Page 20 of Kissed By the Gods
“Get her to the infirmary,” Archon Lyathin barks.
Ryot drops my hand.
I feel the loss immediately, but that’s because his warmth was starting to ease the pain. I don’t let myself consider it’s anything else.
“The Kher’zenn's touch is death. To an Altor, it deadens the flesh to the marrow, rotting strength from bone. To a grounded mortal, it means an end—soul ripped free. The lucky ones die fast.”
Personal journal of Healer Veyna Chasen in Year 378 of the Eternal Wars
CHAPTER NINE
The world has narrowedto fire and ice. My fingers burn. I can’t tell if I’m shaking or if the stone beneath me is that cold. I’m not sure it matters.
Ryot set me on a bench inside this stone fortress, told me not to move—as if I’d be able to—and marched away.
The black creeping across my fingertips pulses with a steady ache, the pain seeming to have a heartbeat of its own. My breath hitches when someone presses a hand against my forearm. I flinch instinctively, but the grip isn’t aggressive.
“Easy,” a smooth, low voice says. “You’ve had a hell of a day.”
I stare at the man kneeling in front of me through the haze clouding my vision. He has curly brown hair streaked with silver pulled into a haphazard bun that’s losing the battle against gravity. Stray curls frame a striking face, one softened by laugh lines and dimples that don’t match the shadows in his eyes. His skin is tanned, his hands weathered, his sleeves rolled to the elbows.
“I’m Nyrica,” he says. “Fortunately for you, I’m here to help. Unfortunately for you, I’m a field medic, not a healer, but I’m the best you’re going to get until Elowen is back from Carrisfal.”
I stare at him, unsure whether I’m supposed to laugh or cry. His words wash over me and flow onward before I retain anything he said.
“What’s happening to my hand?” I ask.
His eyes follow my gaze to my outstretched fingers.
“Rot,” he says simply. “It’s what happens when a Kher’zenn touches you. But you lived—that’s the good news.”
“I take that to mean there’s bad news?”
“There’s nothing to be done for your fingers. The damage is permanent.”
I want to argue. To scream. But all I manage is a turn of my head toward the wall, as if looking away from the rot might make it disappear. Ryot’s returned, and he’s leaning against the far wall. His arms are crossed, his eyes shadowed. Nyrica follows my line of sight once again.
“Would it kill you to at least wash the blood off?” The medic calls over to Ryot, not bothering to look up as he sets two jars on the floor at his feet.
Ryot doesn’t respond.
“She’s going to start thinking you’re flirting,” Nyrica adds, winking up at me. “The wounded warrior routine—all brooding glowers.”
“I’m not brooding,” Ryot mutters, his arms still crossed, posture stiff. “And you’re doing a piss-poor job of treating her.”
Nyrica huffs a laugh, unbothered. “You only say that because you think Elowen is the only qualified healer in the mortal realm.”
“Elowenisthe only qualified healer in the mortal realm,” Ryot says flatly, eyes narrowing.
Nyrica finally glances up, one brow arching as he releases a cork from one of the jars. “You wound me, Ryot. Truly. I’ve been splinting bones and closing gut wounds since before your voice dropped.”
Ryot doesn’t dignify that with an answer, but I can feel his gaze slide back to me. I look away, pretending not to notice.
“Elowen is the healer at the Synod,” Nyrica tells me in a lilting voice that sounds like he should be a bard, not a warrior. “This is her infirmary, but she’s at Carrisfal. The Kher’zenn hit the southern coast yesterday, and she went to assist the wounded. She should be back soon.”
