“Besides, he’s fae, his wounds will heal without it. They’d actually create more problems than help,” Oberon says, “We just need to clean the wounds and get them to stop bleeding. Then, his body will do the rest.”
For a moment, everything narrows to this. Blood. Hands. Pressure. The desperate, fragile work of keeping him alive.
The blades had reached him almost fully before we got there, rising slow and merciless, carving into him inch by inch. The cuts are not wild or messy. They are precise. Repeated. A series of deep, clean gashes that had only grown worse as the mechanism climbed higher, opening him up in multiple places, deeper and deeper, until there was more blood than skin left untouched. His back is a map of those wounds, long lines cut deep enough to expose raw muscle beneath, and his legs are no better, the blades having pressed in until they nearly pierced through.
He is too still. Too quiet. I swallow hard and force my hands to move as I rummage through the scattered supplies in my pack until my fingers close around a ragged cloth and a small canteen of water. The cool metal steadies me just enough to keep going.
I set to work cleaning his injuries, my heart racing as I fight the urge to tremble. The cloth comes away red almost immediately, the blood fresh and unrelenting, and I have to press harder, forcing it to slow. The cuts along his back are deep, the edges swollen and angry, the flesh parted in places where the blades had lingered too long. I move carefully, as gently as I can, though every touch makes my stomach twist.
Each wound feels like a countdown. Each breath he takes feels like something that could stop at any moment.
I clean what I can, pressing cloth into the worst of it, binding what I’m able even though it doesn’t feel like enough. It will never feel like enough.
Around the cave, Oberon’s flames cast uneven light as the three of them work silently on each other’s injuries, hands stained red as they press cloth to wounds and tighten rough bandages. Sylvian’s cuts are already beginning to close, leaving him in the best condition, and he moves between the others helping where he can, calm and focused despite the blood still streaking his skin. Ashton sits pale and tight-jawed while Oberon wraps a bandage hard around the worst gash along his ribs, Ashton hissing through his teeth but refusing to complain. In return, Ashton helps secure the bindings across Oberon’s shoulder and back, his hands unsteady from pain and exhaustion. None of them stop moving for long, too aware of how much blood they’ve already lost and how little room they have left for weakness.
Time stretches. Then Cassius stirs faintly beneath my hands.
It is barely anything at first, just the slightest shift, the smallest sign that he’s still there. His eyelids flutter like fragile wings caught in a breeze, and a moment later, his pale blue eyes open, unfocused and clouded with confusion. Relief crashes over me so hard it nearly knocks the breath from my lungs.
“You’re awake,” I whisper, setting the cloth aside with trembling hands. “Thank the gods!”
He blinks slowly, his gaze shifting to me, then to the others. There’s a spark of awareness, something returning behind his eyes, and I see it there, faint but real. Gratitude.
The others lean in closer, their concern plain now, no longer hidden behind tension or distance.
Oberon hands him a small piece of bread and a canteen, his movements careful despite the blood still staining his hands. “Eat. Drink. It’ll help you heal faster,” Oberon says, his voicelower than I’ve ever heard it, something protective threading through the words.
Cassius obeys without protest, though his movements are slow and weak, each one costing him more than it should.
The others watch him closely, their concern etched into every line of their faces, a silent understanding passing between them. For the first time, it truly sinks in how much they care. Not just about him, but about each other. The sharp edges between them have dulled. The constant tension, the clashing pride, it all feels distant now. What remains is something quieter, something deeper. Something real. Something forged in blood and pain and the kind of fear that strips everything else away.
And I don’t know what to do with that.
We share what little food and water we have, the quiet broken only by the occasional sounds of someone shifting or a low sigh of pain as they try to find comfort in the cramped space. The weight of our shared ordeal hangs in the air. As time passes, I watch the faint color begin to return to their faces, the shadows of fear and exhaustion receding slightly. Their breathing steadies, and when I check their wounds again, I’m stunned to see how quickly they’re healing. It’s a surreal sight.
It’s easy to forget how different the fae are from humans. Their bodies knit themselves back together with unnatural speed, the once-deep gashes now faint, pink scars that shimmer like threads of starlight. I stare at Cassius’s back in disbelief, the marks from the blades fading before my eyes like the remnants of a nightmare dissolving with the dawn. He notices my expression and smiles faintly, a soft curve of his lips that brings warmth to my heart.
“Forgot how fast we heal, didn’t you?” Ashton remarks, his voice carrying a teasing lilt, an attempt to lighten the heavy atmosphere. “We’re not exactly fragile.”
The humor in his words lands, but it feels thin. Forced.
“It’s incredible,” I admit, my voice barely above a whisper.
Oberon lifts his hand higher and the small flame in his palm, shifts. The glow dances over blood and torn clothing, over the cuts that are already beginning to close on them, and then over me.
The quiet stretches, heavier now, pressing in from all sides until Sylvian exhales slowly, his gaze fixed somewhere past me. “If Alette had been on that floor…” he says, his voice rough, like the words don’t want to come out at all.
No one finishes the thought. They don’t have to.
Oberon’s jaw tightens. The flame in his hand flares harder, surging briefly before he reins it back in. “You wouldn’t have survived it,” he says, blunt and unfiltered. “Not that. Not the way they had us.”
My spine straightens instinctively. “I’m tougher than you think.”
All four of them look at me. Not dismissive. Not amused. Serious.
“You are,” Sylvian says immediately. “You’re stronger than anyone I’ve ever met.”
“Stronger than all fae, at least in heart and spirit,” Ashton adds quietly, the usual teasing note missing from his voice.
