Page 85

“Last rank,” Joran calls.

The final guards enter the path. I follow after them, walking backward while black fire crawls over my fingers. The remaining waira gather on the road but hesitate to climb into the narrow passage.

One lunges.

I close the path behind us.

Chaos strikes the ledge. Stone shears from the mountainside and crashes across the entrance. Snow rises in a white cloud, burying the nearest creature and sealing the rest below.

The scar burns with unnatural cold.

I turn before anyone sees my balance waver.

The hidden route reaches a broad clearing blackened by old charcoal fires. From there, it curves behind the ridge and descends beyond the ambush point. The soldiers regroup. Two guards are injured, one with claw wounds across his shoulder and another with a broken wrist.

Fiona moves between them.

She cleans the claw wounds with spirits and presses folded cloth against the bleeding. Her hands remain steady. She instructs another guard to brace the broken wrist with two flat pieces of wood from the charcoal shelter.

No one questions her.

I watch her tie the final bandage.

At the stronghold, she challenges rules because she sees suffering and cannot leave it untouched. Here, beneath attack, she assesses terrain, supplies, and injuries with the same discipline I expect from commanders.

She looks up. “You are bleeding.”

I glance at my sleeve. A shallow claw mark crosses the upper arm. I had not noticed it.

“It is nothing.”

“It needs cleaning.”

“Attend to the serious injuries.”

“I have.”

The wounded guards are both stabilized. Damn her accuracy.

She approaches with a cloth.

“I can manage a scratch.”

“You are the one who brought a healer.”

“I brought you for the mining post.”

“And the mining post is behind us.”

Her gaze lowers briefly toward my side.

The curse has no visible sign beneath my coat. I make certain my breathing remains even.

“Something else is wrong,” she says.

“You are exceeding your role.”

“You used enough magic to fracture half the ridge.”