"My daughter passed from the same," Hrolf mutters, watching his blood fill the bag. "Long ago. During the camp blockade. Your infantry wouldn't let the healers through."
Lady Deirdre's hands still for just a moment. Then she smooths her expression and continues. "I'm sorry for your loss."
"She was seven." His voice is steady but there's a mountain of pain beneath it.
"What was her name?" Deirdre asks quietly as she switches to a second collection bag. "Your daughter."
"Elena," Hrolf says.
The name settles between them.
"She wanted to be a baker," he adds after a moment. "Said she'd fill the lower halls with bread instead of forge smoke."
Deirdre keeps her eyes on the work.
"I lost a son too," she says softly. "Theo. He wanted to be a healer. Thought he could mend anything if he studied long enough."
Hrolf's jaw tightens. "How old?"
"Eight."
The silence that follows is not awkward. It is shared.
She adjusts the tubing, checking his pulse. For a moment, there is no noble and no dwarf. Only two parents who buried children too soon.
"This blood will give her a chance she wouldn't have otherwise," Deirdre says as the fourth bag fills.
Hrolf nods once.
He is still staring at her without blinking. But not at her face. I track his gaze upward to the slender band of silver in her hair. A narrow circlet, hammered thin. It's dwarven made. Hrolf's brow furrows faintly.
She lays her free hand briefly over his. Then she lifts his scarred knuckles to her lips. A few low words fall from her in a prayer.
I have heard it once before on Rhianelle's lips, spoken to me right before battle.
"Thank you," she says simply.
Hrolf nods, unable to speak.
When the fourth bag is full, Deirdre removes the needle with gentle precision. She bandages the puncture site, applies pressure, and checks his pulse again.
"Keep pressure on this for ten minutes. Drink water and eat something if you can." She packs the blood bags carefully. "You'll be dizzy for a few hours. Don't try to stand too quickly."
She pauses at the cell door.
"It will work," she says with quiet certainty. "This blood will save her life."
Then she's gone, moving quickly through the flooded hallways toward the healing house. The three of us sit in the silence of the prison.
Hrolf raises his free hand and touches his knuckles where her lips had been. "Gentle hands," he mutters. "Didn't think anyone still had that. For someone like me."
"Lady Deirdre's husband and son died in the bombing of Dunrovin," Red says quietly.
The air seems to thin. I watch Hrolf's face change as the truth settles in.
He was sitting across from a lady who lost her child to his work. Dunrovin was his operation and execution.
"I designed the Shatterstone," Hrolf says, his voice barely a whisper. "I placed them myself. I didn't know the impact would be that big. But I knew there would be civilians in the gathering."
