I take the towel gratefully, suppressing a fresh wave of mortification. “Thank you,” I mutter.
I start wiping myself off, trying to maintain what little dignity I have left. The towel is warm and smells faintly of herbs—lavender, maybe—and I focus on the motion, the rhythm, anything to keep from thinking too hard about the fact that I’m cleaning manure off my backside.
In front of a Warlord. And his entire inner circle, the Phoenix Ring.
Composed once again, Rian and Darius spring into action,scattering in opposite directions to collect my salves—still rolling through the street like they were trying to flee the scene of a crime.
I’m just beginning to find some semblance of dignity when I hear:
“Oh,Amara,dear,” Fenric says, voice honey-sweet and far too cheerful.“Let me help you,” he purrs.
I sigh, handing him the towel. I can’t see a damn thing back there anyway. What’s one more indignity between friends?
Fenric hums as he gently wipes at the mess. “Still warm,” he says under his breath, and I shoot him a look, but it’s half a laugh.
That’s when I realize we’re no longer alone. There’s a small crowd gathering—villagers slowing as they pass, curious eyes drifting toward the outpost soldiers and the woman with the manure-smeared leggings. A child on the other side of the square points and bursts into laughter.
I groan inwardly, then steal a glance toward Thane, just a few feet away. He’s still watching—his posture straight, his expression carefully schooled. He’s watching Fenric, crouched behind me, gently dabbing at what’s left of the mess with the damp towel.
Thane’s gaze is locked there—sharp, focused. Then his throat bobs, a slow, deliberate swallow.
Our eyes meet—just for a second—and his jaw tightens. In that heartbeat of silence between us, a stone settles deep in my stomach.
Gods. I’ve embarrassed him.
I, the Spiritborn, chosen by prophecy, hope of the realm . . . just publicly face-planted into him, got shoved into horse shit, and am now being cleaned up like a child in front of a crowd.
Shit.
Literal. Figurative. And now painfully symbolic.
“Okay,” Fenric says, standing up and inspecting me like he’s just finished some delicate medical procedure. “I think I got most of it off you. But let’s get you back to the outpost so you can change.”
I nod quickly, barely trusting myself to speak. Darius and Rian return at the same time, each holding one of the jars of salve, their expressions more careful now, their laughter faded into something closer to concern.
Rian places his jar gently into my hands, nodding once. Darius does the same. “It doesn’t look too bad,” he says, his voice gentle.
I smile tightly and tuck both jars into the satchel at my belt, fingers fumbling from the leftover adrenaline—and the overwhelming urge to vanish into the nearest crack in the earth.
Could I summon one and just jump in?
Rhosyn is suddenly there—gods, when did she show up?!
She steps forward, taking the towel from Fenric with a warm smile. “I’ll wash this,” she says quickly. “Don’t worry about it.”
“Thank you,” I say breathlessly, and then I turn to Thane.
“Thank you again,” I rush out, the words tumbling from my mouth far too fast. I don’t even know what I’m thanking him for anymore—the towel, the silence, the not-laughing.
I grab Darius and Fenric by the arms and drag them away, muttering a rapid trail of apologies to every villager we pass.
“Sorry. Excuse me. Sorry. So sorry. Don’t mind the smell. Sorry—child, don’t point, it’s rude—Darius, walk faster.”
We round the last corner into the center of the village, and there they are—Lyra and Taila, exactly where we left them, standing near the overflowing book cart, deep in debate about something that probably involves charm, chaos, or both.
Lyra spots us first. Her eyes immediately narrow on Darius and Fenric, who are both still trying and failing to suppress the laughter bubbling just beneath the surface. She turns to me andsniffs.
Her nose scrunches. “What the hell happened?”
