” I warned. I knelt in front of him, fingers already working to peel away the shredded fabric around his shoulder wound. “So sit still.”
Blood was still oozing, sluggish but steady, staining his leathers. But that wasn’t the only stain. My eyes tracked acrosshis chest, the way dark crimson had soaked into the leather at his ribs, his forearm. Too much blood for one wound.
Lincatheron caught me looking. His mouth curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Not mine.”
“All of it?”
“I’m fine.” The words came out rough, like he was trying to convince himself as much as me.
I pressed against the wound to make a point. Lincatheron hissed as I did so, his muscles tensing beneath my hands.
I smirked. “That’s what I thought.”
He let out a low groan, tipping his head back. “If I die, I’m haunting your bedroom first. No peace. No sleep. Only annoying ghost shit.” A smirk twitched at his lips. “I’ll whisperIsaraaaainto your ear at night just to piss you off.”
I snorted. “You’re not dying.” I reached for the dagger at my belt and began cutting away more of the torn fabric. “But if you do, I’ll have Fenric throw your ghost into the most annoying corner of the realm. Somewhere really awful. Maybe a bakery, so you can be stuck smelling fresh bread but never eating it.”
“That’s cruel.”
“You’re right,” I said solemnly, tearing strips from the cleanest part of my shirt. The fabric came away in long, steady ribbons—not ideal, but it would have to do until we could get him to a proper healer. “Though Fenric’s bedroom would be worse.”
That earned me a full chuckle, before he winced. “Stars, Isara, don’t make me laugh.”
“Stop being weak then.” I wrapped the binding tight enough to hold but not so tight it would cut off circulation. “It’s not even that bad.”
“You really do have a terrible bedside manner.”
“Oh, horrible,” I agreed, smirking. “But you’re still alive, aren’t you?”
Lincatheron shook his head, a genuine grin breaking through the exhaustion on his face. I wasn’t used to seeing him like this. Lincatheron was always composed, always the stoic commander, his presence a constant force of steady strength. But here he was different. Looser. Warmer. As though I was seeing him for the first time, past the armour, past the battlefield.
