Chapter 28. Kiss of the Flame

The healer’s tent was thick with warmth and shadow. Its canvas walls, patched and weathered, rippled softly in the wind, muffling the noise of the restless camp outside. The air smelled of wolfroot poultices and bitter herbs, thick enough to sting her eyes and numb her nose. Flickering firelight danced across the cluttered tables—bands of orange and gold that made the jars of tinctures and folded cloths look like treasures looted from some ancient tomb.

Neriah hadn’t moved from the stool beside Caius’s cot in hours—maybe more. Time bled together in this place, measured not by sunlight or moonrise, but the rhythm of his breathing. He lay on his side, wrapped in furs, the long gash on his ribs hidden beneath linen and salve. Sometimes his brow furrowed, lips drawn tight in pain, and Neriah would reach for the healer’s jar, smoothing salve across his skin with gentle, practiced fingers. She kept her touch clinical, hands steady, but inside she scolded herself for caring so much—f