Quentin nearly snorted. “To put it mildly. It seems that while she pretended to make peace with Mariah, she turned around and spread dissent behind our backs.”
Delaynie hummed in agreement. “Did they say what Natia is up to?”
Quentin grunted as she started the next stitch. “They said she’s amassing loyalists to her cause. I’m assuming they were part of that group, trying to recruit more. Their plan is to meet the Onitans at the border and push them back; they don’t believe Amasis will hurt their own people to protect a group of foreigners.”
Delaynie was quiet, still methodically working: needle, thread, pull, tie. Quentin’s pain settled into a dull roar. Sweat beaded down his temple and his legs were beginning to shake, but it was manageable.
Sort of.
“And the gods?”
Quentin scoffed. “They don’t believe they’re really here. The idea that the dragons and the gods are one and the same isn’t something they’re buying. And even so—you’ve seen the gods. Unless they want you to know, they just look like…people.”
“It has been surprising, I agree,” Delaynie murmured, “that they look as flesh and blood as us.”
It was Quentin’s turn to fall silent. Delaynie wiped a soft towel over the skin between the stitches—for the blood, he assumed. “Mariah has to know. If it’s all true, then our people are going to face a horde when they arrive instead of a welcome party.”
Delaynie sighed, and again, that breath. Coconut and vanilla wafted over him, a sweetness that drowned out the sourness of the poultice. She unspooled the linen, readying the bandages. “I agree.” She paused, and he could taste her hesitation in the air.
“I need you to stand.”
Quentin obeyed, pushing from the chair and onto his feet, swaying slightly. He adjusted his towel again and held out his arms.
Linen was laid against his stitched and cleaned wounds, and slowly Delaynie wrapped it around his torso. He helped her when he needed to, taking the bandage from her hands and pulling it across his chest before handing it back to her. They worked in silence, but something shifted with each pass of the linen, with each hesitant touch of their hands, with each whisper of breath on skin.
A friend. Afriend. One he loved to torment and whose frustrated blush and the angry flash of her blue eyes brought him endless joy, but a friend nonetheless.
One who was a regally bred Lady of Onita, from an ancient family that had long held status.
He, on the other hand, had no last name. Hardly knew his mother beyond the brothel she’d birthed him in. Didn’t know his father or where his ship might have sailed off to.
That alone made it clear: a friend was all she could ever be to him. He wasn’t worthy of anything else.
“I’m angry at you,” she finally said, “for being so reckless today. But I’m glad you learned this. The chance to save our people is hopefully worth the scars.”
He turned slowly, facing her fully. “So, you’re saying I’ll live?”
Those sharp eyes pierced him better than any blade ever could. “I think it would take a lot more than a few scratches and bruises to kill you, Quentin.”
Something about the way she said his name heated his blood. A strange tension filled the air between them, soft and taut like a rope of silk. He was suddenlyveryaware of the fact he was still clothed only in a towel, everything else bare.
Say something. He cracked yet another grin. “Because I’m so brave and strong in battle?”
She scoffed, but it didn’t carry her usual disdain. “Because you’re like a cockroach. The world could be on fire, and you would still find a way to survive.”
His smile stretched wider, and he was about to open his mouth to say how he wasn’t much of a roach, but maybe the first part?—
“Don’t even say it,” she interrupted, and he couldn’t help but bark a laugh. Humor glinted in Delaynie’s eyes, and he didn’t miss the soft smile on her lips as she turned to repack the basket of healing supplies.
“I’ll need to check the stitches daily to ensure they’re holding,” she said. “But if you take it easy and keep the wounds clean, you should heal quickly.” She grabbed a small vial from amongst the supplies and handed it to him. “Drink that; it willhelp you sleep. And eat something. Those two things will help with the blood loss and speed recovery.”
“As you wish, little wolf.”
She glared, but no argument. Another win.
“It’s late,” she said after a long pause, setting the reorganized basket on the ground. “Go eat and sleep. We’ll need to tell Mariah tomorrow; the refugees will be here any day.”
Quentin nodded, gripping the small vial and starting toward the door. He stopped after a few steps, glancing over his shoulder. “Where did she go today?”
