Page 7 of Bound to the Dorm Elf
Her mouth flattens. “Well, sorry I didn’t bring along a medieval surgeon tonight.” She shifts closer, balancing on the balls of her feet. “You gonna let me do this, or do you want to bleed out?”
I watch her, weighing her tone. There’s fear there — I can see it in the way her shoulders stay tight, ready to spring back — butthere’s steel under it, too. The kind of steel that doesn’t bend for just anyone.
“You think you can stop this?” I ask, my voice low.
“I think I can try,” she says. “And if you keep talking instead of cooperating, I’ll have to try harder.”
A short laugh slips past my teeth, more air than sound. Bold little thing.
“Do what you can,” I tell her.
She shifts closer, knees brushing the grass near my side. The scent of her is stronger now, threaded through with the faint spice of whatever she washed her hair with. She tears the cloth into strips with quick snaps of her hands, glances at my armor, and frowns.
“This stuff… does it come off?” she asks.
“Not without work,” I say. “It’s… bound.”
She mutters something under her breath about “of course it is” and then reaches for the buckles anyway. Her fingers skim my side, and I bite back the urge to flinch. Not from pain — from the strange jolt of heat at her touch.
The armor shifts under her hands with a faint, reluctant creak. She peels it back enough to see the wound. I watch her eyes widen.
“Jesus,” she breathes.
The cut runs deep along my ribs, torn open where the impact twisted me. The runes carved into my skin are slick with blood, their light dim, barely a whisper against the dark. She leans in, studying them like she’s not sure if they’re part of me or something sewn on.
“They’re real,” I tell her.
“Yeah, I figured,” she murmurs, and then starts cleaning the blood away with one of the cloths. The sting is instant, the liquid she pours on it biting into the wound like acid. My teeth clamp together until my jaw aches.
“That,” I growl, “is worse than the blade.”
“It’s antiseptic,” she says, as if that explains anything. “Keeps you from getting infected.”
I snort, a sharp exhale. “Infection is for the weak.”
She shoots me a look — quick, sharp — but says nothing, just keeps working. Her hands are steady now, her focus narrowed to the task in front of her.
I watch her mouth as she works — pressed into a line, but soft at the edges. The rain beads on her lashes, clinging there before sliding down her cheek. She doesn’t notice.
“You’re not afraid of me,” I say finally.
Her eyes flick up to mine. “You sure about that?”
“Yes,” I answer without hesitation. “You’re cautious. But not afraid.”
Something unreadable passes across her face, and she looks back down at the wound. “Guess you’ll have to stick around to test that theory.”
Her words stir something I’m not ready to name. I let my head tip back against the damp ground, watching the strange leaves above shift and whisper in a wind that smells like this place — alien, but not entirely unwelcome.
For now… I’ll let her work.
Her fingers graze the edge of the wound — and brush the runes.
The world exhales.
Pale blue light bursts from the lines carved into my flesh, sharp and sudden as lightning. It races across my ribs, winding through the intricate patterns etched there, spilling outward in a network of glowing veins that climb my arm and curl up the side of my neck. The magic hums in my bones, a deep, resonant vibration I can feel in the back of my teeth.
It’s instinct — my body answering touch with the only language it has ever trusted.
