“Leave the infection,”The Midnight urged.“You’re not ready.”
“Will she die from it?”Viktor demanded, as if daring The Midnight to answer otherwise.
“Tory…”The Midnight murmured.“Aerdanians may lack elvish medicine, but they know well how to treat a fever.”
The Midnight called him Tory—the name striking like a blade turned familiar, cutting through his fury and fear.
Viktor’s head bowed, not in defeat but in solemn surrender.
“She is not whole,” he told Lyra, “but she won’t suffer from the burns any longer.”
He reached into his pack and handed her the larger jar of lachlaren.
“Spread this over the scars. To bind the wound.”
Lyra took it from him, doing as he asked.
He moved quickly from cot to cot—the boy’s back no longer seared, the man’s burns eased to scars, the woman’s skin cooled though her hair would never return. Each touch cost him, but he did not falter.
And still, his eyes drifted toward the child. She lay asleep, perfectly still. Safe from the terror. If only for a moment.
He carried the sea glass to her cot. Knelt at her side. Lifted her into his arms.
And Lyra didn’t stop him.
“You’ll take on her pain,”The Midnight warned.
Viktor’s jaw clenched, his grip fierce as he drew her close.
“I don’t care.”
He pressed her face against his chest, curly locks spilling over his hand. Heat surged from her skin into his arms, burning through muscle and bone before sinking into the stone.
His body shook with the onslaught, each breath a streak of fire tearing through his veins—but he held her tighter, unyielding, until at last the agony broke.
She was healed.
He laid her back onto the cot with a care that belied his strength, drawing the blanket to her chin, folding her small arms around it. He bent and kissed her hair softly.
“Her parents are both dead,” Lyra whispered as she knelt beside him with the jar. “She’ll live with her aunt now. Here in Westport. I sent her home this morning to get some sleep.”
“Who is her aunt?” Viktor asked, brushing strands from the child’s face.
“Äna,” Lyra answered. “From the village bakery.”
Viktor nodded.
He knew Äna. A gentle soul.
Lyra finished applying lachlaren to the little girl’s arm, then stood. Viktor walked with her to the front of the tent. Tavian and Theo, silent with wonder.
“Rest now,” Viktor told them, his palms on their shoulders, steadying them as if to bear the weight himself.
They nodded, looking at their sister. Her gaze was on her patients.
She held her breath. Tears fell.
“You’ll find me on Dunes Way,” Viktor said. “Issachar’s house.”
