Page 8 of Thorns of Deceit: The Beast Within

“Ah, you’re awake,” the woman said, her voice warm and gravelly. “I thought I heard movement. How are you feeling, child?”

Skylar opened her mouth to respond, but no words came out. How could she possibly describe the maelstrom of emotions raging within her? The guilt, the shame, the bone-deep weariness that seemed to seep into her very soul?

“I’m… alive,” she replied, her voice low and strained.

The old woman chuckled, the sound incongruously cheerful in the somber atmosphere. “That you are, child. And a good thing too. I’ve been tending to you since someone brought you in yesterday evening.”

Yesterday? Skylar’s mind reeled. How much had changed in that time?

“I’ve been out for so long?” she asked, unable to keep the disbelief from her voice.

“Indeed you have. Gave me quite a scare, you did.” The old woman busied herself with placing two water basins and a pile of washcloths next to Skylar. The gentle clinking of pottery against wood seemed unnaturally loud in the quiet room.

A new fear gripped Skylar’s heart. “Who brought me here?” she asked, dreading the answer. How many had seen her in this vulnerable state? Did they know her secret?

“Oh, a young man,” the old woman replied, her unseeing eyes crinkling at the corners. “Carried you all the way himself, he did. Quite the strong one, that lad.”

Oh no.

Skylar’s heart skipped a beat. There was only a single person who would dare to carry a Duke, a cursed one at that. And it was the only person she didn’t want to see her like this. “How… how did he look?” she asked, then winced at her slip. “I mean, did he say anything?”

The old woman’s lips quirked in amusement, deepening the wrinkles around her mouth. “He was quite insistent that I treat you and not let anyone else in. An interesting character, that one.”

Arye. It had to be. The thought of him carrying her, protecting her even in her weakest moment, sent a confusing mix of warmth and dread spreading through her chest. She allowed herself a small smile, remembering the day they first met. She had been so young, barely four years, hardly able to utter formal greetings, introduced as the new Anathemark heir during Arye’s birthday banquet.

Desperate to push thoughts of Arye aside, Skylar cast about for a change of subject. Her gaze fell on the old woman’s worn hands, callused and stained with herb residue. Something nagged at her mind—a fleeting image of this same figure weaving between rows of wounded soldiers. The camp’s outskirts.

“I think I’ve seen you around the camp before,” Skylar said, latching onto the recollection. “You’ve been helping our men, haven’t you?”

The woman nodded, a fond smile creasing her weathered face. “That I have. It does my old heart good to see all you young ones fighting so hard to protect us oldsters. Though I suppose ‘young ones’ includes that special friend of yours too, doesn’t it?”

Skylar felt her cheeks heat at the woman’s knowing tone. “He’s not my—” The words died in her throat as memories flooded back. Arye’s smile. His steady presence. The way he calls her name. “I mean, yes, it does.”

There was no need to deny it. Arye was special. He always had been.

A warm chuckle filled the room. “Oh, to be young again. Now, let’s get you cleaned up a bit, shall we? You’ve been through quite an ordeal.”

Before Skylar could protest, the woman had produced a damp cloth and was gently wiping her face. The coolness felt heavenly against her skin, soothing away some of the aches and pains. Skylar found herself leaning into the touch, savoring the simple comfort.

“There now,” the old woman murmured. “That’s better. Next, let’s see about those wounds of yours. We should change the bandages.”

Panic surged through Skylar, her heart leaping into her throat. “No!” she exclaimed, perhaps too forcefully. The woman’s hand froze, her body tensing in surprise. Skylar took a deep breath, striving to keep her voice steady. “I mean… that won’t be necessary. Thank you.”

The old woman’s brow furrowed, but she nodded slowly. “As you wish, child. But you’ll need fresh bandages soon, or you may develop an infection.”

Skylar’s mind raced. She couldn’t risk anyone discovering her secret, not even a kind elderly woman. But the thought of keeping the filthy bindings on for much longer made her insides crawl. She could feel the grime against her skin, imagined she could smell the beginnings of decay.

“Do you… do you have any clean linen?” she asked hesitantly. “I can change the bandages myself.”

The old woman’s face softened into a smile. “Of course, child. Let me fetch some for you.” She moved with surprising sureness for one who couldn’t see, her hands confidently finding a nearby drawer and retrieving a stack of fresh linen.

“Here you are,” the old woman said, holding out the fabric. “I’ll give you some privacy to change. Just call if you need anything.”

As the door closed behind the woman, Skylar let out a shaky breath. The sudden silence in the room was oppressive, broken only by the distant sounds of the camp—muffled voices, the clang of metal, the occasional whinny of a horse. She began tearing the linen into strips, her movements mechanical as her mind wandered.

How many had died yesterday? How many lives had she ended with her own hands—or rather, with the Gryphon’s talons? The faces of the fallen swam before her eyes, accusatory and pleading.

She remembered Billy’s young face, twisted in pain, heard his agonized cries. Had he survived? If only she had summoned the Gryphon earlier, could she have saved more of her own soldiers?

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