Page 5 of The Infirmary for Dragon Burns and Midair Mishaps

The wrangler made a sound of discontent. Her gaze started at the top of my head, working over me like a rain-shower, finding every flaw, gathering in every imperfection. It left my heart thumping wildly in my ears. But instead of shrinking beneath her stare like she expected, I curled my hands into fists and straightened my spine.

“Well?” she said flatly, looking rather unimpressed. She gestured to the man on the exam table. “Are you going to deal with this? Or are you just going to remain there like moss on a tree?”

Her words rattled me, irritation itching at the space between my shoulder blades. How one person could be so irksome was beyond me, but as the man on the table groaned, I set my frustration aside, making room for another emotion. It was an old, deep fear, and for the briefest moment I froze, imagining the dragon fire that had caused the blistering. The fire that had eaten through his skin, trying to gnaw his bones.

Because that’s all fire did.

Eat. And take. And consume.

I sucked in a sharp breath as memories took me. There had been so much fire at the academy, so much unnecessary carnage because of lax rules around rider armor. Here, Gunther had promised me peace. All he needed was an extra set of hands while the dragon migration moved through the mountains. I was supposed to be spending my days tending splinters and putting bandages on cuts. Not taking point on serious wound care!

But this man needed help, and there were no flames now.

You’re safe, I reminded myself.

“Hey,” Matty whispered, dragging my attention back to reality. “You’ve got me and Nisse here. Put us to work.”

“And me,” Seraphine cut in. “If you need extra hands, I can follow directions.”

I nodded. Burntenders always worked under nurses or healers. They had a smaller skillset, often versed in tending uncomplicated patients and performing basic dressing changes. But in urgent situations, they were an invaluable resource, and as I held Matty’s gaze now, I was grateful for his steady presence across the table.

“What do you want me to do?” he prompted, waiting for his first order.

I felt the heat of those sharp gray eyes across the room. Against my better judgment, I turned to the wrangler. She crossed her arms, one thin eyebrow raised—the arrogant asshole.

With a different heat fueling my veins, I snapped into action.

I’d done this before. Hundreds of times.

And I could do this now, despite whatever Miss Grump thought.

“Seraphine,” I said, keeping my voice calm and even. Chaos helped no one in these situations. “Find a pair of scissors and cut the fabric of his tunic away to expose the injury.”

She raced across the room.

“Matty,” I continued. “We need bandages. Lots of them. And antiseptic.”

He whirled toward the supply cupboard.

“And Nisse!” I shouted. She appeared at the end of the hall. “Bring me all the salve you have!”

“On it!” she cried.

With everyone moving at once, I bent close to the wound, evaluating the burn. Redness. Swelling. Blisters. There was no leathery skin, no char, and no exposed bone. A classic second-degree. When the man finally regained consciousness, he’d be in a lot of pain, but that meant the nerves were still intact. My eyes lifted briefly to find the wrangler watching me. “I need to know what happened. Can you walk me through the incident?”

She frowned. “What does that matter?”

“It matters because the mechanism of injury tells us important information.”

“Mechanism of—what?” The wrangler pursed her lips.

“How did he hurt himself?” I repeated impatiently. “Were you there? Did you see it?”

She threw her hand up dismissively. “When dragon migration season starts, everyone in Ember Ridge is suddenly a dragon expert. If you want to know what happened, it was stupidity. Plain and simple.”

“That wasn’t an answer,” I muttered.

She dropped her hands to her hips. “I got there just in time to see the man throw his arms up against the flame.”