Page 68 of Cycle Keeper’s Shadow

He pushed himself up again with a grimace, his one good eye blinking open. It was the deep brown of fresh-turned soil. He watched her with a wariness that hurt her as much as his lie—like he expected her to get up and walk away even now.

“You’re right. I should’ve told you.” He shook his head and dropped his gaze. “Never meant to hurt you.”

He sounded so sincere. She wanted to be angry, to hold it against him, but he’d had a chance to save himself and he hadn’t. Theordrin wouldn’t have punished Orzen this way if he thought he was still loyal. It felt cruel to keep holding it against him now that he was already suffering the consequences of his choices.

“Just don’t lie again,” she said firmly, though her voice cracked around the edges. “Not if you want to be my friend.”

“I won’t,” he said, voice rough and raw. “Not to you.”

The words lingered between them, and the last of her anger bled out. She hated how quickly her resolve softened around him. That softness was going to get her hurt someday if she wasn’t careful. Still, he’d been beaten half-dead. Maybe that was enough punishment for one mistake.

“I’ll hold you to it.” She nodded once, like it was settled. “Let’s get you healed.”

His ribs held the worst of the damage, if his rough breathing meant anything. Garin had helped remove some of the armor, but the padded undershirt—stained with blood and sticking to him where it had dried—was in the way. She couldn’t know how bad it was without seeing it herself.

Heat crawled up her neck. It was just a shirt. She’d healed others before, though not many trusted her enough to let her try. She swallowed against the flutter in her chest. This was stupid. She’d never been flustered by helping someone before and had no reason to start now.

He was her friend. She thought he was at least. Just a friend. A friend with far too many muscles and a smile so rare it felt like a gift when he shared it.

Gods stop it right now. He’s bleeding on the floor and you’re making it weird. She cleared her throat, but it only made her more aware of her hesitation.

“I, uh…I need to see your wounds.”

He looked down at the thick shirt, and for a heartbeat, he was silent. Then the corner of his mouth twitched—half-smirk, half-grimace.

“Of course. The wounds,” he rasped. Then, not nearly quiet enough to be unintentional, he mumbled, “Mmm, suppose it’s a legitimate excuse.”

Wren blinked. Her face burned. Was it humor or delirium? Maybe he was too far gone to know the difference. She gave a short, unsteady laugh.

“Funny. I’m not the one bleeding all over Garin’s floor.”

“Just saying,” he murmured, the ghost of a smirk still there as his eye slid shut again. “Not very subtle of you.”

“You’re impossible,” she said, hating the way the heat continued climbing onto her ears.

She recognized the deflection—humor was safer than admitting how much it hurt. Shaking her head, she brushed the fabric near his collar and let out a breath, resting her palm on his shoulder—solid and too hot beneath her touch. The heat startled her. Fever, she reminded herself quickly, that was all it was.

“Lift your arms. Slowly. I’ll help you.” He winced but obeyed.

She eased the padded shirt off, averting her gaze. Folding it with care, she set it aside, brushing damp palms against the fur on her knees. This was silly. She couldn’t avoid looking forever, not if she was going to heal him.

With a huff, she turned back and her breath caught. The first thing she saw wasn’t the muscles beneath his skin, but the map of pain written across them in sickly yellow and deep crimson bruises. Some were already darkened black.

Scrapes crossed each other like claw marks, and beneath them, older scars gleamed pale and raised—a lattice of former violence that never truly healed. The old wounds told their own story—how long he’d been fighting, how little mercy he expected. It was hard to be distracted by anything other than how much pain he must be in. She drew a breath, half-gasp, half-curse.

“That bad?” he muttered.

She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she focused on popping the lid off the tin of salve, muttering, “I’m going to need so much more of this.”

She focused on the fresh bruises first, careful not to press too hard. Still, he winced, drawing a harsh breath between clenched teeth. She mumbled apologies as she spread the balm in slow, steady strokes across his calloused skin.

It was impossible to ignore the strength beneath her palms. How many times had it failed to protect him from pain like this?

She pressed her lips together and tried to focus on the bruising instead. The worst of it was along his ribs, and she let her hands linger there for a beat, feeling the flutter of his pulse beneath her fingers. Salve would ease the cuts, but only weaving would help knit him back together.

“I’m going to start.”

She closed her eyes, breathing slowly. In through her nose. Out through her mouth. Warmth climbed in her chest, flowing down her arms in threads of silver that unfurled through her fingers.