Page 14 of Wings of Ash & Flame
Professor Ross rose, his unwrinkled shirt tucked neatly into his tweed ensemble. “Your belongings will be sent to the academy. You’ll be bathed, fitted, and properly clothed before our arrival for the commencement of the semester.”
Alaire followed him toward the door, her mind racing with odds and possible contingencies.
Something opaque descended over her head from behind. Metal pricked her skin. She swung blindly, arms raised to strike, but darkness found her before her fists could connect with flesh.
Warmth.
That was the first sensation that registered. Alaire kept perfectly still, waiting for the familiar shiver that accompanied waking in her cell. It never came. Instead, she sank deeper into a delicious softness, muscles unclenching from a tension held fortoo long. Eyes closed, she cataloged her surroundings through other senses.
A faint, woodsy scent, accented with hints of mint and lemon, filled her nostrils. Discreetly, she ran the pad of her calloused finger over the linens, which were fine and silken. She couldn’t recall ever sleeping on something so luxurious.
Her tongue felt heavy and swollen. She tried rubbing her lips together, but they were cracked.
When Alaire heard no one else, she opened her eyes. Slowly, she blinked against the daylight filtering through the window’s sheer curtains. A thin cotton nightgown had replaced her prison clothes.
The room was spacious, yet simple. Its walls were painted a calming pale green, reminding her of the budding leaves of spring. Across from her single bed were built-in shelves of cedar, covered with glass containers of varying shapes and sizes. Some held gauze and linen; others, elixirs and potions.
A water basin sat to her left. Points of a lotus flower stuck out from the top of the bowl. An empty chair was placed beside her bed, raising the question:
Where am I?
The door opened before she could feign sleep. Eyes the color of freshly tilled soil bore into hers before appraising the rest of her frame with clinical precision.
“Good, you’re awake.” The voice was clipped, efficient. Butter yellow hair was pulled tight into a bun, highlighting delicate cheekbones and pointed ears.
“Who are you?”
The woman turned toward the shelves. The sound of lids rattling against wood was oddly soothing. With her gaze focused elsewhere, Alaire studied her more thoroughly.
She wore a richly made tunic with flowing sleeves and matching pants that looked remarkably comfortable. They werethe same shade of green as the walls. Silver threads caught the light as she moved.
The uniforms belonged to the healers of House Vitalis. Although based in Silver Plains, they were permitted under a special agreement with the Consortium to support fae communities across Elithian.
“First, I need to examine you.” The soulwarden noted Alaire’s rigid posture and shaking hands. “You’re safe here. You were in rough shape when they brought you in—dehydrated, bruised, and starving. Old injuries never properly healed. We did what we could. But the worst of it was your lungs.”
Alaire stiffened as the healer moved around her bed, murmuring incantations while her hands hovered over different parts of Alaire’s body. When the soulwarden bent to place her ear against Alaire’s chest, she fought to keep her breath even.
“Hm…” The healer’s brow furrowed at whatever she heard.
When she was done, she settled into the chair next to the bed.
Everything about the soulwarden radiated effortless grace. Alaire had always envied the fae for that—the perfect posture, flawless skin, ethereal beauty, the cadence of their voice. Everything about them seemed seamless and fluid.
“You’ve healed better than anticipated,” the soulwarden pronounced. “Though your lungs remain concerning. Currently, they’re clear. During my examination, it became evident that you suffer from an advanced case of breathlock. It’s a common affliction that can significantly impact your daily life if not properly managed. Typically, we teach breath work?—”
“I’m practiced in breath work,” Alaire interrupted, her fingers tightening around the sheets.
“You are?” The healer’s eyebrows rose. “Not many humans possess such knowledge. That’s an important tool in your arsenal.” She turned, selecting a small object from amongst theglass containers. When she faced Alaire again, she held a silver compact between elegant fingers. “Do your best to protect this.”
She placed it in Alaire’s palm, cool metal no larger than a stone.
“What is it?” Alaire lifted it to the light.
“A breathbind reliquary. An artifact imbued with potent magic, containing the essence of windroot—a rare herb that eases airways during an attack. When breathing becomes difficult, lift it to your lips and inhale deeply. It will help with the severity of attacks. Ensure it’s closed when not in use.”
Alaire clutched it to her chest, the weight of the gift not lost on her. “Thank you.” The words felt foreign in her mouth. She wasn’t used to being cared for.
The healer nodded. “The scars on your back, however… we couldn’t heal those completely. The damage to some areas was too extensive.”
