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Good. She should be afraid. Smart women should avoid monsters. Too bad for her, since I need her for information.

A ravine opens up around the next bend of the road. Overgrowth and fallen logs mostly hide the shallow depression in the earth caused by a tiny natural spring. Off the road, one way in, access to clean water, and plenty of wood for a fire.

I couldn’t ask for a better campsite for Esme. She’s lost a lot of blood and will need rest and plenty of fluids to recover. Otherwise, she’ll sicken, which will delay us even more, and I don’t have any time to waste.

I’m meant to check in with a scout from Tirene tomorrow, who will report back to Lark and Sterling. Though I could reach the meeting point as scheduled by flying with Esme, that would reveal my wings. I’d also have to be wary of Meridia’s aerial scouts, but as a Tirenese citizen, I practically own the sky.

But first, I need Esme upright and moving. Once we intercept the scout, I can transport her to the palace and question her properly. While I can beat answers out of an enemy combatant, I can’t coerce them out of a reluctant woman who may have very well been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Rafe can get the answers we need, though. He’s a lot like Esme and can probably schmooze information out of her. That’s a problem for later, though, after I make a safe campsite that will promote healing.

Once in the ravine, I duck under the natural lean-to made of trees and flood wash, a cave created by plants instead of rock. I place Esme against a moss-covered boulder, contouring it to her body so it braces her shoulder.

The cool stone will slow blood loss, and the moss will cushion the wound. Though her head lolls to one side, her eyes stay closed, her breathing shallow but steady.

I refill the waterskin in the spring.

With that finished, it’s quick work to set up camp and boil some water in a hastily crafted clay pot.

As the fire grows and evening falls, the little fake cave warms up. Orange light pushes back the shadows, giving the ravine a cozy aesthetic. As soon as the water is hot enough, I wash my hands, then kneel beside Esme to unwind the bandages. They’re soaked through and require changing. I need to clean the wound properly this time, rather than with the field dressing I applied earlier.

When I peel the fabric away from the red, puckered wound, Esme’s eyes flutter open. A tortured hiss escapes her.

“It would have been better for you to have slept through this. You’ll need to stay still.” I don’t look at her sweating face, focusing instead on cleaning my small knife with soap before setting it in the boiling pot of water. “This is going to hurt.”

“Already hurts.” She talks through gritted teeth, pain roughening her voice.

With no fabric or splinters embedded in the raw flesh, the wound doesn’t appear contaminated. I would love to possess the ability to knit the wound back together with a touch of my hand, the way field healers do, but my magic is more destructive.

Esme watches my hands as I sterilize the knife. “Go ahead.”

“It’s going to get worse.”

“I know.” She exhales slowly, and I mask a wince at the gray tone of her skin. “Keep going.”

I work as fast as I can while still being thorough. The wound has two openings and needs to be cleaned inside and out. Esme demonstrates true grit, blowing air through her nose as I pour water through the hole.

Nothing rinses out, which is a blessing.

I cleanse the outside of the wound with a cloth soaked in boiling water, then I slice strips off the medicine block I keep with me on missions, mix them with water to form a thick paste, and start packing it on.

Esme whimpers when I press too hard but doesn’t ask me to stop.

Reluctant admiration blossoms beneath my sternum. She’s tougher than she looks.

I wrap fresh bandages around the wound, but I have nothing for the pain. When I tie off the last knot, Esme slumps against the boulder, panting like she ran a mile and sweating like a workhorse. I brush my thumb against her jaw, the unconscious gesture featherlight, and for a moment, Esme seems to lean into my touch.

“Done.” I pull away and rock back on my heels to put some space between us. “You should rest.”

She doesn’t answer, but color returns to her skin.

I use the last of the boiling water to wash, ignoring the burning pain and avoiding the thought of her blood on my hands. I could have hurt her with almost zero effort, and that thought twists my insides. I don’t want to hurt Esme. To distract myself, I toss the pot and form a new one that I fill with water for tea.

The bark from the willow tree we passed on the way into the ravine will help with pain and inflammation.

My hands shake around the new pot. The tremors began while I was tending Esme’s wound and never ceased. Immediately after the fight, I could overlook the trembling, but with the battle fading and distance between us and the ambush site increasing, reality sets in.

I hate that she got shot. I hate how she flinched when I tried to help even more.