Page 19 of Sworn to the Shadow Throne

My hands flew over his body, removing what pieces I could. I thought for a moment about undoing the laces holding his cuirass in place but dismissed the idea. The armor would protect his wound while I dragged him through the mud.

“I’m Lunette,” I said, hooking my arms under his shoulders to hoist him onto the blanket. “Rule number one,” I murmured, forcing steadiness into my voice, “is no dying.”

The list was short. I had a lot to do.

He, of course, said nothing. But clarifying my expectations gave me something to say so my mind would focus on that instead of worrying. Silence left too much room for panic.

As soon as I started moving, my head throbbed from yesterday’s warding, and my muscles quivered from the two emergency healings the day before that. Inch by agonizing inch, I pulled him the ten feet across the yard. The blanket had saved the strength in my arms enough that I was able to heave him up the two steps onto the porch and over the threshold, marking our passage with a trail of mud and blood on the floorboards.

By the time I kicked the door shut, I was shaking. Wrestling him onto my narrow bed was an impossibility, so the floor would have to do for now.

The storm sounded like a howling monster as it snarled around the cabin. Muffin greeted the newcomer with a growl from his perch then scrambled over to sniff at his feet.

The hearth’s warm glow revealed more about the man I’d just dragged into my home. The biting cold had painted his lips blue. His lightly tanned skin matched mine; his hair was a dark chestnut brown, not black as it had seemed in the dim of the night outside.

Typical of Fate and her brother, the god of tricks, to send a man worth staring at only when he was unconscious and bleeding out. A cruel sense of humor, indeed.

My traitorous heart fluttered anyway when I brushed away the hair that was covering his face. Even half-dead, he was the most roguishly handsome man I’d ever laid eyes on.

Concentrate, Luna.

If I let him lie there, he’d be all the way dead by morning.

I stripped his cloak and tunic away, wincing at what I found. His injury was worse than I’d thought. My fingers, still numb with cold, struggled to untie the tight laces of his cuirass. I tossed the chest half aside. At the clatter of steel hitting the floorboards, Muffin jumped and let out a high-pitched squeak from where he was supervising on the table.

I used my legs to lift then heaved the back half of his cuirass out from underneath his bulk. Now I just needed to get the chainmail off. I was panting and sweating even though my skin was still cold from the storm.

Last bit then healing.

I lifted his chain shirt from his waist. I couldn’t help but stop when I reached his injury. I’d seen wounds of all types. This one made my hands pause anyway.

The chainmail was embedded in his flesh. I slowly peeled the metal sticking into skin, muscle, and bone away. Whatever had hit him had grazed the lung or worse. But I couldn’t tell with my eyes due to all the blood from his damaged liver.

“Sorry for stripping you,” I muttered, wry humor surfacing with my fear. “I promise I’m not after your armor, coin, or virtue.”

Twice I had to stop—once to feed the fire, once to steady my spinning head and grab bandages—before the last ounce of steel finally clattered to the floor. I caught my breath while I studied what I was working against.

The cold slowing his body was probably the only thing that had kept him alive this long. With my healing, lots of care, and a dose of luck, he might survive this. But it would be a near thing. I would have to pour as much of myself into this healing as I could to make it a slight possibility.

“All right, soldier.” I giggled, half delirious from the exertion. “Remember rule number one. Now, rule number two: no killing your hostess.”

I’d only found one dagger on his belt, but that didn’t make having a huge man in my cabin any less of a threat. I hid it in an old trunk, along with my knives. A bit of caution might save my life if this man were the type to get violent while half out of his mind with pain or the inevitable fever.

Given how much magic closing the worst of the wound would take, the likelihood of my fainting right next to him was almost certain. Passing out, often for hours after using too much magic, was a major downside that would leave me completely vulnerable. I might not even be conscious to bind his wound afterward.

Still, I accepted the risk because it was unthinkable to let a man die when I could prevent it.

Pesky morals, indeed.

I clenched my jaw and worked the clean bandage underneath his back so it would be ready to tie in place.

“Here we go,” I whispered, and pressed my hands to his skin, magic at the ready. As I pressed on the wound, his blood bubbled up against my palms.

I wished I knew his name.

Just… stay alive. Please.

I grew lightheaded from trying to keep my trembling arms steady. My power rose slowly, reluctantly. The fraying threads tugged from around my heart, each one burning as it slipped free. I willed them into him, stitching warmth into the torn places where his life flickered until it felt as though I were unraveling myself.