Scalpels gleamed in the lamplight as he worked mercilessly at the burned flesh, cutting fabric away, peeling charred velvet from raw skin.
Amerei pressed her face to her father’s arm, nails digging through his sleeve, eyes shut against the sight until she heard Viktor gasp for air again.
Matteo looked up, sweat streaking his face.
“We’ve opened one side. He’s working the other.”
His voice dropped, grim with truth.
“This is worse than anything we’ve seen.”
Storne swallowed hard.
His gaze narrowed on Viktor, on the veins bulging beneath his skin with every cry.
“Do what you must,” he ordered. “Just—keep him breathing.”
Matteo hurried back to the table.
Storne stood rigid, one arm locked around Amerei’s shoulders, holding her firm as Roland worked. Each strip of cloth peeled from Viktor’s body revealed new ruin—blistered flesh, torn raw, blood slicking his chest in rivers.
In the pause between cries, Storne dragged Amerei to the far wall and pressed her quivering arms against a basin. His voice left no room for argument.
“Stay here.”
This time, she obeyed.
He crossed to the head of the table, giving Matteo and his father space, and braced Viktor’s arm against the wood.
Viktor’s eyes, wild and fever-bright, found his for an instant. Helpless. Pleading.
Storne cupped his face, shutting his lids with his thumb—
because neither of them should see what came next.
Viktor’s scream tore the rafters.
Roland ripped away what still clung to his collarbone. The skin beneath was raw, angry, bleeding—like a cuirass carved from the hide of some conquered beast.
Matteo caught his father’s look, then bent close to Viktor.
“We need to sit you forward to reach your back. Do you want to rest a moment?”
Viktor’s breath shuddered.
“No,” he ground out. “Do it.”
They lifted him.
And his cry rattled Amerei’s bones.
Matteo caught him across both arms, shouting over his shoulder, “Lady Zrynon—water!”
Amerei startled, then rushed to the basin, fumbling for a pitcher. She filled a cup and pressed it into Matteo’s hand, then dug for a cloth as ordered. Storne caught the panic in her eyes, the way her fingers shook as she pressed the towel into his hand.
Viktor swallowed, sputtered, and could drink no more. Storne wiped his brow, forcing his voice into steadiness.
“Thank you, Amerei,” he said to her. “Now—go back to the basin.”
