Page 22 of Bound By Blood
I close my eyes, pressing my palm flat against the smooth stone basin. The rock feels different here—not just cold granite, but something that seems to pulse with subtle energy. A rhythm that echoes deep in my bones, matching the steady beat of my heart.
There.A tremor passes, barely perceptible but unmistakably present. The elemental magic my mother wrote about in her private notes, the power source that made certain healing practices possible.
I pull my hand back, staring at my palm as if expecting to see physical evidence of the contact. Nothing visible, but the sensation lingers—a warmth that has nothing to do with the spring's temperature.
"You feel it too."
The voice doesn't startle me. I've grown accustomed to Drokhan's ability to move silently despite his massive frame, and his habit of observing before announcing his presence.
"The stone magic," I say, not turning around. "My mother wrote about places like this, springs that carried power from deep in the earth."
"Your mother was wise." His voice sounds rougher than usual, strained in a way that makes me glance back in concern.
Sweat beads across his forehead despite the grotto's cool air. His breathing seems slightly labored, and he moves with less fluid confidence than normal. The wound from three days ago as a deep gash across his left shoulder that he dismissed as trivial.
Infection.
"You're fevered," I observe, rising from my crouch beside the pool. "The shoulder wound isn't healing properly."
"It's nothing." The automatic denial carries no genuine conviction. "I came to check on the wounded."
"The wounded you can see from the entrance are recovering well. You came to check on your own condition without admitting weakness to your people."
A slight smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. "You see clearly for a human."
"I see clearly because I'm a healer. Sit down before you fall down."
He considers protesting, but another wave of fever-induced dizziness decides for him. He settles heavily on the stone ledge that borders the largest pool, armor clanking against granite.
I approach cautiously, maintaining a professional distance while assessing his condition. The infection has spread beyond the original wound site, with red lines tracing up his neck beneath the ceremonial torque, and his skin radiating heat that has nothing to do with exertion.
"I need to see the wound," I say, keeping my voice clinically neutral. "The armor has to come off."
"That's not..." He objects, then catches himself. "Clan tradition requires..."
"Clan tradition will be irrelevant if you die from blood poisoning. Remove the armor, or I'll call for your warriors to help me cut it off."
The threat of public humiliation proves more persuasive than medical necessity. He unfastens the leather and iron pauldron with movements that reveal how much pain he's concealing. The ceremonial torque follows, revealing more of the intricate tattoo work that covers his throat and collarbone.
The wound underneath is worse than I feared. What should have been healing cleanly has become a festering mess of infected tissue, the edges inflamed and weeping. No wonder he's fevered. His body is fighting a losing battle against the poison spreading through his system.
"Into the pool," I command, pointing to the eastern spring. "The mineral content will help draw out the infection."
"I'm not?—"
"You're not getting in the healing waters because of pride? Because you think I'll take advantage of your vulnerability?" I fix him with my sternest healer's stare. "I've seen infected wounds kill warriors twice your size. Into the pool. Now."
The authority in my voice finally breaks through his resistance. He strips away the remaining armor and undergarments with mechanical efficiency, revealing the full extent of the tattoos that mark his skin. Braided beasts and mountain glyphs flow across shoulders and chest that tell stories I can't yet read, but their artistic complexity speaks of deep cultural significance.
He lowers himself into the pool with a sharp intake of breath, the mineral-rich water contacting infected tissue. Steam rises from the surface where his fevered skin meets the cooler spring water.
"Lean back," I instruct, moving to kneel behind his position at the pool's edge. "Let the water support your weight while I clean the wound."
I gather supplies from my healer's satchel, a clean cloth, a small knife for debridement, and a packet of herbs I've been saving for emergencies. But as I prepare to begin conventional treatment, something else calls to my attention.
The pulse of stone magic grows stronger near the pool, as if responding to someone significant. The water itself seems to shimmer with more than reflected light, carrying currents of energy that flow around Drokhan's massive frame.
This is the moment.The choice between safe, conventional healing and the forbidden practices my mother documented in her secret journals. Practices that worked with elemental magic rather than fighting against natural forces.
