Chapter 150

  As the Fire Spreads

  Femira was relieved to see that a good number of villagers had managed to flee into the barn before the village had been burned. They huddled in clusters in a corner like frightened animals. She counted a handful of Rubanian soldiers and only a small number of Reldoni—which she was grateful for.

  In the centre of the barn, a man lay sprawled on a pile of burlap sacks, he bore Reldoni dragonshide. It was similar to the armour Femira herself had worn when she’d been a bloodshedder, but the man’s face didn’t stir any recognition. His blond hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat. A faint groan escaped his lips as his eyelids fluttered, consciousness slipping through his grasp.

  Kneeling beside him was a weathered man whose hair had retreated so far it seemed like he’d long since lost the battle. The man’s hands moved deftly as he adjusted a damp cloth on the soldier’s brow.

  “Girl’s got a wound,” Lars said, jerking his chin toward Femira’s arm. “Mind taking a look, Yaref?” There was no command in his voice, no weight of authority. These weren’t his soldiers, and Femira guessed he knew better than to pretend otherwise. They were all just survivors.

  “You were out there,” Yaref said, his tone somewhere between admiration and surprise. “I saw you fighting the draega. You are skilled, yes. We don’t have many women warriors in this country. A lot of us… are not used to seeing it.”

  Femira bristled but smothered the irritation. She wasn’t about to get into another argument over whether she had any business fighting monsters.

  “Maybe that’s why you’re losing,” she remarked, unable to hide her annoyance entirely.

  “Perhaps,” Yaref raised a brow but didn’t look offended. He beckoned her forward, gesturing her to show him her arm. “I can’t deny that you likely saved all of us. It does make me wonder, yes?”

  She shrugged off her jacket, rolling up her sleeve to reveal the jagged wound beneath the layer of stoneskin. Her arm moved slowly with her stoneskin still active on the area where her wound was, stifling the bleeding.

  “That…” Yaref leaned forward, eyes narrowing with interest, “is a very clever trick.”

  He inspected the wound, noting that there was no blood flow at all. The surface of her skin appeared rough and textured like granite, with veins of aradium glowing yellow faintly beneath.

  “I’d heard that master stonebreakers could reinforce their own skin with stone… but I’d never seen it before myself.”

  Femira just nodded, offering no elaboration. Stoneskin had been a difficult skill to master, but for an aradium bloodshedder, it was a necessity. Most of us figured it out before we were even soulforged. She wasn’t about to explain any of that to Yaref, though. He didn’t need to know her history, and she had no intention of sharing it.

  Yaref prodded gently at the edge of the stoneskin, his fingers light but precise. “This wound is deep,” he mused. “I’m guessing once you stop focusing, the bleeding will start again.”

  “Yup,” Femira replied, keeping her voice clipped. “I was going to bandage it.”

  “Allow me.” He reached into his satchel, pulling out a roll of bandages, a pouch of herbs, and a small tin of salve. His hands worked with practiced ease, grinding the herbs into a paste and spreading it over the bandages. “The bloodstone will only do so much. This will help coagulate the blood after the healing.”

  Femira just kept nodding, she’d visited the healers in the bloodshedders barracks often enough to know all of this but Yaref seemed like one of those that just liked to talk as he worked.

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  Yaref reached into his pocket and pulled out a small red gemstone, its surface catching the dim light. Bloodstone. He held it tightly in one hand, the other hovering over her wounded arm.

  “When you are ready, yes?”

  Femira nodded and released her focus on stoneskin. Instantly, the pain hit her like a blade cutting fresh, the dull ache sharpening into a fiery sting. She grimaced, biting down on the pain and refusing to make a sound.

  She was proud that she didn’t yelp. It made her seem more tough to these soldiers. They just watched me fight a draega wolf monster, they probably think I’m plenty tough. What did she care what they thought of her anyway?

  Blood seeped from the gash as the stoneskin faded completely, and Yaref’s cool hand pressed down on her arm. The chill of his touch sent a shiver through her, but then she felt it—the wave of his edir flowing into her. It pulsed like a second heartbeat, syncing with her own, and she felt her own edir rushing to the wound, responding to his. The sensation wasn’t new to her; but she’d trained her edir so much over the past few months now that she was skilled enough to recognise the mechanics of what was happening. Healers used the bloodstone to amplify their work, but most of the healing came from the patient’s own edir, guiding and hastening the natural healing process. It was fascinating, in its way, how the body could be pushed to repair itself so quickly.

  When he was done, the old man looked exhausted. But the wound now looked nothing more than a scratch.

  “Done,” he murmured, his voice hoarse. He reached for the salve, rubbing it into her skin with practiced movements before wrapping the bandage around her arm. Femira flexed her fingers, testing the limb. It felt tingly. Buzzed. She felt like she could take on the world. It was the same feeling she felt when she was in the thick of a fight.

  “You need to rest now,” Yaref said, leaning back on his heels with a weary cough. “You’re feeling the healing surge, but it doesn’t last. At least a day of rest, yes? You hear me?”

  “You look like you need it more,”Femira arched a brow, smirking.

  “That, and more,” Yaref let out a dry chuckle, shaking his head. “But there’s always someone else who needs healing. You know the rules, yes? Don’t trust the surge. It will make you feel invincible, but it’s nothing more than borrowed strength.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know,” she said, her tone impatient but not unkind. Her eyes drifted toward the barn’s entrance, where soldiers were beginning to filter back inside, their armour streaked with mud after chasing down that rak through the woods.

  “You’re all from Bluewater?” She asked.

  “We all fought there,” it was Lars that responded. He had sat himself nearby, on a bale of hay, still close enough to hear their conversation. “And escaped through the woods when the wall fell. With the way you took down that draega,” Lars mused, “could’ve done with you in that battle. But I guess, maybe wouldn’t have made much difference in the end.”

  Femira glanced at him, the words pricking at her guilt in a way she hadn’t expected.

  “I was in Nordock,” she said, her tone sharper than intended. She didn’t owe them an apology—it wasn’t her responsibility to fight every draega. And yet, her words softened as she quietly added, “I came as fast as I could.”

  “Nordock?” Yaref perked up. “How is it there? Tell me it’s safe, no fighting?” Femira recognised that expression in his face. The old man clearly had family in Nordock.

  “Seemed peaceful enough,” she shrugged, she shot a glance at Lars then continued, “I mean there’s Reldoni soldiers on every street corner, but it doesn’t seem like they’re cracking heads. Not yet, anyhow.”

  “Good… that’s good, then,” Yaref’s shoulders relaxed. “Even the workers quarter?”

  “Yeah. Not many soldiers in the outer city. They’re up near the palace. That Highlord though—Rivers,” Femira went on, “he’s probably up to something. But the city doesn’t seem to be suffering from it.”

  “I see,” Yaref murmured, the tension draining from his face. “Thank you.”

  “No problem,” Femira replied. She glanced down at her bandaged arm, flexing her fingers. “And thanks for the healing.”

  “You got that wound,” Lars pointed out, “saving our asses. Least we could do. We have some rations. You’re welcome to rest here and travel with us. Some of us are headed towards Harriston, that’s likely the only place near here that’s anyway safe. Some others are planning to head south to Nordock.”

  “You know the way to Harriston?” She asked.

  “Some of them do,” Lars pointed at the villagers.

  Femira looked over at the group, her eyes narrowing as she sized them up. They were farmers and labourers, not fighters. And with an injured soldier to drag along, they’d move at a crawl. She could make it to Harriston in half the time if she went alone. But the thought of leaving them to fend for themselves—especially with more draega likely roaming the woods—settled uneasily in her chest. They’d be dead before they reached Harriston.

  “How far?” she asked.

  “Three days.”

  She sighed, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Well then,” she said, straightening. “When are we leaving?”