Page 6

6

Eden

THE SUBTLE HUM of voices from the infirmary had long since faded, drowned out by the rhythmic scrape of stone against metal. I moved the pestle in slow, methodical circles, grinding the dried leaves into a fine paste. Their sharp, elduven smells curled into the air, mingling with faint traces of linen bandages and aged wood. The motion was soothing and meditative—a quiet ritual I had perfected over the years.

Outside, the world reduced to muffled footsteps and the occasional murmur of a hushed conversation. The consistent motion of my work lulled me into a calm focus, threading my thoughts between the properties of each herb. The balance of potency is needed to dull pain without dulling the mind.

The fragile peace was shattered by a distant clamor. Voices rose with urgency. The heavy thud of boots echoed through the stone corridor, growing louder with each hurried step. My hands stilled, and my eyes darted to the door. The hinges of the infirmary door rattled when it slammed open.

A towering figure filled the doorway, blocking the light from the torches beyond. For a moment, I could only stare in silence. The dim glow illuminated his armor—black leather, dulled by streaks of fresh crimson. His dark tunic was soaked with a slow seepage on his shoulder.

My gaze snapped to his hands. One hand clutched his shoulder, fingers curled in rigid defiance against the pain wracking his body. The other, coated in red, dripped onto the floor. Moisture glistened on his brow as he clenched his jaw with grim determination. That look wasn’t just pain or blood loss. It was a creeping, slow, and insidious poison that was eating him alive.

The intensity of his dark gaze was fixed on me, causing a jolt of awareness to pool deep in my belly. It felt raw, unsettling, and unfamiliar. A man whose life hung by a thread regarded me with a focus so intense that it left me breathless.

His steps faltered, and his weight shifted. Instinct took over as I surged forward. My hands caught his arm, and my fingers gripped the rigid muscle beneath the slickness of blood. His weight pressed into me as he leaned. He was heavy. The scent of leather, iron, and the faintest whisper of pine filled my senses, but the metallic tang of blood caused my pulse to spike. There was too much of it.

“Poison,” he growled, the word edged with raw pain and dragged through clenched teeth. His voice was gruff, yet he remained unwilling to surrender to the agony.

“I know,” I murmured, my voice steady despite the rapid thud of my heart. “It’s okay now. Can you remove your—”

An abrupt intake of breath followed, accompanied by sudden tension in his body and the buckling of his knees. The full weight of him collapsed into me, and I staggered while my muscles strained to keep us both upright. His armor pressed against my chest, and the distinct smell of blood from his tunic flooded my senses. Panic clawed at my throat as I strained against his weight. “Calder! There’s a man here! He’s poisoned! I need help!”

Calder burst into the room with remnants of the tinctures she had brewed staining her apron, and the sharp smell of herbs lingering around her. Her eyes widened at the sight before her, and she wasted no time with questions. She rushed to my side, and helped lower him onto the cot. His body sagged into the coarse fabric, his limbs weighed down by exhaustion. His head lolled to the side, and his breath was shallow yet steady.

I stepped back, my hands trembling as I assessed the damage with clinical detachment.

Focus. Breathe. Work.

The wound on his shoulder was deep. The torn edges suggested a weapon that had done its work with vicious intent. Blood welled, pooling dark against his stained tunic. Worse still, the telltale signs of poison bloomed across his skin—a sticky, spreading discoloration that twisted through the wound like creeping ivy. It worked fast.

I swallowed hard and pushed aside the dread swirling in my stomach. There was no room for hesitation, no space for fear.

“Larkspur, I will prepare a rinse and an antidote,” Calder ordered as he moved toward the workbench. “You will stitch him up and stop the bleeding.”

I nodded and reached for the fastenings of his tunic, my fingers loosening the knots. Even through the haze of pain, his body tensed at my touch, muscles twitching as the poison coursed through him.

As I peeled back the fabric, I revealed scarred skin. A battlefield was etched across his body—silvered lines and deep-healed wounds, each one narrating a story of his past. My throat tightened. Whoever he was, he had endured.

His breath hitched and shuddered as his body waged war against the slow crawl of death pressing in on him. I couldn’t let it win. I reached for a clean cloth, my hands steady as muscle memory took control.

Breathe.

Work.

Save him.

His face drew my attention again as I tied off the last stitch. He was lethal—sharp cheekbones and a strong jawline. His skin, tanned from time spent beneath the sun, contrasted with the stark pallor of the poison. His lips, set in a firm, grim line, twitched as if he battled between pain and defiance.

His thick, wild black hair spiraled at the tips, tousled as if he had spent days in battle without rest. A single cut trailed along his temple, dark against his skin. His features were not only handsome but also dangerous and untamed. However, the faint point of his ears startled me.

Who was he?

Warm, thick blood smeared my hands while I worked and stained my fingers with the burden of how close he was to death. I maintained pressure on the wound, feeling the sluggish pulse of his life beneath my palms. His body’s labored movements struggled against the poison that was tearing through him.

My eyes returned to his attire. The cut of his tunic and the reinforced bracers were not standard knight’s armor, unlike the men who passed through the infirmary in their polished, ceremonial breastplates and plumed helms. His gear facilitated movement and blended into the shadows rather than catching the light. It was purposeful and covert.

Calder’s hurried steps caught my attention. She returned with a rinsing pot and a small bowl of antidote. The acrid smell of herbs and crushed roots filled the room. She knelt beside him, working quickly as she rinsed the wound with steady hands. The bitter concoction darkened the torn flesh as she pressed the antidote onto it, and its thick paste absorbed into his skin.

She raised his head to pour the remaining liquid between his lips. “Drink,” she commanded.

His throat strained as he swallowed the liquid. His body jerked, and a loud, shuddering cough wracked through him, a strangled sound caught between a groan and a gasp. His fingers twitched, and his muscles tensed as his body resisted. He stilled again. The only sound left was his breathing. Though ragged and uneven, his breaths grew steadier with each passing moment. The antidote was working.

I settled back, willing my thoughts to settle. But my gaze betrayed me, drawn back to the movement of his chest. Beneath the streaks of blood and grime, the defined lines of muscle became undeniable. His body was built for combat and endurance. My fingers had felt his strength and the burning of his fevered skin beneath my touch, but the curve of his abdomen, with taut skin stretched over powerful muscle, had become visible.

Gods.

My cheeks flushed with heat.

“Damn,” Calder muttered.

I flinched and glanced up at her; my pulse spiked as if she had caught me, but Calder didn’t look my way. She wiped her hands on her apron. Her frown deepened as she studied him. “Sinclaire is always getting hurt, but this isn’t like him.”

Sinclaire.

I savored the name’s unfamiliarity before finding my voice. “Sinclaire?”

Calder stiffened. Her frown smoothed, and her tone shifted into something too even.

“Sir Oberon Sinclaire,” she clarified briskly. “A knight of the castle. The one who brought you here upon your arrival.” She waved a hand dismissively. “Reckless, that one. He constantly puts himself in danger. It must have been another skirmish near the border.”

The words sounded overly polished and rehearsed. My gaze returned to him as the name clung to the man before me: Oberon Sinclaire. A knight. Yet, he was different not only because of the armor that didn’t conform to the standard, but also because of how Calder spoke about him.

Mystery lingered below his surface, concealed beneath scars and silence.