Cold slid down my spine. “Silver Salt?”
He released me and turned, already moving. “Come on.”
I followed, legs unsteady, until we reached a stone well tucked between two leaning buildings. He stopped and nodded toward the low wall.
“Sit.”
I hesitated only a second before obeying.
He drew the bucket up, splashed water into a shallow basin, and knelt in front of me. His hands were careful now—almost reverent—as he took my wrists and lowered them into the water.
The pain flared instantly. I gasped, teeth gritting as the water hissed faintly against my skin, cloudy residue bleeding away like ash. He scrubbed gently and relentlessly, washing until the water ran clearer, until the angry gray began to fade.
He stopped abruptly. “Who did this to you?”
The question was quiet. Flat. More dangerous than anger.
I hesitated. My throat tightened. “A vendor and some other men,” I said finally. “They were wearing gloves. They burned—Treated with something—I didn’t know—”
“Silver Salt,” he cut in.
“Silver Salt?” I echoed. The word tasted wrong in my mouth. “What is that—and how do you know that’s what this is?”
His hands paused in the water. For a moment, I thought he wouldn’t answer. Then he lifted his eyes to mine, steady and distant all at once. It felt like he was looking through me instead of at me.
“I’ve seen what it leaves behind,” he said. His mouth curved into something humorless. “Enough times to recognize it.”
He lowered my hands into the basin again, more firmly now, the memory, whatever it was, had steeled his resolve.
“And enough times to know,” he added, “that no one carries Silver Salt unless they mean to make a point.”
Something in his voice tightened the air between us.
“Used on skin,” he went on quietly. “In blood. On things people wanted weakened without killing too quickly.”
His fingers tightened just enough around my wrist to remind me he was holding back. The air around us felt suddenly heavier, coiling tight and electric.
“Are they alive?” he asked.
I looked up at him. “No.”
Something in his expression eased—not relief. Satisfaction. “Good,” he said, and went back to washing the rot from my skin.
The memory of the vendor rose unbidden—his grin, the gloves, the burn. Heat bloomed at my brow. Anger and fear.
Something pulsed beneath my hat—a soft, living warmth I couldn’t stop. Rion’s hands stilled. His focus lifted, sudden and intent, tracking the flicker of light that slipped past the brim.
“What’s that?” he asked.
I reached up instinctively, covering my brow. “Nothing.”
His eyes lingered there a moment longer than necessary. Then, quietly, he said, “It’s pretty.”
I thought I misheard him. The word caught me off guard. Heat rushed to my cheeks, sudden and unwelcome. My mark had been called many things but no one had ever called it that before. Not once. It had always been something to hide. Something strange. I looked away, heart racing, as he returned to washing my wrists—careful, deliberate—he hadn’t noticed the way something in me had flared in answer. I didn’t like how aware I suddenly was of him.
He finished washing my wrists in silence, the last of the cloudy residue bleeding away into the stones. The burns still throbbed—angry and tender—but the worst of the gnawing bite had dulled.
Rion released my hands and straightened, already scanning the street. “Done.”
