Lara stepped quietly into the palace infirmary, where the scent of crushed herbs and clean bandages lingered in the air. Bener lay propped up against a stack of pillows, his face pale but his eyes sharp. At his side sat Shaya, ever watchful, her hands busy with a bowl of steaming broth. Abel was there too, restless but unharmed, fidgeting with the strap of his bow.
The sight filled Lara with both relief and guilt. During the chaos of the queen's banquet, she could not shield Abel herself. So, she had entrusted him to Nicolas and the archers, believing it the safest course. Her gamble had been right—Abel bore not even a scratch. It was a relief. She could not bear the thought of explaining to her Uncle Primo if harm had come to his firstborn.
She was right after all, Abel did not suffer from any injury. She did not know how to explain to her Uncle Primo should something happen to his first child.
