Her name had been spoken with recognition and shock, as though she were no stranger here. As though she belonged. How could they know her? He would get answers, for sure, but for now saving his wife from death was all that mattered.
Dar stepped closer when Helma struggled with the torn fabric of Elara’s shirt, her fingers slick with blood.
“Let me,” he said, already reaching.
Helma caught his arm, not sharply, not to stop him, but with a gentleness that stilled him all the same. Her eyes lifted to his, steady and knowing.
“You may not wish to see what waits beneath,” she warned softly.
“I wish to see everything,” he said, his voice rough.
Helma studied him for a heartbeat longer, then inclined her head and stepped aside.
Dar eased the remaining cloth away, heavy with blood, and with it came the cloth the healers at Ancrum had applied to the wound.
The sight struck him harder than any blade ever had.
Blood matted her skin, dark against the pale rise of her chest. The wound was deep—too deep. Not the clean work of a soldier’s strike, but the savage damage of a thrown dagger driven with intent to kill. His breath left him with a single, harsh sound.
For the first time since he had reached her, fear took full hold.
“Nay,” he said, the word breaking free of him before he could stop it. “Nay.”
Helma moved with quiet urgency, pressing clean cloths to the wound, murmuring words he did not understand.
Dar forced himself to breathe, to stay useful. He held Elara when Helma asked, lifted her when told, steadied her body when pain wracked it though she did not wake.
At one point, he gripped Helma’s arm, desperation bare in his voice. “Use your sorcery. Whatever magic you possess—use it. Save her.”
Helma did not bristle. She did not argue. Instead, she met his gaze with a compassion that cut deeper than anger ever could.
“You do not understand our abilities,” she said gently. “Nor the limits of them. Some wounds…” Her voice softened. “Some wounds tear at more than flesh.”
Dar said nothing. He could not.
He watched as she worked, her hands sure, her movements deliberate, her murmured words low and reverent. The light outside faded from gold to gray, then to the deep blue of dusk. Candles were lit. Herbs burned. The room filled with unfamiliar scents, sharp, sweet, and ancient.
At last, Elara lay still beneath blankets, her breathing shallow but present, and her face ashen. She did not stir when Dar whispered her name and she did not respond to his touch.
Helma straightened slowly, weariness settling into her bones.
“I have done all that I can,” she said.
Dar shook his head at once, hearing the apology in her voice. “There must be more. A stronger healer, stronger magic. There must be someone here with the power to save her.”
Helma’s eyes glistened, though her voice remained steady. “If there were more to give, I would give it. If there were another path, I would take it.” She shook her head once. “I am sorry.”
The words fell into the room like a final stone dropped into deep water.
Dar sat very still beside the bed, his hand wrapped around Elara’s, refusing to let go. And there he stayed as night wore on.
Helma moved only when she had to. At some point she settled at the small table near the hearth, folding in on herself with the exhaustion of long practice. Sleep took her in brief snatches. She woke often, rising to check Elara’s brow, her breathing, the color of her skin. Each time she was relieved to find no fever burning beneath her touch. Each time she returned to the table and closed her eyes again, knowing relief was fragile.
The candles burned low.
Dar did not move.
At some point in the deep of night, he drifted into a light doze, never loosening his hold on Elara’s hand. When he woke again, it was with an aching need, stronger than anything he had ever felt. He had to tell her. She had to hear what he should have told her sooner, what he’d been fighting, not understanding. And now it might be too late for her to know.
