“There?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“Bone?”
“No.”
“Wing tendon?”
“Close.”
“Useful bad or panic bad?”
“Pain bad.”
I pause. He never says that directly. Not unless it’s worse than he wants me to know. My throat tightens.
I lean closer despite myself, inspecting the torn line where the stone ripped through scale. It needs pressure more than stitching, which is good because I am not qualified to stitch wing tendon on an alien dragon warrior in a glowing worm-dung cavern while a hidden machine siphons our miracle pool away. My life has become very specific.
“It’s not deep,” I say.
“No.”
“But it hurts.”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
He turns his head until I can see the edge of his profile. Horn, cheek, jaw. The corner of his mouth that has almost-smiled too many times.
“Good?” he asks.
“You admitted it. I’m proud.”
“That is insulting.”
“It’s meant to be nurturing.”
“You are poor at nurturing.”
“Says the male who treats wound care like military interrogation.”
The almost-smile flickers over his mouth.
I wrap the wound carefully and pass the strip around the base of his wing. That means I have to reach across him. Leaning close. My chest nearly brushes his back each time I pull the cloth around. My breath touches his shoulder.
Kavor stops breathing. I notice because of course I do.
“Kavor.”
“I am still.”
“You’re stone.”
“I am trying.”
The answer is honest enough to burn. My fingers slow against the knot.
