Phulan glanced at the soldier, whose ears likely worked just fine and could understand every word they said. If he understood the mage’s statement—that she wouldtake care of him—he did not react. Or, perhaps, he welcomed whatever she offered.
“There is no way to stop this spread,” Phulan said after a moment. “It is not like we can remove this as Izara did with Madan’s arm.”
“So what—”
“Go to another patient,” Phulan repeated, her amethyst eyes as stern as the sharp, weary angles of her face. “Now.”
The air burned as Emillie nodded and did as she was asked. As much as she told herself not to look back, she could not help herself. She made her way to the next row of infirm to check on Whelan, who had yet to awaken since Phulan had used her magic on his spine, and paused to glance over her shoulder at the mage.
Beside the Caersan soldier, Phulan bent in low and whispered something to the man. His hands twitched, but he nodded. The mage swept back his hair from his face, and magic danced around them. Whatever she did was invisible to Emillie’s untrained eye. For a moment, the soldier seized on the cot, his body twisting and his hands clutching at his throat.
Then all at once, he lay still.
Death was a part of working in the medic tent. It was something Emillie was now very much familiar with, yet watching a man, who had just that evening agreed to fight for his enemy, die at the hands of the one who should have been able to save him made her stomach twist. She swallowed hard as Phulan raised her tired eyes to her, but she nodded in understanding.
There would have been nothing that awaited that Caersan except a long, painful departure from this world. The healer had done what she needed to ensure he did not suffer more than was necessary.
Emillie turned back to Madan’s partner, still very much unconscious, at the same moment the ground shook outside the tent. She knew the feeling by now—the arrival of a dragon and therefore another patient who needed immediate care. They had felt the same shudder when Whelan had been delivered to them with an injury that she had been almost certain would kill him. Gods, it still could.
Like the rest of those working in the tent, Emillie pivoted to see who was arriving so they could each assess whether or not their assistance was required.
The tent flap opened to let in two of the dhemons that had been stationed in the camp to help anyone who needed medical attention. Between them, they carried a lycan with a massive pole sticking through its chest, which moved but incrementally. No sound came from the wolf—never a good sign. It was best when patients arrived screaming in agony, for they were more likely to survive. Blood dripped from the long maw and coated the fur.
The brown fur.
Brown.
Fur.
If the world had tilted on its axis before, it now stopped entirely. The very ground beneath Emillie’s feet dropped away, careening into nothing as she stared at the latest addition to their tent.
As she stared atLuce.
“Emillie.” The voice was familiar as it called her name, but she did not recognize who spoke.
Her feet moved before she could stop them, eating up the distance between her and the dhemons who lay the lycan—herlycan,herpartner—on a cot near the entrance. The cry that went up through the tent was entirely too humanistic to have come from the wolf with a pike in her chest, and somehow Emillie knew that it had come from her.
“Get her back!” Magic wrapped around Emillie’s middle, halting her as she reached for Luce.
Another scream, this time as hot tears splashed down her face. This was not like Dahlia. When her friend had died in her arms, Emillie had mourned and been so angry with herself for not helping more that she could not remain in the tent. This was not like Dahlia—she would notletit be like Dahlia. She had failed her friend but, this time… This time she had to succeed.
Failure meant Luce was gone.
Failure meant that Emillie lost yet one more person that she loved with her entire heart, and she was not certain she could live through another such loss. Her father had made her stop eating—doing so only at Kyra’s and Alek’s behest. Then Alek… Gods, Alek had tried so hard to get her away from Loren, and she had continued on only because she would not let his death be in vain.
But Luce.
Losing Luce…
“Please,” she begged when Revelie appeared in front of her, pushing her back as Phulan’s magic refocused elsewhere, poking and prodding at Luce’s too-still body. “Please let me help—”
“We can help,” Revelie said, holding her back with every ounce of her Caersan strength, “by letting Phulan do what she does best.”
Bile rose in her throat. She had just watched the magekilla patient to save them from long-lasting pain. Phulan would not hesitate to put Luce out of her misery as well, all in the name of allowing the Lycan Queen to die with dignity.
And Emillie would be damned if she was not by her mate’s side.
“I cannot let her die,” Emillie gasped. “I cannot. She cannot die!”
