“How were you injured?” I ask.
Automatically, his hand goes to his chest, to where the scars now mark his skin. “Hunting. Luc was determined to find the bear who killed one of his horses.”
“Oh.”
Praxis’ attention shifts to the window. “I heard horses earlier. Did the army leave?”
“Yes.”
Disappointment flares in Praxis’ eyes for only a beat before he banishes it with an even wider smile. “Good. I would never get to know you with Gabriel around. Do you have family, Sol?”
“A father.” I rise to refill Praxis’ goblet and return to catch his gaze on me.
“That’s all?”
“Yes.” I don’t bother telling him about the women at the brothel. He probably wouldn’t understand my closeness to them. Nor do I bother to tell him about the little sister we buried before she reached her eighth birthday. I never speak about her. It’s too painful.
“To have so little family must be lonely.” He studies the window as he continues. “I grew up with endless cousins. Uncles. Brothers.”
Aniah’s face slips into my vision again. I exhale, willing away the sharpness I get in the center of my chest when I remember her. She was so young. So cheerful. She always hummed. Always danced.
Then, one day, she didn’t.
Shadows pass over Praxis’ face as he rubs a hand across his jaw. “Then again, I have lost more than anyone should.”
“Haven’t we all?” I ask, my words low, bordered with sadness.
More shadows move over Praxis’ angular features. “Yes.”
I stand and move to the door. “Would you like some potato soup?”
“Yes.”
Frustrating thoughts gnaw at my mind as I serve soup into a terracotta bowl. I didn’t come here to make friends, or to heal Bloodstone warriors. I did it anyway. First, I befriended Kassandra. Now, I have healed Praxis, and he’s offering me his sword.
Somehow, these Bloodstone people keep working their way into my heart, my feelings, my empathy. Before I came here, I hadn’t imagined such a thing was possible.
I rejoin Praxis and hand him the bowl. Gratitude shimmers in his eyes as he reaches for the soup, blows, and takes a sip.
“Thank you. It’s delicious.” After Praxis finishes, he straightens and speaks in a serious voice. “You’re the first.”
“What do you mean?” I ask as I take the terracotta bowl and set it on the table next to the bed.
“Nobody has cast magic in Astarobane since the gods took Bloodstone magic.”
My throat clenches as my conversation with Gabriel pierces my ears.
He lied to me.
The clenching increases, squeezing around my neck with spidery fingers. Why would Gabriel lie about this?
“Nobody?” I ask, needing confirmation.
“Nobody.” A lopsided grin pulls at his mouth as he speaks. “Olah must think I’m special for a Kyanite to heal me.”
For a breath, I stare down at my hands, wondering why everything changed. I came here to avenge Mother, not heal Bloodstone warriors.
“It’s ironic,” Praxis says, his words low, bordered with caution, as if he treads lightly. “Kyanites are responsible for taking our magic, yet a Kyanite woman sits among us and heals a Bloodstone warrior.”
