“God, why are you so cute?”
He recoils like I slapped him with a wet towel.
“Cute? Puppies are cute. I am the Lord of Fire.”
“Oh, excuse me,” I say, grinning now. “Why are you so terrifyingly adorable?”
He bares his teeth—definitely not a smile, absolutely working on me anyway. The flames on the braziers flanking the entrance flare as if they agree with me.
“For you, Shula,” he murmurs, voice gone rough, “I will always be a little bit monstrous.”
And the ridiculous thing is that makes me feel safer than anything else ever has.
One of Grier’s honor guard steps forward and pulls the tent flaps aside.
A rush of cooler, herb-laced air spills out, brushing over my overheated skin.
I squeeze Thorne’s hand once—not because I need reassurance, but as a silent thank you.
We step inside together.
Whatever I expected from a mine’s infirmary, it’s not this.
The first thing I notice is how clean it is.
Not hospital-clean in the Earth sense—no sharp bite of bleach or antiseptic—but something softer and somehow more thorough.
The air feels filtered.
Like every speck of ash and dust from the Broken Plains stops dead the second it tries to sneak past the wards.
White stone floors shimmer faintly with alchemical sigils. The walls are lined with shelves of glass vials, clay jars, and neatly labeled bundles of dried plants tied with silver thread. Low cots with crisp linen sheets sit in perfect rows, each with a small standing brazier nearby burning a gentle, steady flame.
It’s calmer than any ER I’ve ever stepped into.
No screaming. No frantic crashing of gurneys. Just a hum of quiet readiness.
“Whoa,” I breathe. “This is… I mean—this puts a lot of Earth hospitals to shame. Do you have, like, a magical HEPA system in here?”
“The wards here separate ash and corruption from clean air,” a warm voice answers. “You are quite perceptive, Lady.”
I turn.
The healer walking toward us is an older woman, hair braided back in a thick silver rope, dark gray skin marked with faint glowing sigils that trace the backs of her hands and climb up her forearms like living ink.
Her eyes are sharp, intelligent, and kind.
There’s a strength to her that I recognize instantly.
She looks like the kind of woman who’s held dying people and refused to let them go.
“Welcome, my Lord and Lady,” she says, bowing slightly to Thorne, then to me. “I am the healer on duty this morning. My name is Evonne Withers.”
“Evonne,” I repeat, smiling. “I’m Delia. And, uh, this is incredible.”
“If anyone is incredible, it is you,” she says. “Word travels quickly in camp. The Lord of Fire does not often bring visitors here.”
Heat spikes in my cheeks.
