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One claw taps once against his knee. “Farther than you can walk.”

“I wasn’t planning on doing it today.” I take another mouthful of broth.

Both his ears come forward. “You won’t be leaving.”

I lower the bowl just enough to see all of his face.

“Until the shoulder heals?”

“You’re staying here.”

His hands rest on his knees.

I look from them to the opening behind him. “Why?”

“You’ve seen me.”

The fire pops between us.

Staying.

My hand’s shaking again, and I get the bowl up before the broth can show him. Keer would already be at his throat. Keer is on the wrong side of a river I can’t find, and I’m under a stranger’s cloak swallowing his broth because he told me to.

From my pallet, I can see the first stretch of passage. It narrows beyond the mouth and turns out of sight. He’s wider than the opening, but he came through it carrying me.

I’ll fit.

The floor between here and there is bare, with nothing to catch underfoot. I keep my eyes on it while I work a piece of meat loose from the bottom of the bowl.

He watches until I go back to eating.

When I’ve finished, he gives me more water and brings a bowl of warm water for the bandage. I set the shirt aside, leaving my shoulder clear.

“Can you sit forward?”

I shift away from the wall, keeping my left arm against my ribs. He kneels close enough that his knee presses into the edge of the pallet.

His fingers work the knot loose behind my shoulder. I feel each small tug through the linen, but he stops whenever the cloth pulls against the wound. When it sticks, he wets it and waits.

“How bad is it?”

He doesn’t stop working the cloth. “Deep. It’s clean now.”

“Will it hold if I walk?”

The next tug comes a little slower. “A few steps.”

He looks up at my face, and I keep my eyes on the cloth. A few steps will do for now.

The pad comes free with a sting that makes me brace my heels. He puts it aside and supports my elbow while he washes the skin around the opening.

I look down once. Ugh. There’s a red hole where the edges should’ve closed by now.

I spent too long in the river with the bolt still in me. Mel would’ve had it out sooner.

His thumb moves under my elbow as I lean closer, taking the weight of my arm. I look at his hand instead. Any one of those claws could go straight through my shoulder, but he turns the points away to lift a corner of clean linen.

He smooths it with the broad pad of a finger. A tiny fold catches under the edge, and he lifts it again.