I grind my teeth so hard I’m surprised they don’t crumble, fingers clenched around the seams of my shirt. There is no point in either of them seeing my shredded skin.
None.
I’m so much stronger than these slashes on my back, the story they tell a rippling echo I don’t want to be heard by anyone. An echo I’d rather take to my grave than sit here all slumber while they digest it—keeping it alive in some form or another.
Behind me, I sense Bhea stepping into my atmosphere, her hands coming up to help me ease the tunic partway down, exposing my shoulders.
She gasps, pausing.
Moving around the side of me, her glossy-eyed gaze trails across the bared window of flesh from my neck to navel, tears puddling her lower lids.
Confused, I look at her robe, pinched in place by more gold or diamond buttons than I’ve ever seen on a single seam, my blood chilling at the sight of the one closest to her nape. A tiny dragon blowing a mushroom of flames.
This Runi doesn’t need dragonfire to ignite the trail of past runes, because she’s blessed with Dragonsight. She can see them with her own eyes.
Meaning she’s seeing …
Everything.
“What is it?” The King’s voice hacks through the room like the swing of a sword, and my heart skips a beat.
Another.
Bhea meets my stare, and I shake my head the slightest amount.
Please don’t.
Please don’t make me go back to that place—
“Nothing, Sire,” she whispers, blinking, dashing a tear from her cheek.
Relief floods through me like a gulp of icy water.
“The damage is more extensive than I was expecting. I will need to retrieve more supplies from the storage closet down the hall.”
With the King’s nod, Bhea eases from the room, closing the door behind herself—leaving the space less full, yet somehow brimming.
I clear my throat, fingers fisting my tunic, the silence between us tangible. A clay-like substance that could be molded into one of two things: a war horn or a waving white flag.
“This,” I rasp, jerking my chin at the table of tinctures, “you bringing a Runi in to help me, it changes nothing.”
“I’d be surprised if it did.” He pushes off the wall, moving toward me. “But for now, spend this time sharpening your blades. At least until Bhea has completed her task.”
“That’s a big ask.”
He reaches me, warm, calloused fingertips skimming across my knuckles, his gaze a quiet request.
Sighing, I loosen my grip, allowing that white flag to rise between us. A fragile, fluttering thing I intend to shred the moment I leave this room.
“Would you like me to cover you with a cloth before I take this off?”
My breath hitches.
All three Vaegor brothers originated from The Burn, where nudity is considered a comfort for some—far less sexualized than it is this far south—so I’m not too proud to appreciate his consideration of my culture.
For asking.
I open my mouth, close it. Finally, I shake my head.
“Tell me if you change your mind.”
With my nod, and not once breaking eye contact, he eases my tunic down my shoulders until it’s bunched around my wrists, the chill air nipping at my bareness while I study his lashes—so long and thick.
A pretty distraction.
He reaches around to gently tuck the drape of material around my hips so it’s not agitating my ragged flesh.
“You know this is pointless, right?”
“Not to me,” he rumbles, then takes my hands in his big, sturdy ones—his a tan complexion like the stone walls, mine the color of snow.
He leads me toward the chair, steadying me so I can lift my leg over it and settle on it backward before he lowers with me, giving me the dignity of not looking upon my damage. A mercy I appreciate in this small window of ceasefire.
I rest my chest against the heavily cushioned backrest, hands in my lap as he folds into a kneel.
A soft knock sounds on the door.
“Enter,” he murmurs while I hold his severe stare, like looking into the crumbled remnants of a fire that’s lost its flame.
The door swings open. Closes. I hear Bhea’s soft, shuffling steps, then sounds of her readying for the procedure.
The King barely blinks as she cleans some of the blood from my back with damp sweeps of a cloth, squeezing the ruddy excess into a bucket on the ground. He barely blinks as she paints my back in a bonding agent—the familiar sting sinking through layers of filleted flesh before she sketches out her paths with the flick of a delicate paintbrush.