Then—all at once—the pain broke. His body sagged with the release.
Saecily clasped his hands around the stone.
“Good. But the void must be filled.”
Her eyes swept the linen sheet.
“Take in the medicines on your back—draw them into yourself. Bind every wound.”
Viktor obeyed, and the coolness spread like new skin. Breath by ragged breath, the torment eased.
Zakkari gasped. “Captain Seraphim… look!”
Viktor lowered his gaze.
The welts, the blisters—the angry ruin of his chest—were gone. Only faint streaks of red remained, like echoes of fire.
He touched his skin in disbelief, laughter breaking out of him.
“Can I always do this? Heal myself?”
Saecily’s eyes softened.
“Not without care,” she warned.
“Power leaves a void, Viktor. If you don’t fill it, it will turn on you. Use this instead.”
She pressed a jar into his hands. He unstoppered it, and a sharp, clean scent rose.
His eyes lit. “Desert dew…”
Saecily’s brows rose. “I thought you were Aerdanian. How do you know it?”
Viktor huffed a laugh.
“Friends,” he said, smiling faintly. “They gave me some when I tore myself apart on a run.”
Zakkari added quietly, “Your friends must think highly of you.”
Saecily folded his fingers around the jar.
“We elves call itlachlaren. Apply it after you bathe. It will soothe, guard, and speed your mending.”
Viktor turned the jar in his hands, wonder still shaking him.
He almost didn’t hear the step at the door.
Commander Storne entered without ceremony, tunic plain, beard rough with new growth. He stopped dead, staring at Viktor.
Slowly, he circled, laying two fingers against Viktor’s collarbone.
No pain.
“Remarkable,” Storne murmured.
His gaze cut to Saecily. “What did you do?”
Before she could answer, footsteps sounded. Gabriel and Evander squeezed through the door, uninvited.
