She couldn’t think—couldn’t breathe; the pain was all-consuming. She barely heard William as he snarled, “She was everything to me. The only light in this dark forsaken hell, and you took her from me.”
He released her arm, shoving her away from him. She crumpled to the ground, hitting the dirt with a jarring thud that knocked the air from her lungs.
He was wrong.William had it all wrong. She wasn’t the one at fault for Diera’s demise. It was the king’s. He had orchestrated the whole attack, who killed his own people. He was the one to blame, not her.
But I failed to save her. I failed to save any of them.In a way, she did feel responsible for their deaths.
Without any emotion, William commanded one of the guards to take her to the healer. Luna wished for the strength to apologize. To, at least, straighten out whatever story he had been told. But she didn’t have it—she’d lost too much blood. She was simply too exhausted to find the words.
The guard bent, pulling her up by the arm as he kicked at her feet. “You heard him. Get up.”
She didn’t move. Barely noticed the guard drag her inside the healer’s tent. Her head felt too heavy, her limbs leaden and slow. Familiarity tugged at her when a middle-aged woman rose to greet them, introducing herself as Tyrina, but Luna didn’t bother responding; it was the woman who’d helped Clyde after Damien’s initial trespassing—not that it mattered.
“Put her there,” Tyrina ordered. The guard obeyed, practically tossing Luna onto one of the blankets lined in neat rows across the ground. The thin blanket beneath her offered no comfort, meant only to keep wounds clean; though, in its grimy state, it failed at even that. Pain lanced through her side, but she was barely aware of it. Staying in the same awkward position she landed in, she stared blankly at the fabric walls of the tent.
From the corner of her blurred vision, Luna saw Tyrina approach, her deep orange robe dragging along the ground behind her. She knelt beside Luna, her lips curling as her gaze lazily drifted over the wound. The smile was wrong in every way a smile could be, and Luna had the distinct thought that the healer looked exactly how she imagined a nightwalker would.
Merciless.
Without warning, Tyrina ripped the sleeve right off Luna’s bodice. Cold air hit her wounded arm, and Luna shivered. But she felt no outrage, only numb detachment.
Then Tyrina flicked the arrow.
Pain flared—sharp, sudden—spiking through her arm and into her shoulder, rattling through her very bones. Luna gasped, the sound feeble as it escaped her lips before she could stop it. Instinct made her try to jerk away, but her body didn’t follow. Her arm only gave the slightest twitch, too weak to resist.
“Gift from the high skies,” Tyrina murmured, watching fresh blood snake down Luna’s skin.
Luna exhaled a soft, bitter breath. Her head lolled to the side, too heavy to hold upright. “I’m no gift,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.
“Indeed,” Tyrina agreed, eyes cold, “but plenty useful.”
Her stomach twisted at the words. But before she could process further, Tyrina stood and barked orders at the guard. Something about a needle and thread, Luna couldn’t be sure. Her mind had already drifted, lost to exhaustion and confusion.
Tyrina turned back moments later, holding something pale and powdery in her palm. Luna’s eyes widened slightly.Unicornbane.
Before Luna could react, Tyrina sprinkled it over her. The dust sank into her skin, scorching her like a million tiny fires—burning away her magic, her essence, her very sense of self. Her muscles slacked, limbs as useless as a puppet with severed strings.
Her eyelids fluttered, struggling to stay open as she watched Tyrina arrange instruments carefully beside her.
“I’m sure you understand how valuable unicorn parts are,” Tyrina mused as she picked up a comb and scissors.
The scissors gleamed somberly in the low lantern light. Luna watched without seeing as Tyrina combed roughly through her hair, yanking it back into a braid. Confusion trickled through Luna’s numbness, a quiet fear taking root.
The comb scraped her scalp again.What is she—
Snip. Snip. Snip.
The sound echoed sharply, startlingly loud in the stillness.
Luna didn’t flinch. Didn’t cry out.
Just stared at the floor, eyes wide, unblinking.
She didn’t feel the tug on her scalp or the strands falling away, barely registering the chill crawling over her newly exposed skin. Only the repeated, distant and detached—snip.
Her throat tightened, and the tears came, sliding down her cheeks silently—not for her hair, but for what it meant. For what they had reduced her to.
Here, in this tent, she wasn’t a person.
