When I came to, the world was a blur of hushed voices and firelight. The scent of herbs, sharp and bitter, burned my nose. An old woman, her back stooped but her hands steady, was setting a satchel on the table right next to my bed, pulling out glass vials and bundles of dried leaves.
"She's fading fast," the old woman, the healer, muttered. Her voice like gravel dragged across stone. "You better start telling me the truth, Prince. Her life and the life she is carrying depends on it."
Ravić hovered close, his red eyes wild and unguarded. He lowered his voice, but the words cut through the haze.
"She had been drinking blood that wasn't clean. I think..." his throat bobbed, "I think she's experiencing withdrawals."
The healer froze, one gnarled hand hovering over her tools. Slowly, she turned her gaze on him, her face pale under the flickering light.
"Withdrawal?" she asked. "From what, my Prince?"
Ravić's jaw clenched. His silence was an answer in itself.
