Everything has to be different now. There must be peace.
If Hector cannot see it, I must help him see the light, and I must help him understand that the flowers Tersah makes are the best thing for his people and their magic.
As for Jerrod… There’s nothing in me willing to stop Hector from defeating him and House of Crimson.
They deserve to die for their atrocities.
ChapterTwenty-Seven
On the fifth morning, after the Bloodstone army rode away, I wake to the sound of drums. I throw my blankets from my bed, rise to my feet, and hurry to the tent flap, thrusting it open.
Thousands of Bloodstone warriors return to the camp, the sound of their triumphant chanting and rhythmic beating of drums ringing through the air.
My heart roars as I strain to see Hector riding near the front with Luc on one side and an injured Cenric on the other. A river of compassion flows through me for Cenric, with his arm bandaged and his eyes staring fiercely ahead.
It tells me everything my heart doesn’t want to accept.
They didn’t find Everly.
I look away, pain welling up in my chest. Pain for him. For Everly.
Invisible threads pull my attention back to Hector. Blood and dirt smatter his armor, but I see no sign of any visible wounds. His gaze catches mine, locking for a breath as he gives orders to his men.
Behind them, thousands of warriors pour into the camp, walking, riding horses with injured companions lying across their saddles, or being carried on stretchers. Some of the warriors limp, while others hold cloths to wounds on their arms and legs. Cries of anguish flood the camp as the wounded are carried to the apothecaries.
I hurry to the one Tersah and I worked in and step inside. The healers already tend to the wounded. I join them, helping in any way I can. The stench of blood mixes with the smell of herbs. It brings me back to when I was studying under the Kyanite healers.
One of the Bloodstone healers beckons me over to a cot where a man lies, his eyes closed, blood trickling from a deep wound on his stomach.
“Comfort him,” she says.
Torchlight frames his pale features and sweat glistens on his skin. “Mother.”
I move to him and curl my fingers around his, feeling the warmth, the proof of life. I cannot just comfort him and watch him die.
The sounds soften around me as I draw on my Kyanite magic, calling it to me, to heal, to renew. Pain burns through my serpent mark as I focus, letting the magic flow through me, like a powerful wave crashing to the shore. As I speak those healing verses, I envision his wound closing, the blood clotting, and the skin knitting back together.
The man relaxes as the Kyanite magic works its way through his body. Slowly, his breathing evens, and the color returns to his face.
I withdraw my hand and smile as the laceration on his stomach closes, leaving nothing but a faint scar. Then, I move to the next cot where another wounded man lies, his arm twisted at an awkward angle. If I don’t mend him, the healers will be forced to cut off his arm. I don’t want that to happen.
Pain smarts through my mark as I focus on the broken bones inside him, drawing my magic to me once more. The bones crackle as they heal, and the agony fades from the man’s eyes.
As I move to tend to another wounded man, my gaze lands on Hector standing outside the tent, watching. Our eyes meet, and his expression softens before he turns away and disappears into the camp.
Even though I continue to care for the wounded, Hector remains on my mind. I long to be near him again, to make sure he’s not hiding a wound beneath all that armor.
Instead, I focus on my task of helping where I’m needed and healing those I can. I try to pace myself by using the Kyanite herbs Tersah brought me a few days ago on as many patients as possible.
As I work, I catch glimpses of Hector here and there. He moves through the camp with purpose and determination, always surrounded by a group of his most trusted warriors. Despite his stoic exterior, exhaustion etches his features.
When we have tended to the last of the wounded, I walk to Hector’s tent and spot those crows perched near the entrance. I wave at them, then step inside.
My body is sore with fatigue, but my mind is alert, still replaying the sight of Hector on his horse, riding tall and proud.
I collapse onto his bed, reliving the moments of healing and magic that had flowed from me. My serpent mark still sears with the power it had exerted.
But as I sink into sleep, I dream of Hector.
