Page 9

CHAPTER SEVEN

T av walked with a slow, deliberate pace, shoulders hunched more than usual against the thinning light.

The village was quieter now, quieter than it should have been at that hour.

The lanterns above the stalls flickered, casting warped shadows over rough wood and canvas.

Somewhere to his left, a woman laughed, shrill and sudden, and he startled like a hunted thing before forcing himself to keep walking.

He hated that. The way his body still reacted before his thoughts caught up. The twitch in his right hand. The way his eyes scanned for exits even when he told himself there was no need. But tonight was not about fear. He had to be useful.

The market hadn't closed yet, by some miracle. A few vendors lingered, calling out half-heartedly to the last dribble of customers, their tired voices lilting through the air like smoke. Tav moved past stalls selling dried meats, grain, medicinal roots he didn’t recognize.

He paused at one where a woman stood beside a few baskets of dried fruits and sachets of clean water.

"How much fer two o’ the meat packets and four sachets?" he asked, voice hoarse from lack of use.

The woman eyed him for a moment, her gaze dropping to the bandage peeking out from under the rolled sleeve of his shirt. Pity. Or suspicion. Or both. She muttered a price and he handed over the coin, trying not to grimace as he shifted the small pack on his shoulder.

He had to be better by the time they left.

The air was damp, faintly metallic. Tav inhaled through his nose, slow and steady, as if the simple act might settle the dull pulse of discomfort radiating from his side. It didn’t.

The healer’s place was tucked behind a crooked alley, marked only by a faded symbol scrawled in charcoal above the doorframe. He knocked once, and then twice more. After a moment, the door opened, revealing a narrow man in robes stained with the color of old tea leaves.

“Evening,” Tav said, trying for polite. “I’m here tae treat a wound. On me side. Can ye help me?”

The healer’s gaze dropped immediately to the spot in question. “Aye. Come on in.”

Tav stepped inside and exhaled. The room was dim and full of stale herbs, dust motes catching in the single line of light that slipped through a crack in the shutters. There was a low bench along one wall, a table cluttered with jars and cloth, and a kettle steaming over a small brazier.

He sat on the edge of the bench and pulled up his shirt. The healer knelt beside him, inspecting the bandage before slowly peeling it back.

“Are ye using anything on it?” the man asked, peeling back the last layer of bandage.

“Aye,” he flinched. “Yarrow, pine resin and comfrey.”

Tav clenched his jaw, as he felt the air on his exposed wound.

The wound—originally a clean, shallow cut—looked angrier now.

Reddened at the edges, the skin around it taut.

A trace of cloudy discharge had soaked through the bandage, and the flesh beneath looked as though it had been irritated by more than movement.

“That daesnae look good,” Tav said, voice quieter.

“Nay,” the healer murmured. “It daesnae.”

For a long moment, the man didn’t speak. He reached for a cloth, dipped it in something sharp-smelling, and began to clean the wound with practiced care. Tav flinched.

“Is it infected?”

“Nae yet,” the healer replied, though his voice was less certain than Tav liked. “But it’s resisting the balm ye’ve been using. That worries me.”

Tav swallowed. “What daes that mean?”

The healer didn’t answer immediately. He reached for a small jar, twisted it open, and began dabbing on a new, thicker ointment that left a burning sting in its wake.

“It could mean many things,” the man said finally. “Yer body might be weakened from whatever else ye’ve endured. Or something foreign was introduced intae the wound when it was made. Poison, perhaps. Unclean iron. Did the blade feel... odd? Cold? Burned?”

Tav searched his memory. He saw the glint of the blade, the flicker of movement, the heat of his own panic. “It happened too fast. I dinnae ken.”

“Ye need tae keep this clean. Twice a day, at least. And use this new salve each time.” The healer wrapped fresh linen over the wound, tighter than Tav expected. “If it gets worse... if there’s fever or spreading... come back immediately.”

Tav nodded, even as the dread in his chest coiled tighter.

“I dinnae have much time,” he said. “I’ll be leaving tomorrow.”

The healer looked at him then. Really looked. “Then ye’ll have tae decide what’s more important… travelling, or healing .”

He stood stiffly, the pain a slow roar beneath his ribs, and took the small jar of ointment the healer pressed into his hands. He murmured thanks, more out of habit than conviction, and left. Outside, the air felt different. Thicker. Like something pressing down on him from above.

He paused on the edge of the road and looked out at the narrow lanes winding through the village. He shifted his weight and winced. The pain was duller now but still ever-present every time he moved his arm.

He hated the weakness. Hated how it felt to depend on a stranger’s balm to keep infection at bay. Tav had always survived by being sharp. But now his body was slowing, betraying him. He thought of Agnes and a tightness took root in his chest. She needed him whole. She needed him alive .

He tucked the jar carefully into his pack and began walking again, slower now. He walked past a shuttered bakery, its windows dark. Past an old man sitting on the stoop, muttering to no one. Past a child with a cracked toy and wide, watching eyes. No one knew who he was. That was a gift.

By the time he reached the inn, the lanterns were nearly out. Shadows crept up the walls like ivy, and the air inside smelled faintly of smoke and old wood. He set the pack down with care, trying not to jostle his side.

He would rest. Clean the wound again. And in the morning, he would leave with Agnes and pray that it would be enough.

The door clicked shut behind Tav, and silence stretched to fill the room like mist. Agnes sat still for a long while after he left, listening to the soft hum of the inn—the creak of old wood, distant voices muffled by thick walls, the occasional scuff of shoes against stone.

The room felt too big without him in it.

She was his wife for the night after all.

The absurdity of it prickled at her, pulling a dry laugh from her lips.

His wife. What would that truly mean? No treaties?

No titles? If she was a simple woman bound by choice rather than politics?

A cottage flashed through her mind—somewhere wild and wind-battered, where the sea crashed against cliffs and the fire never quite warmed the corners.

Her arms wrapped around her waist as she dismissed the fantasy. A reflex. One she hadn’t quite shaken. The corners of the room were dim, the light from the single lamp casting long shadows that shifted when she moved. She hated how jumpy she still was.

She stood and crossed to the window, cracking it open to let in air, though all it brought was a breeze that smelled faintly of earth and rain. It hadn't stopped. Not since the attack. She squeezed her eyes shut.

Get it together.

With effort, she pulled herself from the window. A deep breath. Then she yanked the door open before she could rethink it. The innkeeper loomed at the end of the hall, arms crossed over his barrel chest, chatting with a maid. She forced her spine straight and stepped forward.

"Excuse me—"Her voice frayed to a whisper. The maid turned, the innkeeper didn’t. Clenching her fists, she tried again."Sir?"

This time, he glanced over his shoulder, brow furrowed."Aye?"

"I’d like a bath drawn. Please."The please slipped out unbidden, soft as a child’s request. "Hot water. And—and soap, if ye have it."

The innkeeper studied her a moment then shrugged."Coin first."

"Of course."She fumbled for her satchel, her face burning.

They brought up a bucket and a chipped basin not long after, and she nodded her thanks without meeting the maid’s eyes.

The bath wasn’t much. The basin was shallow, the water not quite hot enough, and the cloth she used to scrub herself had clearly seen better days. But it was enough.

She dipped the cloth into the bucket, let the warmth seep into her skin before dragging it slowly across her arm. Her fingers left faint trails through the thin layer of dust and road-sweat on her skin. She washed in silence, with slow, deliberate movements.

Still, the memory kept creeping in. It always did since it happened.

She dropped the cloth into the water with a soft splash and buried her face in her hands.

Her breath stuttered. The back of her throat burned.

She couldn’t stop seeing it—the flash of a blade, the way Tav had bled, the way everything had gone so wrong in the space between one heartbeat and the next.

And the worst part—the part that kept circling back like a hawk over prey—was how useless she’d been. She hadn’t moved fast enough. Hadn’t done anything except stand there.

She didn’t want to be like that again. Never again.

The room swayed a little when she stood.

She wrapped a thin cloth around herself and padded across the floor toward her bag.

Her bare feet made no sound against the old wood.

She got dressed quickly and then, her fingers found the familiar worn leather of the strap.

She dragged the bag toward her, flipping it open and rummaging through until her hand closed around the hilt of her dagger.

Agnes stared at it, fingers curling around it. It was cool in her palm. Comforting, in a strange way. A small reminder that she could be dangerous.

She stood slowly, dagger still in hand, and turned to face the room. Her eyes scanned the floor, looking for space. She moved the basin aside carefully and stepped into the cleared patch of wood, her toes curling against it.

She raised the blade in front of her, mirroring a pose she’d seen once, somewhere. She couldn’t remember now. Her left foot forward. Right foot angled back. Dagger pointed out, as if she were ready. As if this time she would do something.

She held the position.

Ten seconds.

Twenty.

Her arm shook.

She adjusted.

This wasn’t how people learned. Not really.

She knew that. But doing something was better than nothing.

She turned slowly, shifting her stance, raising the dagger again in a different position.

Her mind raced ahead—trying to imagine attackers, trying to visualize how she’d move if someone came through the door.

She exhaled. Lowered the blade. Tried again. Left foot forward. Blade at shoulder. Then forward with a step, as if to strike. She repeated it. Again. And again. Each time, she felt her grip grow steadier. Her feet moved without stumbling. Her hands were damp, but the trembling had stopped.

She wasn’t good, but at least she was trying . And maybe that was what mattered most. If she learned enough she wouldn’t be that girl again. The one who stood there with wide eyes and shaking hands while the world came apart. She lifted the dagger again. This time, her hand didn’t tremble.

She froze.

Tav had stepped inside, she didn’t know when, the light from the hall catching on his hair, his coat, the edges of exhaustion that lined his face. His gaze landed on her immediately. On her form. On the dagger in her hand. On the strange, broken stance she was mid-practice in.

Agnes didn’t move.

Neither did he.

For a heartbeat, the room held its breath.