Page 111 of Reign

It had been so long since I’d heard the call of my own name that, for a beat, I believed I’d imagined it.

“By the grace of the gods,” Finn said as I pried open my heavy eyes to see his face beside Bash’s.

“Brother,” I spluttered.

“You cannot die,” Finn pleaded.

“We need Fitzroy,” Bash urged.

Finn’s hands trembled as he clutched mine. “I’m sorry. I never should have let everyone believe your work was mine. I’m sorry—oh gods, what do we do?”

“Find Fitz—”

“I’m not ready to say goodbye,” Finn interrupted Bash, his voice cracking as tears welled in his eyes.

I raised a trembling hand to touch his face and offer comfort, knowing that on the morrow, he’d be agonizingly grieving while I’d no longer be in pain.

Bash snatched Finn’s wrist. “Stop saying goodbye and go find Fitzroy! Tell him Smith’s going to die.”

Finn stumbled to his feet and bolted out of the tent.

Bash remained at my side, softly stroking my head while whispering kind words into my ear. He praised my talent, telling me how he adored the blade I’d crafted for him. He chuckled as he recalled my altercation with the boggart at the inn and reminisced about our magical wyvern flight.

“When I kissed you beneath the trees,” he murmured, “I thought you’d never talk to me again. But then… You kissed me back.”

His voice became muffled as the smithy dimmed and my surroundings faded to black.

A searing, agonizing sensation jolted me awake. Fitzroy loomed over me, methodically cutting away my tunic to expose the wound. My eyes darted downward, and terror gripped me at the sight of torn flesh around the arrow shaft.

I reached for Bash, clutching his forearm weakly, but he didn’t hold me back. With what little strength remained, I followed his gaze and realized he was staring at my chest. As Fitzroy tugged my tunic aside to free the fletching entangled in the fabric, the delicate curve of my right breast was exposed.

Shame flooded me; I scrambled for a shred of linen, my arms trembling as I desperately tried to cover myself. Bash quickly snatched a rag from the workshop floor and draped it over my exposed chest.

“Thank—” I began, but my gratitude caught in the blood coagulating in my throat.

“Hold Smith down,” Fitzroy commanded sternly. “I need to pull the arrow out before I can cast the healing spell.”

I shook my head frantically, terrified in anticipation of the upcoming pain.

“You’ll hate me now, but you’ll thank me later—when you’re still breathing,” Fitzroy said.

Bash firmly took my wrists, pinning them above my head and using his weight to hold me still.

“No, please no,” I begged, staring into his eyes.

“It’ll be over soon,” he murmured, though his voice wavered.

As Fitzroy worked to dislodge the arrowhead, I thrashed in agony—my screams tearing through the smithy in a cacophony of excruciating anguish.

“Sorry,” Bash said, his tone laced with guilt as he maintained his unyielding restraint.

My body convulsed and my lungs burned as Fitzroy finally removed the arrow.

“Closen hire wund, hiersum tou hattan. Halen hire flasc, hedan tou crafa.” Close her wound, obey my command. Repair her flesh, heed my demand, Fitzroy chanted.

Gradually, the pain subsided. The smithy dimmed into darkness as I succumbed to exhaustion, falling asleep.

When I next awoke, Fitzroy was gently wiping my forehead with a wet cloth. He let out a relieved sigh—his stern features softening into a reassuring smile.