Page 69 of Fall of the Ember Throne (Crown and Crest 3)

“If I don’t, you’ll have to do it yourself, and that seems too cruel.” She tilts her head from side to side to stretch her neck, preparing herself, and then she leans forward and asks Pranmore, “Where do you want me to cut?”

“Along the scar.”

She presses the tip of the dagger to my skin. Quietly, she says, “You’re making me nervous. Don’t watch.”

Refusing to close my eyes like a child, I look at the table, studying the grain in the wood. Brielle whimpers when Clover begins. Pranmore’s magic joins the first bite of the blade, numbing after the initial sting. I feel the strange tug and pull, and there is some pain, but it’s bearable.

With a relieved exhale, Clover sits back.

“You did well,” Pranmore assures her, and then he takes her seat. “Once I begin to work, it will be difficult for me to control your pain,” he warns.

I grit my teeth, waiting.

“It’s not much different than what I did for Clover in the gnome village,” he says. “It won’t take too long.”

“Gnome village?” Brielle exclaims with a start, but Pranmore begins before I can answer.

I jolt in my seat as the Woodmore works his magic, feeling like he’s ripping my arm apart instead of putting things back together.

“Sorry,” Pranmore says when he hits a particularly tender spot. “It’s always a little more difficult when it’s an old wound. A few minutes more.”

When the pain finally subsides, I slump back in the chair.

“Finished,” Pranmore says, sounding pleased. “My best work yet.”

I look at my arm and find the scar is gone.

“You can’t leave it like that,” Lawrence says as he takes a closer look. “If Henrik suddenly loses his scar, Camellia will realize something is amiss.”

Pranmore raises his eyes to me. “Do you often go around shirtless in front of the princess, Henrik?”

“No,” I say sharply, glancing at Clover.

“Lawrence is right,” she says mildly. “Better safe than sorry—you best fix it.”

Looking disgusted, Pranmore shakes his head. “Fine.”

A few minutes later, a new scar graces my arm. It doesn’t look exactly like the old one, but I doubt anyone but me would notice.

“How long before he can fight?” Bartholomew asks Pranmore.

“It’ll be tender for a few days,” Pranmore says. “But it’s fully healed now.”

I rotate my forearm, waiting for weakness. But my muscles respond as they used to, my range of motion restored. My pulse begins to quicken.

Standing, I pull my sword from its sheath. Stepping away from the others, I hold it in front of me.

“Well?” Pranmore asks. “How does it feel?”

I look back, breathing hard. “It feels good.”

Intense relief floods me with unexpected emotion.

“For so many months, I worried…” I clear my throat and turn to Pranmore. “Thank you.”

He bows his head, accidentally hitting Bartholomew with his antlers. My squire complains, and Pranmore turns to him, looking both chagrined and annoyed. “I would think that you’d know not to stand so close by now.”

“He’s taller than he was a few months ago,” I point out.

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