Gabriel continues caring for Praxis like I didn’t speak. Maybe he knows arguing would be futile.
I shift my focus to the window, watching the swaying olive trees, the clouds darkening the sky.
This is Astarobane. People don’t use gifts here.
“Gabriel, listen to me. This doesn’t happen,” I say, desperate for him to understand. To listen.
After he finishes doing the best he can with rags and water, already stained red with blood, he lifts his gaze to me. “I know.” How simple he says those two words, as if we talk about the price of wheat.
I jab my right thumb into my left palm and stare down at Praxis. He still lies there with his eyes closed and his face pale.
“Why isn’t he awake?” I ask.
Gabriel’s attention shifts to the man lying across our table. “I don’t know. You’re the healer.”
Think, Sol.As hard as I try, my thoughts remain jumbled.Breathe. Think.I inhale and exhale, drawing calm to me, like the shore pulling waves inward.
Clarity returns, all those months of training, all those moments of sitting by patients after a Kyanite healer cured them.
“People often take time to recover after their wounds are healed with magic.”
“Then, perhaps, that’s why he hasn’t awakened.” Gabriel moves to the door with the basin and disappears through the opening.
Sticky strands of hair cling to my cheeks as I shuffle to the sofa and sink against the cushion. Gabriel returns and refills the terracotta bowl with clean water.
“This is Astarobane.” My stomach tightens as I continue. “People don’t cast magic here.”
“No, Bloodstone people don’t cast magic in Astarobane,” Gabriel says plainly. “Nobody ever said an outsider couldn’t.”
“I’m an outsider?”
“You know what I meant.”
“No, I don’t,” I say honestly. “Can people use magic here?”
Kassandra said they cannot.
“Yes.”
I search Gabriel’s face for deceit. He gives nothing away. No twitching. No glancing away.
The gods must have cursed me. Nothing else makes sense. Why else would they only allow me to heal while I stand among Bloodstone people?
How ironic. How frustrating. How...
I glance up, catching Gabriel’s stare. Gratitude shines there. Not hate. Not scorn.
“Thank you, Sol.”
My name.
My actual name.
I look away, unable to face whatever it is he must be thinking.
It’s cowardly, weak. I’m neither of those things. But right now, I’m all of them.
I’m a Kyanite.
