Page 183 of Feralheart

“I’ve had worse.”

“During which assassination attempt was that?”

I didn’t answer. The tremor in her lower lip was something I was not supposed to see, so I directed my gaze at the tent ceiling instead.

She rose to get water and supplies, calling out instructions, and in the brief time she wasn’t beside me I had the irrational impulse to reach after her.

When she came back, she dipped a cloth in the water and began cleaning blood from my chest. This close, I was acutely aware that I was not, in any way at all, doing fine.

Her touch was no different from any other healer’s, but the tremble in her fingers each time they brushed my skin gave her away.

“Tell me how this got ripped apart,” she said.

“There were platforms. Mirrors. Spaces where our dragons couldn’t fly. Alys died first. Her dragon lost altitude and fell, clipping a wing on a mirror. He couldn’t fly well after that. I told her to jump to Aristus, and she did, but her foot caught in the stirrup. They both fell. I tried to grab her. Caught her arm, but the weight…” I swallowed hard. “She slipped from my grip.”

Sucking in a breath, I released it.

“Then Brimmore,” I said. “The mirrors showed him things he should’ve ignored, but he flew straight into one.”

Her hands stilled. “I’m sorry.”

“If only I’d been able to make them understand that their dragons could’ve guided them through it. They wouldn’t listen.”

“Like they wouldn’t listen when I told them to let go of the reins over the lake.” She continued cleaning. “The third trial was about trust, not in each other but in our bonds.”

“Two people are dead because I didn’t lead properly.”

“Two people are dead because this race was designed to kill them.” She wrung out the cloth with a clenched grip, the water turning pink. “You can’t save everyone, Fen.” Her shoulders fell. “Neither can I.”

The way she said my name made my chest pull tight.

“The stitches tore,” she said, examining the wound. “I’m going to have to stitch you up again. It’s going to hurt.” She pulled out the needle and thread, her jaw set. “Try not to move.”

“Can I flinch?”

“Fen…” she growled.

She leaned over me to work, close enough that loose strands of her hair brushed my collarbone. She didn’t notice. I noticed with every nerve I possessed.

The first stitch went in clean. I locked my jaw against the pain.

“You flew through a trial with a stab wound,” she said, not looking up from her work. “What exactly were you thinking?”

“That dying would be inconvenient.”

Her shoulders sagged, but her mouth twitched.

“The mirrors showed me a thousand versions of my own failure,” I said softly. “But you’re the only version of the truth I want to keep.”

“Fen…” She pinched her eyes closed before opening them again and focusing on her work.

Three more stitches. Four. Her hands stayed steady even when mine wanted to shake.

“Thank you for doing this,” I said.

“My mother said healing was a gift that demanded use, whether people deserved it or not.”

“Do I deserve it?”