The makeshift clinic still smelled faintly of resin and smoke.

  I'd cleared it earlier in the week, shoving aside old bedrolls and crates until there was space to work. A table improvised from pnks sat beneath the window, its surface scrubbed raw with sand. Clean cloth, bandages, tinctures—everything id out in careful order.

  I'd pnned everything out today with simir care. And on paper, it was a win. As neatly as I had arranged.

  But in the dirt, it was scorched earth and drifting ash and the sickening certainty that we'd—

  I shoved those thoughts down and gestured toward the chair. "Sit."

  Rocher obeyed without comment.

  I crossed to the basin and washed my hands, slowly and deliberately. The water was cool. Grounding. I focused on the familiar motions—rinse, dry, steady breath—until my pulse stopped hammering in my ears.

  "Let's see," I said, and reached for his arm.

  Up close, the damage resolved into specifics instead of horror. Shallow cuts along the forearm. One deeper slice near the shoulder, ugly but clean. Bruising already blooming dark beneath the skin.

  I felt a flicker of guilt pass through me. He'd probably earned most of them during the rescue, in the fog where my eyes couldn't reach him.

  "None of these are very deep," I said, mostly to myself. "They shouldn't leave a scar."

  "Good," he murmured.

  His gaze drifted past my shoulder, unfocused, as if he were listening for something that was no longer there. The only thing I could read was the faint knot between his brows, a tension that did not match the damage under my hands.

  For a heartbeat, I considered asking him. About the fog. About the injuries I could not see—whether they would heal as cleanly.

  Instead, I let the thought go and returned my attention to the wounds I could measure.

  I cleaned the first one carefully, efficient and precise. No lingering. No gentleness beyond what was necessary to do the job properly.

  The room was quiet except for the soft rasp of cloth and the faint sounds of camp beyond the walls. I kept my attention on angles and pressure and how the skin pulled under my fingers.

  "Raise your arm," I said.

  He did, slow and controlled, the movement bringing him closer than strictly necessary.

  "Healing Touch."

  Warmth gathered beneath my palm as I poured holy magic into the cleaned and set wound. The red lines faded, fainter and fainter, until they disappeared completely.

  "There," I said. "That's one done."

  I took a step back to examine the cut at his shoulder.

  I lifted my fingers, testing gently around it. The muscle beneath my touch was tight, coiled hard in reflex.

  Of course it was.

  This was not from a gncing blow. This was from twisting. From reaching. From turning too fast with weight and momentum already committed.

  "Hold still," I warned. "This is going to sting."

  "I know."

  He said that, but his eyes told me it didn't register.

  When I pressed the cloth to the wound, his breath hitched in surprise, sharp and involuntary. The muscle jumped under my hand before he reined it in, jaw tightening as he forced his breathing steady again.

  "Sorry," I said immediately.

  "I'm fine."

  I finished the wrap and tied it off cleanly, casting the same magic to close it as best I could.

  "Keep this poultice on for some time. It'll stop you from accidentally reopening it."

  "Okay."

  That was the third time he'd answered like that. I set my jaw and returned to the checklist.

  "You're clear," I said. "No sting damage."

  "Thanks."

  "Now are you going to tell me what's bothering you?" I said, sharper than I meant to be.

  He blinked up at me, startled out of his daze.

  "Cire?"

  "Sorry. Never mind."

  I huffed and turned away to clean up—folding cloth, sealing bottles, putting everything back where it belonged.

  Then I felt him.

  His arms came around me from behind, careful, solid, his chest warm against my shoulders. His hands came to rest at my waist—not pulling me closer, just there. Waiting, as if he had only just realized he was te.

  I felt his breathing steady behind me.

  He did not say anything.He did not step back.

  He simply held me.

  For half a heartbeat, I let myself lean back into him.

  Then sense returned.

  I stepped forward and out of his hold, smooth but firm, and turned just enough to meet his eyes without inviting anything else.

  "We should eat," I said, finally. "Before we colpse."

  His gaze lingered on me, unreadable. Then he nodded once.

  "Yes."

  I picked up the tray and moved for the door without looking back, heat crawling up my spine.

  The witches felt none of the guilt that threaded through us.

  Nyxara scoffed. "They always underestimate us. It is their only consistent trait."

  Ferric stretched his arms overhead, vertebrae popping loudly. "We should celebrate. I caught this on the way back." He plopped a boar unceremoniously on the table. "Shall I get a roast going?"

  Ysel smiled faintly. "You may. Let us gather our strength again for the coming fight. Tonight, we shall rest."

  I sighed, gd that someone else had decided we could stop for a moment.

  Before I could speak, Rocher's hand grabbed mine.

  "Come on," he murmured, already guiding me toward the firepit.

  He chose the seat with his back to the forest and pulled me down beside him, close enough that our knees touched. When I shifted, he adjusted with me, one arm resting lightly along the root behind me, a quiet barrier I did not ask for but did not refuse.

  The noise helped. The movement. The normality pressed in around the edges of the day and kept my thoughts from circling back to white light and ash.

  The fire crackled. The air smelled like herbs and woodsmoke and roasted meat.

  I tried to eat.

  I managed a few bites before my appetite stalled out completely. The spoon felt heavier than it should have. My fingers kept slipping on the handle, damp with sweat I hadn't noticed building.

  Across from me, Ferric was halfway through a story already devolving into exaggeration. Seraphine listened with polite distraction. Nyxara snorted at something sharp and cutting.

  Rocher wasn't listening to any of it.

  Every few breaths, his attention flicked back to me. My hands. My posture. The way I'd gone still again without realizing it.

  When I rubbed absently at my palm, his fingers closed over mine without him looking down, warm and grounding.

  "You okay?" he asked quietly.

  I nodded automatically. "I think so."

  He didn't accept that. His gaze searched my face with the same ruthless focus as before, like he was matching my answer against what his instincts were telling him.

  Only then did he take another bite.

  A few minutes passed. I tried again. Managed two more mouthfuls. My stomach twisted unpleasantly.

  Rocher's chair scraped softly against the ground.

  "Cire," he said under his breath. "Come with me."

  It wasn't loud enough for anyone else to hear. It wasn't a question either.

  I hesitated, just long enough to notice how tight my chest felt. Then I nodded and stood, letting him guide me away from the fire with a hand at my elbow.

  No one commented. Ferric didn't even pause mid-sentence.

  The noise faded behind us as we stepped into the darker paths between the roots. The forest hummed low and steady, night cool against my skin. Fireflies drifted zily through the undergrowth, uncaring.

  Rocher didn't touch me at first. He just walked close. Close enough that I felt the heat of him, the awareness of him at my side.

  When my foot caught on a root, his hand was there instantly, steadying me before I could stumble. This time, he didn't let go right away.

  We stopped beneath a broad sweep of branches, the firelight distant now.

  "Sit," he said gently, nodding toward a low root.

  I did. As soon as I settled, the tension in my legs became obvious, the deyed tremor finally catching up to me.

  Rocher knelt in front of me without a word.

  "Does it still hurt?" he asked.

  The question was different here. Quieter. No longer sharp with panic.

  I shook my head. "The pain's... mostly gone. You saw me treat it."

  His eyes stayed on me. "Mostly."

  I exhaled. "My arm aches. And it feels..." I searched for the word and came up empty. "Off."

  He nodded like that was exactly what he'd expected.

  "May I?" he asked, already reaching for my arm but stopping short, giving me time to pull away.

  I didn't.

  His fingers were warm as he slid his hand beneath my sleeve, careful as he tested the range of motion in my shoulder. His touch was light, reverent even.

  I sucked in a breath when he brushed a sensitive spot.

  "Sorry," he murmured immediately.

  "It's okay," I said. "Just a bit tender."

  His thumb traced a slow, grounding circle there, not pressing, just reminding my body where it was. The contact sent a shiver up my spine that had nothing to do with pain.

  His gaze flicked to my face, caught the reaction. Something dark and intent passed through his eyes before he smoothed it away.

  He shifted closer, one knee bracketing mine now, not touching but close enough that the space between us felt charged. His hand slid from my arm to my waist, steady and possessive in a way that made my breath hitch.

  "Look at me," he said softly.

  I did.

  Up close, the tension in him was palpable. His jaw was tight, his shoulders still held too rigidly, like he hadn't fully come down from the fight yet either. But his eyes on me were careful. Devoted.

  "You don't have to pretend you're fine," he said. "Not with me."

  Something in my chest loosened at that.

  "I know," I whispered.

  He leaned in then, just enough that our foreheads touched. Just contact. Grounding and intimate all at once.

  His breath was warm against my skin.

  "Let's go back," he said after a moment. "Somewhere quiet."

  My pulse jumped.

  I nodded.

  Somewhere quiet was his hut. Rocher closed the door behind us with deliberate care.

  He turned back to me and hesitated, like he was choosing his next movement with intention.

  His hands came up slowly, settling at my waist again, thumbs pressing lightly into the familiar curve there.

  "Tell me if anything hurts," he said.

  "Okay."

  His fingers traced upward, brushing my ribs, my shoulder, careful and exploratory. Each touch lingered just long enough to make me aware of how closely he was watching my reactions.

  "Rocher," I said softly. "Is this part of the examination?"

  His mouth curved, just barely.

  "Do you want me to stop?"

  The question was quiet. Even.

  I didn't answer fast enough.

  The tension between us coiled tighter with every breath.

  When he finally leaned down and pressed his forehead to mine again, the sound he made was quiet and rough, caught somewhere between control and want.

  "Cire," he murmured.

  My heart was racing now, but not from fear.

  I leaned forward before I could think.