The night bled into morning far too quickly.
I hadn't slept, not truly. Healers and doctors had been in and out for hours, their hands cold, their potions foul, their techniques both ancient and experimental. Some pressed roots to my skin, others whispered chants in forgotten tongues, and one even drew blood from my wrists to trace symbols around my chest. I felt like a corpse on display. Kieran hadn't moved much. He sat on the couch like a predator watching the aftermath of his hunt, silent, brooding, sharp-eyed.
But by dawn, the bleeding had stopped.
I could breathe again. The unbearable pressure in my chest had faded to a dull ache. My body wasn't whole, but it was mending, finally. The healers packed up their satchels and murmured instructions about salves and bitter herbs I had to use every day if I wanted the wound to close faster. Then they left, bowing to Kieran before disappearing like ghosts.
