Crack. Shit. Another rib.
I suck in air through clenched teeth as the scarred warrior uses me as a punching bag, my jaw aching from where a different man punched me so hard my teeth rattled.
“You killed my brother.”
Punch.
“My father.”
Punch.
“I’m going to dance on your fucking grave.”
Punch.
Their laughter echoes around me.
Another warrior takes his place. He seems to favor my ribs. Another brutal crack, and I can’t cage the grunt that claws from my throat.
Across the center of the camp, the waterwielder stumbles out from the general’s tent. Her face is pale, and sunlight glints off beads of sweat dotting her forehead. My brows furrow as she stumbles forward, as though her legs aren’t completely under her command.
Her icy blue eyes are fixed on the warrior punching me. She walks toward the platform, still unsteady on her feet. Before she’s halfway across, the other woman—Vykiss—stops her with a hand on her elbow, whispering something in her ear. The healer guides her to the tent they share, then emerges a moment later alone.
Her face is resolute as she approaches the four warriors surrounding me. The brute before me sneaks in one more hard punch before turning to face her.
“I require assistance,” she says primly. The men tower over her, but she appears unfazed. “Tarlock, please search the forest for berries. Lingonberries, specifically.” The man who’d been pummeling my ribs raises a brow, but nods all the same. “Sevekand Makran, both of you tend to the horses, please.” She nods toward the last man, his long hair unbraided. “And Rothka, I need your help with my supplies.”
The men don’t question her, dispersing quickly to follow her orders without a word. My brow furrows—from what I’ve seen, Vykiss is the camp’s healer. She has no position of power or formal authority.
Sorka emerges from his tent as she crosses the camp, the hulking warrior at her side. She dips her chin at him in greeting, and he nods back, stiff and formal.
But his eyes give him away. I recognize the unbridled affection brimming in his dark blue gaze. I’m certain the same lovesick expression has been reflected on my face countless times over the past few months.
I grit my teeth. It’s how the captain must have looked at her, too.
Vykiss iswithSorka—it’s why the men listen to her. Why this lone woman walks freely in the camp amongst warriors. Why they heed her command without question.
Sorka watches the woman until she’s disappeared from sight. His narrowed gaze fixes on me, but he doesn’t approach. He leaves me alone with my thoughts to wonder why Vykiss stopped the men from beating me further—and what exactly the waterwielder might have told her.
Bright blood dripping from pale wrists.
Panting, heaving, shaking gasps.
“Mayah…”
Frosted eyes, the prettiest I’ve ever seen.
“You did this to me.” Her voice is wrought with wrath.
“Heal yourself.Please.” My voice is drenched with desperation.
She can’t.
She won’t.
I never stood a chance.
My power thrums through me. Soft skin beneath my palms.
