Page 64 of Sweet Venom Of Time (Blade of Shadows #6)

My hands hovered over the plants in my basket, their scents rich and grounding. “I would love to try,” I whispered, not because I was fearless—but because I needed to believe that healing others could heal something in me, too.

As days melted into weeks, I stepped fully into the role of the tribe’s healer.

Women came to me with their children, their eyes shadowed by worry I eased with poultices and warm teas.

Warriors sought me out—prideful yet worn by past battles.

I stitched their wounds, rubbed salves into scarred skin, and spoke calmly into the hush of night.

Every grateful smile, every sigh of relief, chipped away at the wall I had built around my grief, brick by agonizing brick.

But as my knowledge of healing deepened, so too did my belly swell.

With every flutter, every kick, the twins within reminded me that life pressed forward.

Alone beneath the blanket of stars, I often lay a hand to my womb, wondering if the blood that flowed through my children would doom them to the same tangled destiny that had ensnared me.

Would they be Timebornes? Would they be hunted for powers they never asked for?

My past felt like a fading dream—a tapestry woven with loss, sorrow, and love that still haunted me in the quiet hours before dawn.

And yet… despite the uncertainty and fear, I found peace in the present.

In the laughter of the children I healed, in the strong hands of the warriors I mended, in the clasp of Dancing Fire’s hand over mine—a silent promise that I was no longer just Elizabeth Alexander, cast adrift in the storm.

I was something more now—a healer, a mother, a thread woven into the fabric of this people. And for the first time in a long while, I believed that perhaps… I belonged.

Dawn had barely begun to paint the sky in soft hues of rose and gold when Dancing Fire appeared at the entrance of the teepee, his silhouette stark against the pale light. “We hunt today,” he said—no question, no invitation—just a truth, spoken with quiet certainty.

I nodded, swallowing the nerves fluttering in my stomach. I gathered my quiver, the worn leather familiar beneath my fingers, and slung it over my shoulder. Once foreign and unwieldy, my bow now felt like an extension of my hand.

The forest was alive around us—birds warbling their morning songs, leaves whispering secrets in the wind.

The air was crisp and clean, filling my lungs with each step as I moved beside him, moccasins silent against the earth.

At that moment, the land felt less like wilderness and more like a living, breathing entity—one I was slowly learning to trust.

We reached a stream, its waters glistening like glass over stone. I knelt, letting my fingers drift through the current, searching for herbs. Yarrow grew in clusters along the bank—good for wounds. Willow bark curled beneath the water’s edge—nature’s relief for pain.

Then, the light shifted.

A shadow passed over me, sudden and immense, eclipsing the sun’s warmth in an instant.

Bear.

My breath caught, the world narrowing to the massive form, stepping into the stream just feet from where I crouched.

Its dark eyes locked on mine—curious, calculating.

I stumbled back, my heart slamming against my ribs, terror seizing my limbs.

Every instinct screamed to flee, to run into the trees, and never stop.

“Elizabeth, don’t run!” Dancing Fire’s voice cut through the panic, as sharp as an arrow’s edge. “Stand still!”

But the bear had seen me. There was no escape.

Its gaze bore into mine—ancient, merciless.

I stood frozen, carved from fear, as Dancing Fire notched an arrow. The string twanged. The arrow flew true, burying itself in the bear’s shoulder. A deafening roar ripped through the forest, shattering the stillness like glass.

The beast turned, fury in its eyes, and charged him.

They collided—force against force, a storm meeting stone. The bear’s paw lashed out brutally, striking Dancing Fire across his side. Blood sprayed, as vivid as rubies, against his tanned skin. He staggered but did not fall.

“Find something, Elizabeth! Fight!” His voice was raw, desperate—a lifeline thrown into the chaos.

His words shattered my paralysis. My eyes darted, searching—a rock, jagged and heavy beneath my hand. I hurled it with everything I had.

The stone struck the bear’s side with a dull thud. It turned, snorting, rage rekindled. Its eyes locked on mine. Time slowed, and my breath snagged in my throat, caught behind ribs that felt like they might crack.

“Elizabeth, move!” Dancing Fire’s voice tore through the haze, but I couldn’t. My legs were stone, rooted in fear.

Then—a blur. A flash of steel.

Dancing Fire, bleeding and battered, had seized his hunting knife. With a warrior’s cry, he hurled it. The blade spun through the air, catching the sun—a silver streak of vengeance—and struck deep.

The bear howled in agony, rearing high on its hind legs. Then, one final, thunderous swipe brought its fury down on him.

Dancing Fire crumpled. Blood poured from a ragged gash across his chest. He hit the earth with a sickening thud, a sound that stole the breath from my lungs and ripped the world out from under me.

Everything narrowed—to his still form, to the blood beneath him, staining the earth in crimson sorrow.

The bear, wounded and seething, turned from us.

A low growl rumbled in its throat like distant thunder threatening to return.

Its eyes, dark and vengeful, locked on mine—a promise of retribution.

Then it vanished into the forest, leaving behind nothing but torn earth and the memory of blood trailing into the snow-melted waters of the stream.

I fell to my knees beside Dancing Fire, my hands already stained with his lifeblood. His breaths came in ragged gasps, his eyes fluttering open to meet mine—pain and gratitude swirling in their depths.

“Stay with me,” I begged, my voice a broken whisper. “Please, don’t leave me.”

His chest rose and fell, each breath a fragile battle, life clinging to him by a thread thinner than spider silk.

This was the moment—the test. I could not falter.

My hands shook as I tore at the leather of my garment, stripping it into rough bandages. Pressing them against his wounds, I fought to staunch the bleeding, to keep him anchored to this world. His blood soaked my hands, but I would not stop.

Night fell cold and cruel, wrapping around us with icy fingers. But the fear in my chest was colder still.

I built a fire, coaxing flame from tinder with trembling hands. As Dancing Fire drifted in and out of consciousness, slipping toward a darkness I could not see, I whispered prayers into the flickering light—pleas to any power that might hear me to spare his life, to give him back.

Memory became my guide. Yarrow to staunch the bleeding. Plantain to ease the inflammation. I worked silently, a sentinel holding the line between life and death, refusing to surrender him to the void.

And as dawn broke, painting the sky in hues of hope, I felt the fever break beneath my palms. His brow cooled, and a true breath—slipped from his lips, as soft as the first light of morning.

He would live.

At that moment, beneath the newborn sun, I dared to believe that healing was possible—not just for him but for both of us. In this wild, unforgiving land, far from where my story began... something new could rise. Something strong. Something whole.

My stomach growled a plaintive cry that matched the whimpers of my heart.

By the third day, hunger clawed at me with desperation nearly as vicious as the bear that had mauled Dancing Fire.

The forest teemed with life, and I knew I must become part of it—not just an observer, but a survivor.

With hands that had once only known the softness of silk and lace, I fashioned a crude snare from the sinews of my tattered leather garments.

“Please,” I whispered into the wind, “let this work.”

Luck—or perhaps fate—guided a rabbit into my trap. Its soft brown eyes met mine for a brief, agonizing moment before I did what was necessary. I remembered Dancing Fire’s patient voice as he taught me how to honor the life taken—to use every part of the animal and waste nothing.

I cooked the rabbit over the fire I had tended, its warmth a small bastion against the encroaching chill of the wilderness. The scent of roasting meat filled the air, and I watched as Dancing Fire stirred, drawn back from the brink by the promise of sustenance.

“Thank you,” he rasped as I helped him sit upright. His eyes met mine, wide and searching, filled with something I could not quite name. Gratitude, perhaps. Or awe.

“You’re here,” he said, his voice steadier now. “You saved me.”

“I couldn’t let you die,” I murmured, the weight of those words anchoring deep within my chest. “I had to help you. Besides, you were the one who saved me first.”

Shock flickered across his face, quickly replaced by something quieter—respect, deep and unspoken.

“You’re stronger than you know, Elizabeth,” he said, his voice like the crackling fire between us. “I’m grateful to have met you.”

As the days passed and his wounds began to heal, I reflected on the bond that had grown between us.

Dancing Fire had become more than the man who offered me shelter.

He was my best friend, my anchor in a world that was no longer foreign but no less wild.

He had rescued me from a life that might have ended or been twisted into something unrecognizable, bent by another’s will.

When he could finally stand, we decided it was time to return to the tribe.

Our journey back was quiet, the silence between us no longer born of fear or pain but of something else—something steadier.

A silent understanding forged not with words but with firelight, survival, and the unspoken weight of what we had endured together.

As the sky darkened and stars bloomed above us that evening, we sat beside the fire again. Sparks rose into the night, vanishing into the endless dark like fleeting wishes. Dancing Fire turned to me, his face illuminated by the gentle flicker of flame.

“Elizabeth,” he said, his voice low and sure, “you’ve brought much to my people. Your heart and your hands—they’ve given healing, peace, hope—more than you know.”

His words wrapped around me, gentle and unexpected, like the warmth of the fire between us. I looked at him, truly looked, and saw a depth in his eyes that had nothing to do with the pain of the past few days. Something else lingered there—respect, perhaps—or something deeper.

“You’ve given me something, too,” I murmured, fingers tightening around the edges of my deerskin shawl. “A place to belong. I never had that before. Not with my father. Not in England.” I paused, the truth pressing hard on my tongue. “Not until here.”

There was a stillness after that as if the wind had stopped to listen. In Dancing Fire, I found safety, respect, and friendship. I admired his unwavering strength, quiet kindness, and the way he saw me not as broken but as whole.

And yet… as the flames crackled between us, I felt the ache that never faded. Amir’s memory burned as brightly as this fire, etched into my soul like ink that could never be washed away. His love had marked me and shaped me. It was something no distance, no time, could unravel.

“I will always belong to Amir,” I whispered, voice nearly lost in the night, a confession meant only for the stars and the shadows—a vow, still binding, still true.

But when I glanced at Dancing Fire, something flickered in his gaze. Something unreadable. His eyes didn’t waver, didn’t pull away. They held mine, intense, filled with something I hadn’t dared to consider. Had I been wrong about what lived between us? Had I been blind to something more?

My heart stumbled, uncertain. I looked away; the fire suddenly felt too warm, and the air hung unnaturally still. Whatever had begun to take root in the silence between us, I wasn’t ready to name it.

Not when part of me still lived with a man I could never forget.