Page 114 of Of Iron and Moonlight

Kora set a hand on Lyra’s shoulder, then glanced toward the crowded bottles and instruments on the table nearby. “Let me help change the bandage,” she offered softly.

Lyra nodded between sniffles.

Isander bent and cautiously lifted Cairon while Kora peeled back the cloth. The gash beneath was cruelly torn and still hot, showing little sign of healing.

Kora bit her lip and tried not to let her concern show as she washed the wound with warm water, then reached for the salve. She dipped her fingers into the cool paste and smoothed it along the tender flesh, sending a silent prayer to the moons as she worked.

Stay.

Wake.

To steady herself, she rested her free hand against his ribs. A hum stirred beneath her skin at the contact, less like a pulse than a remembering.

It rushed through her so suddenly she stilled.

Cairon jerked. His eyes fluttered.

“Ronnie?” Lyra breathed, the name breaking as it left her lips.

Confusion passed over his face before he found her.

“My love,” he rasped, smiling weakly.

Lyra choked on a laugh and bent over him, pressing tear-wet kisses to his brow and temples.

Isander stood frozen for a heartbeat, then broke into a grin. “We were beginning to think you’d forgotten us,” he said, gripping Cairon’s shoulder.

Cairon blinked. “How long?”

“A week,” Kora said gently. “Lyra and I arrived yesterday.”

“Then I woke to better company than I deserve.” He let out a thin laugh, a wince accompanying the sound. “That must have been what cured me.”

Kora smiled. “We must keep you surrounded then.”

“Please,” he murmured. “Though being alive seems demanding. Laughing hurts.”

They laughed with him, a small act of defiance against the fear still hanging in the tent.

Isander spoke quietly of what had passed while they finished wrapping the fresh linen. Kora tried to keep her mind on the work, but the hum lingered beneath her thoughts, even as she moved on to help the other wounded men.

In the afternoon, a horn sounded from the outer camp, announcing the first wave of injured from Rethor. They came on makeshift stretchers and across the backs of weary horses. The healer’s tent filled with groans and strained breath, the air heavy with distress.

Kora moved from cot to cot, fetching water, steadying shaking hands, tearing linen into strips without pause. The flap lifted again, and her heart clenched.

Duncan entered with a young soldier slung over his shoulder and blood streaking his sleeve. Kora ran to him at once, helped lower the unconscious man onto a cot, then searched a somewhat stunned Duncan with frantic urgency.

“You’re hurt,” she gasped.

A shallow gash ran along his forearm, still bleeding freely.

“It’s nothing,” he muttered. He looked worn. Rain and sweat darkened his hair. His armor was scuffed and muddy. Something heavier than fatigue shadowed his features.

Kora caught his wrist and steered him to a stool. “Sit.”

With deliberate care, she dipped a cloth into warm water and cleaned the cut. Duncan watched in strained silence, as though resisting an urge to pull away, though Kora could not tell whether from pain or something else.

She did not dwell on it. The need to see him healed left little room for anything else. Setting her focus firmly on the task, Kora reached for the salve and began to spread it along the wound. Unmistakable now, the hum returned—and more troubling for how familiar it felt.