We sit in heavy silence. What words could possibly be spoken at a time like this? Empty platitudes and false reassurances would only ring hollow.
When the palace walls tremble, Zerah grips my hand so tightly it’s nearly painful. But I welcome the discomfort. It anchors me, keeps me tethered, so I don’t float away on a tide of panic.
“They’ll be all right,” she says softly. “Jasce and the others. They’re strong.”
I nod, unable to speak around the lump in my throat.
“Let’s head to the apothecary,” Zerah says. “We can make bandages for the wounded.”
Again, I nod, knowing action, any action, is a lifeline right now.
From the nearby table, I pick up my veil, settle it over my face, then follow Zerah from the library.
The scent of herbs and the sharp tang of antiseptic greet us as we enter the apothecary a few minutes later. Women from around the palace are already there, their faces set in grim lines of determination as they tear cloth into strips. I take my place beside Zerah at one of the long wooden tables.
My fingers fumble at first, clumsy with anxiety as I try to rip the fabric into even strips. Zerah shows me how to fold and tear more efficiently, and soon I find a rhythm in the repetitive motion.
But as much as I try to focus on the task at hand, my mind wanders outside these walls to where steel clashes against steel and magic lights up the sky with its deadly beauty. I picture Jasce, his brow furrowed in concentration as he commands his fire magic with a deft hand.
The sounds of battle are distant, yet they are a constant reminder that each bandage I roll could soon be stained crimson with the blood of someone I may know, someone I may love.
Zerah glances at me occasionally, her observant eyes missing nothing. She doesn’t speak, doesn’t offer false comfort. Instead, she just works alongside me, her presence a silent balm.
Every once in a while, I look at the door, knowing if the battle was over someone would come to tell us.
Hurry, Jasce.
Please hurry back to me.
ChapterFifty-Six
ANNORA
The rhythmof tearing cloth and folding bandages has turned hypnotic, the repeated motions a strange sort of dance that Zerah and I perform along with the palace healers.
Our hands move with purpose, even as our hearts thrum with fear for what’s happening beyond these walls.
All night we work, and I feel every second in the tension of my shoulders, in the grit in my eyes as they fight sleep.
As dawn spills its first light over the city, the golden rays filter through the window, reminding me that another day has dawned.
Soon, the moans of the injured drown out the silence of my thoughts.
I stay next to Zerah, our hands now tasked with more than just preparing bandages. We apply them, press them into wounds that bleed through our fingers.
I have no formal training in healing. My knowledge comes from caring for scrapes and bruises that my sisters would incur during their adventures. But I adapt quickly, watching Zerah’s every move and mirroring her gentle yet efficient touch.
I clean a gash on a young soldier’s arm, the blood warm and slick against my skin. He flinches, his eyes clenched shut against the pain, and I murmur soft words of comfort. “You’re safe now,” I tell him. “You’re inside the palace walls.”
Zerah is near me, her hands steady as she stitches a cut in a woman warrior’s leg with a skill that surprises me.
There’s no end to them—the warriors from House of Crimson who lie on cots and blankets spread across the floor. Each one carries a story on their skin: slashes from swords, burns, deep puncture wounds from arrows.
I stay close to Zerah as we move from one wounded person to another, my thoughts constantly shifting to Emerin. She would be in her element here and able to help far more than I can.
Where are you, Em?
Surely, she’s safe in Bakva, and that letter was a lie.
