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A sizable stone protrudes from the ground nearby. He gestures to it. “Sit.”

“Why—”

“Your leg.”

I glance down. Blood shows starkly against the light beige of my skirt. It’s not a bad wound—the knife didn’t reach the muscle—and it’s on my outer thigh, away from the spot where a blade could have ended my life. Azmar takes me by the arm and helps me sit. Then he grabs my skirt and tears a long piece off the bottom.

“Hey!” I protest.

He doesn’t look up from his work. “We’ll mend it.”

I bite my lip as he tears another piece. “Thank you,” I murmur. He puts a warm hand behind my knee and lifts it to bend my leg at an angle. His hands are very human, save for their color. He hesitates for a second before pushing the skirt up to see my wound, which starts about six inches below my hip.

My face heats, and I dare not speak. Azmar takes a canteen from his belt and cleans the cut, and I’m grateful he can’t see my face scrunch when he does. I know how trollis feel about strength and weakness, though Azmar is not like most trollis. I’m silent as he works, but I can’t help but notice ... his usually fluid hands move artlessly. His cloddish touch sends prickles of heat through my skin, and yet it’s as though he’s trying not to touch me. Certainly not the way a soldier trained in field wounds would touch a patient.

I’ve never seen Azmar so ... awkward. And my silly, spinning mind can’t help but speculate as to why. I wonder what his hands would feel like running down my leg, touching the skin just to touch it, and I look away, berating myself.He is trollis.

But there is Perg. And there is Baten. And there is apparently no limit to how foolish a woman like me can be.

Azmar finishes his work and pulls my skirt back down. I meet his gaze again, and yet this time it’s different. I feel clumsy without moving and hot despite the half-set sun. And Azmar ... Damn him, I can’t read him, but there’s something so stiff in his expression, like he doesn’twantme to read him.

And maybe it’s better that I don’t.

He stands and offers me a hand. I take it, the bandage on my leg pulling tight. I waver, and Azmar doesn’t release me until I’m steady. In the distance, I think I see Homper returning, thankfully empty-handed.

Clearing my throat, I search for something to say. “You’re always so serious, Azmar.”

Stepping back, he folds his arms. Considers. “Cagmar offers little opportunity for merriment.”

That much is true.

The air cools, and I rub my arms when the skin starts to pebble, though I’m eager to see the stars again. “Do you think the others got away?”

“I don’t know.”

Homper gets closer and closer. He looks mad. Good. As for the rest of the human band ... I’ll have to find out after we return.

“I hope they did,” Azmar says. “Get away.”

I offer a small smile.

Azmar turns back for Cagmar. “Let’s go.” He puts a hand against the top of my back to guide me toward the Empyrean Bridge. “We don’t have to wait for him.” He drops his hand.

I can still walk, though my thigh smarts with every other step.

Azmar notices. “Do you need me to carry you?”

“No, thank you. Though I admit I’m growing tired of being injured all the time.”

“You’re a fragile human in a trollis city.”

“I’m not fragile.”

We walk for several steps. “No, you’re not,” he says.

The comment pleases me. We walk slowly, for my sake. Homper catches up with us and looks to Azmar, who shrugs, the easiest way to say that the humans got away without explaining how. And he doesn’t have to explain, thanks to his caste. Homper grumbles something foul and stomps past us.

“The stars will be out soon,” I say.