The infirmary smelled of dried herbs, clean linen, and rain-soaked stone.
Elara stood beside a narrow wooden table beneath a hanging oil lamp. The flame wavered slightly, though no wind touched it.
Matteo, the pack healer, was not what she had expected.
He was neither ancient nor fragile. His hair was threaded with silver, yes, but his posture was steady, and his eyes—sharp. Observant in a way that suggested he had watched generations rise and fall without ever raising his voice.
He tied a thin band around her forearm.
"This will sting," he said gently.
She gave a dry huff. "I've heard that before."
He arched a brow.
She sighed. "Sorry. That sounded sarcastic."
"It was," he replied calmly. "But sarcasm is usually fear dressed as wit."
She blinked.
"Well. That's rude."
"It is accurate."
"Tsk."
He made the smallest cut along her skin.
The blood surfaced instantly.
Too quickly.
Too bright.
Matteo froze.
The lamplight seemed to deepen in response.
He leaned closer.
