“No, she wasn’t!”
“Yes, I was,” came Solveig’s weak agreement.
“Be quiet,” Westley snapped, not taking his eyes off his friend, lest he try to stab Solveig again.
“I knew she wouldn’t die,” Noren insisted.
“You have no idea what kind of injuries she can survive.”
“I have a good enough idea. I was in the cave too, West.”
Hooves crashed through the treeline as Helle came charging in, not stopping to pay Njord any mind, before headbutting Westley out of the way. He was knocked back, landing hard on his ass, his hands falling away from Solveig.
The ground beneath her soaked up her blood as if it was an offering.
Westley attempted to scramble towards her, but Helle snuffed in warning, halting him with the fury in her demeanour. Westley raised his hands—hands covered in Solveig’s blood, the scent stinging his nostrils—in a show of surrender.
When the horse was satisfied Westley was not a threat, she lay down beside Solveig, her silent protector.
The huffing sound of Conalle running, faintly out of breath, his arms full of bandages, breached the taut silence.
“I figured someone might get stabbed so I brought supplies,” he said before the scene in front of him fully registered. “Solveig!” The Fae lord rounded on Westley. “You actually stabbed her!”
“I didn’t stab her,” he said, rushing back to Solveig’s side.
Helle narrowed her eyes in warning. He slowed his movements to assure her that he meant no harm. Solveig’s breathing was shallow, purple shadows blooming under her closed eyes. Even her hair lacked its usual lustre.
Too fast. It was happening too fast.
“Solveig, can you hear me?” Westley barely recognized his voice, the roaring in his ears too loud.
“Who stabbed her then?” Conalle asked, taking in the bloodied dagger lying on the ground at Noren’s feet. “No ...” he whispered, looking up with hurt in his eyes. “Why?”
“She was going to kill West,” Noren swore, though he didn’t sound as confident as before.
“Why would she want to do that?!” Conalle cried.
“Connie ...” Solveig’s weak voice came from the ground. The lord rushed over, kneeling at her other side. Westley scoffed when the hooved beast didn’t bat an eyelash at Conalle. He clasped her weak hand.
“Shhh, don’t speak,” Conalle crooned.
“You ... can’t ... trust ...” Her voice trailed off as she drifted back into unconsciousness.
“Westley, please tell me what’s going on.” Conalle had turned frantic, his hands fluttering over Solveig in a useless attempt to fix a problem he knew nothing about.
“She’s not healing,” Westley muttered under his breath.
In the cave, she’d healed. In the chasm, she’d healed them both. But not now.
Conalle made a face as though Westley had lost his mind. He wasn’t far off.
“Of course she’s not healing! She’s been stabbed!”
“Why is she not healing?” Westley asked, more to himself than anyone else.
He carefully lifted Solveig’s tunic, inspecting the injury. Veins stretched in black tendrils from the wound as blood continued to spill onto the ground, soaking into his pants. If his heart was beating normally, it would have stopped.
“West ...” Noren tried to speak, but Westley cut him off with a snarl.
