"When I took her in as a disciple, secrecy was-"
She stopped.
The sensation came first.
Cool.
His palm softened against her shoulder. Water spilled from his hand in a controlled sheet, flowing over her armor, her sleeves, her neck. It ran down her back, along her arms, washing ash and blood away in seconds. Grime slid off as if it had never clung there at all.
Then, the temperature shifted.
Warmth followed the water, steady and precise. Heat spread from his palm, chasing the dampness away without discomfort. Fabric dried. Skin warmed. The faint chill of battle left her frame.
In moments, she was clean.
Perfect again.
Once her face, which was also splashed with water, became clean, Black Fang's expression found Quinlan again. She was displeased.
A stern, flat look sat on her face like a judgment passed without words.
