A short, incredulous laugh escaped him before he could catch it. “Are you seriously ordering me around in my own gods-damned castle?”
“I’m seriously trying to keep you from bleeding out all over your own gods-damned castle.”
“I’m a High Lord,” he said dryly. “I won’t die from a little blood loss.”
“You’re bleeding through your shirt. That’s nota little.”
Ashterion clenched his jaw, irritation flaring through him. Not at her persistence—though that was certainly grating—but at his own inexplicable reluctance to end this conversation. He should tell her to go to hell. Should remind her exactly who and what he was.
Instead, he growled something entirely unintelligible under his breath and dragged the fabric of his ruined tunic up, pulling it up over his head in one fluid motion.
He glanced down, the gash was worse than he’d expected. It carved its way from beneath the centre of his sternum, angling downward across the curve of his ribs and stopping above his hip. The wound had torn through more than flesh—muscle along the edge was visibly strained, the skin around it inflamed, weeping fresh blood where it hadn’t clotted properly.
Ashterion recognised the jagged pattern immediately. Ryleth’s handiwork. He couldn’t recall the precise moment this particular wound had been inflicted, the sessions with Ryleth often blurred together.
But the blade? That he knew. Its bite was unmistakable, leaving wounds that refused to heal properly, that reopened at the slightest provocation, that burned long after the cutting had stopped.
Isara sucked in a harsh breath.
His gaze snapped up in time to catch her expression. For a split second, her mask of detached determination faltered, horror flashing across her face. She looked at him like she didn’t know whether to be furious or sick.
And gods, he hated that.
Ashterion’s jaw tightened, muscles clenching against the unwelcome scrutiny. He despised that look, that fleeting flash of pity across her face before she could mask it. It was worse than her hatred. Worse than her rage. This... this almost-concern was something he had no defences against.
“It’s nothing,” he said, voice colder now.
Isara’s eyes darted between the wound and his face. “That’s not nothing,” she said, her words stripped of their usual venom. “That needs attention.”
He hesitated, every part of him screaming not to let this happen. Not to let her see him like this.
“Where are your healing supplies?” The softness in her tone scraped against him.
He considered ignoring her. Considered sending her to the cell right now and risking Xyliria’s wrath. Letting this moment die before it became something worse, before it carved something else open inside him. But instead, his jaw flexed, and he inclined his chin toward the cupboard near the bathing chamber.
She moved without hesitation. Ashterion tracked every step with wary eyes, his shadows following her as she walked. She rifled through the cabinet, efficient and sure of herself, gathering what she needed. Salves. Cloth. A curved silver knife, clean and honed for trimming torn edges of flesh.
She returned with her arms full, setting the supplies down on the low table beside him before meeting his gaze again.
“Sit.”
He cursed. Low and vicious, in an ancient dialect older than most living fae could understand. And then dropped into the nearest chair with the grace of a thundercloud.
Isara arched a brow, entirely unfazed. “Most people try not to swear at the person treating their wounds.”
“You couldn’t have possibly understood that.”
“I can tell when someone’s cursing at me, even if I don’t speak the language.”
Ashterion let out a quiet, humourless sound. “Then you’re more perceptive than most of my court. I’ve been cursing at them for centuries. No one’s caught on.”
Isara didn’t dignify that with a response, just shot him a flat look as she folded the warm, damp cloth. “This is going to sting.”
“I don’t need to be coddled,” he said, shadows winding around his feet. “Do whatever you need to do.”
She gave him a tight-lipped nod, then muttered something under her breath that sounded suspiciously likegods, malesbefore refocusing.
Ashterion let his head tip back slightly, eyes slipping closed, shoulders held in forced stillness. He heard the rustle of her movements, the wet slide of cloth against water, and then?—
