“This is going to hurt,” she told him, not sugar-coating a single second of it. Cyph would have appreciated her straightforward attitude if he had the energy to tell her so.
Then, with precise, steady movements, she used a dagger to saw through the shaft of the weapon. Sweat coated Cyph’s body, cutting paths in the blood across his shoulders and chest. He passed out but kept breathing. The knife dragged through wood, splintering the spear.
Finally, it snapped.
Mila cleared away the splinters as much as possible.
“Here we go,” she murmured. In one motion, she drew the weapon free and threw it aside. Then, she took my place supporting him, and pressed the strips of her dress to the wound.
“Go,” she spat, not even looking at me, focused on her patient.
I dug through cabinets and drawers, finding mostly candle stubs and matches. Tinctures and herbs. Stacks of old notebooks and—there. My fingers locked around a small box. Flipping it open, I found thread, needles, and a number of other tools that were clearly once used for repairing the robes of the temple acolytes. It wasn’t Bodymelder quality, but it would do. It had to.
Flying back up the aisle, I skidded to a stop next to Mila and dumped the supplies on the floor. “I don’t know how long it’s been there. If it’s clean.”
“They’ll be able to get rid of any infection later. What matters now is stopping the blood.”
My stomach sank at the implication. With our quick healing and proximity to our source of magic, the only true way for a warrior to die in Damenal was through loss of blood. Major injuries—slitting the throat, loss of limb, blade to the heart—those usually sufficed. Decapitation was quickest. If a warrior bled out before their wounds could heal…
“It’s not—I don’t know how—” I looked between the thread and Cyph’s bloodied flesh. Mila had cleared away the worst of it, and now mangled skin and muscle stared up at me.
For what seemed the hundredth time, uselessness drained the fight from me.
“I do.” Without looking at me, she threaded the needle. Her hands didn’t even shake as she pushed it through Cypherion’s skin, the stitches ragged but efficient.
At some point, my breathing evened out. As I watched Mila tie off the thread and the bleeding stopped, I sank to my knees. Tears stung my eyes, but I barely dared to blink as I watched Cyph. He was so still, but he was alive. His eyes fluttered beneath their lids, and his chest rose with shallow breaths.
Finally, once I was sure he was no longer dying, I lifted my head. “How did you know how to do that?”
“You learn a lot on a battlefield,” Mila said dully. She sat back, wiping her hands on scraps of fabric. “It’s the only way to keep yourself going. You have to distract yourself, or you’ll be lost.”
“It’s easy to lose yourself,” I said.
Mila’s eyes were piercing when she looked at me and whispered, “You have to retain a belief in your cause, in yourself. Without that, you’re nothing.”
The sentiment settled in my chest like a weight. Not for the first time, I considered what her life was like during the war. Out there with Lyria, fighting the battles my father had caused. Watching warriors die—comrades she knew and those she may not have had a chance to meet. Likely taking an abundance of life herself if the skill I’d seen from her so far was any indication.
How many wounds had she delivered? How many had she stitched? Had she saved lives as well as taken them? Had she scrambled desperately to cling to those she was about to lose, to buy them one more moment, one more breath? Did her hands shake then or had she always been as steady as she was now? Maybe that part came with time, or maybe her confidence and ability were natural-born talents.
I wanted to ask her; I wanted to know what it was like. I wanted to ask how she’d received each scar—the ones I’d seen on her legs, and the ones I was sure she hid. But a part of me knew this wasn’t the time.
Clearing my throat of the lump that had formed, I said, “Thank you.”
I meant it for so much more than saving Cyph’s life. Based on the smile she gave me, she understood.
“Anytime,” she sighed.
It was a bit of an unfair reprieve from the battle, hiding in that temple as we waited for Cyph to gain strength. I’d considered asking Mila to watch over him and going back out to join the fight, but I couldn’t bring myself to abandon my friend.
Finally, Vale stirred. I’d almost forgotten about her—the traitor she’d become in my eyes.
But the second she was seated upright, she looked directly at me. “I figured it out.”
“You know how we’ll defeat Kakias?”
Her lips pulled into a tight line. Whatever she saw of the queen, it couldn’t have been good. “I know a lot more than that.”
Chapter Fifty-Two
