“Commander Hale,” a woman said, clutching his arm. Her hands were rough, nails black with soil. “You’re still breathing. The gods must favor stubborn men.”
Callum smiled thin. “Not sure they favor any of us lately.”
Ronan locked his arms across his chest, thumb drumming against his bicep. The woman looked him over once and nodded, remembering his good deed of bringing the injured woman to their healer.
She led them toward the center square, where the victim lay wrapped in linen. Fumes curled from the incense pots beside her where some knelt, voices rising in splintered harmony, the old hymn toAelia.
The melody shimmered, no mourning, only light as each voice rose in succession, hands glowing delicately as they pressed them over the wound.
A prayer to guide the woman back to the dawn.
Ronan watched in silence. Even now, after everything, they still worshiped the sun as if it hadn’t abandoned them centuries ago.
Still, he found himself whispering the same words before he even realized it. An old prayer, one he shouldn’t have known. Smoke slipped from his palms, soft and silver, mingling with their light.
For once, it didn’t burn, didn’t suffocate. It mended.
Callum’s stare caught him, though he said nothing. And as the woman’s breath steadied, he wondered how strange it was to wield his magic to heal, when it had only ever known to kill.
Callum folded his arms, leaning his head near the woman beside him. “Have any soldiers been through here in recent days?”
A few heads turned their way when she didn’t speak, though one older man nodded toward them, motioning for them to follow as he distanced himself from the ritual.
“The Brightwalkers haven’t passed through in months,” he said, stopping in front of a shop, its structure long faded. “Roads are quiet. Too quiet, maybe.”
“Then they’re regrouping.” Callum looked at Ronan. “Or hunting elsewhere.”
Ronan’s eyes stayed on the woman, her chest moving shallowly beneath the hymns. “If they come here again, there’ll be nothing left to pray over.”
They left well before the moon fell, Callum walking a pace ahead, cloak brushing mud.
“You didn’t have to come,” he noted.
Ronan’s laugh came low. “You’re welcome.”
Callum’s eyes narrowed as he let out a quick laugh. “That wasn’t a thank-you.”
Ronan kept his eyes forward, purposely staying a few steps behind. “I noticed.”
They walked on, the silence only broken by the creak of their boots and the echo of the song that had followed them.
“You don’t understand what she is,” Callum murmured.
Ronan gave him a look, tilting his chin up. “If you mean Verena, she’s got a sharp tongue.”
Callum’s jaw flexed as he forced out a laugh. “She always has.”
“Charming quality,” Ronan mused.
Branches clawed at them as they passed, the forest closing in the deeper they went. The underbrush crunched, somewhere ahead a crow, or raven, screamed, too human to be comfortable.
Callum cleared his throat. “It’s kept her alive.”
Adjusting the leather cuff around his wrist, Ronan said, “You mean it’s kept everyone else terrified.”
“Same thing.” Callum’s shoulders stayed squared, too rigid. “Our mother taught us many things growing up. Verena didn’t only get her boldness from her, but she educated us in the old tongue as well. Said it was the gods’ language once. That it would save us when faith couldn’t.”
“Seems it did,” Ronan said. “Got your sister a wolf’s loyalty. Not bad for bedtime stories.”
