Zephyra kneels beside me, her hands reaching for mine.
“It’s fine.”
“It’s not fine.” She pulls my hand away from the wound without gentleness. Her breath catches when she sees thedamage—torn flesh, exposed muscle, the gleam of bone beneath. “Gods. Tyr.”
“I’ve survived worse.”
“Not in front of me, you haven’t.” Her voice carries an edge that isn’t anger. Not quite. Her hands are steady as she peels back the ruined leather of my armor, exposing the full extent of the wound. “This needs more than bandages.”
“My healing will?—”
“Your healing’s struggling.” Her eyes meet mine. Determined. Afraid in a way she’s trying to hide. “Let me help.”
Help. From a witch. From magic that’s already drained her past safe limits.
“You can’t afford the cost.”
“I can’t afford to lose you either.”
The words hit like a blow. She doesn’t flinch from them. Doesn’t try to take them back or soften them. She said what she said, and now she’s waiting for my response with that unwavering gaze that strips away everything I’ve built around myself.
My dragon goes still. Listening. Waiting.
“Do it.” The words scrape past my throat.
Her hands press against my side.
The pain changes. Not less—different. Her magic slides into the wound like water into cracks, finding the damage, assessing the severity. I feel it touch my blood, my flesh, the bone beneath.
And then her magic merges with mine.
The sensation’s indescribable. Not intrusion—integration. Her power slots into gaps in my own, filling spaces I didn’t know were empty. The healing accelerates, cells knitting faster than they should, torn muscle pulling itself whole.
But more than that—I feel her. Not her thoughts, not her emotions, but her presence. The steel beneath her composure. The refusal to let me die.
She sees me. The predator beneath the control. And she’s helping anyway.
The wound closes. Not completely—even our combined efforts can’t repair this much damage instantly. But enough. Enough to stop the bleeding. Enough to keep me alive.
Zephyra pulls her hands back. The severance of the connection hits harder than the original wound.
“That should hold.” Her voice is steady, but her hands are shaking. “You need to rest. Real rest.”
“We can’t stay here.”
“We can’t have you bleeding out in the ley-roads either.” She doesn’t back away from where she kneels beside me. I see the exhaustion in her face from here, the pallor beneath her skin, the cost of what she gave me. “The hounds are dead. The wards are damaged but holding. We have time.”
“Time for what?”
“For you to stop being stubborn and let your body heal.”
The words come out with more heat than I expect. I look at her—past the exhaustion and the pallor and the fear she’s still trying to hide.
She’s angry.
Not at the situation. Not at the Hounds or the Arbiter or the impossible odds. At me. At the fact that I took wounds shielding her. At the fact that I keep throwing my body between her and danger like she’s territory worth bleeding for.
“You’re angry.”
