Page 94 of Oracle of Ruin

And it dives onto Rowan’s sword that Derrín ripped from my grasp and jabbed before I fell.

The creature falls to the side, its inky blood helping it to slide clean of the blade. The mechanic sheaths the sword at his hip with a green face, taking great care not to stare at the gore-speckled blade. He wipes his hands on his trousers, then extends his hand to me.

“I refuse,” he grinds out, “to watch another sister die.”

Chapter38

Verosa

As we stumble out of the Bone Wood, the mist recedes, clinging to the darkness of the trees. I glance up at Derrín to find him staring at the dark blood on his hands. He catches my stare and matches it with a haunted expression.

Silence rattles through the brown grass, the breeze that picks up dry despite the slick of ice surrounding us. I lean against Derrín as I limp, my leg screaming with each motion. Derrín’s grip on my arm is a vice as he all but drags me beside him.

“You’re doing great, just a little further,” he murmurs every so often, as if his words of affirmation can stop the blood from seeping through my torn calf.

I look down once to assess the damage and my head begins to spin when I see my own gored flesh hanging off the muscle like strips of meat in a butcher’s market.

Derrín grips me tighter, noticing the same thing. “Don’t look,” he commands. “You’re going to be fine.”

“We have different definitions of fine,” I try to say, but the words die on my tongue.

After a short while, Derrín deems it safe enough for us to stop and patch my wound. We only made it a mile or two from the Bone Wood, but are now far enough from it that we shouldn’t have to worry about coming across any more infected.

Red clouds dot the horizon as the mechanic pulls the leg of my trousers up, then promptly vomits. I pull my leg out of the way just in time, then scream between clenched teeth at the searing pain that rattles my bones.

“Let me do it,” I say once Derrín finishes his retching. I attempt to take the medical kit from him, but he holds it tight in his white-knuckled grip.

He fishes a needle from the kit and some thread, his face going paler than before. “No, I can do this.”

“It’s not that I don’t think you can, but you don’t see action a lot. It’s okay if this is too much.”

He runs his tongue over his dry lips and wipes the corner of his mouth on his sleeve. “You need to be stitched up.”

I allow myself to look down at the wound and dig my fists into the muddy ground. Some of the lacerations are deeper than the others and will definitely need stitches, but others are shallow, just skin hanging from the wound. That skin will never heal, instead just rotting where it hangs. I grimace and grip my blade, beginning to wipe the dagger off on the cleanest part of my shirt.

“I need you to start a fire first,” I hiss through clenched teeth.

Derrín’s face slackens, almost thankful to have something to do with his hands that doesn’t involve stitching my necrotizing flesh back together. His hands still shake, though noticeably less as he strikes the flint until a dry branch catches flame. He keeps the fire small lest the smoke attract attention, but soon enough, the flames are hot enough for what I need to do. Once the blade is clean, I hold it to the flame, letting the fire purge any remaining bacteria. Derrín watches with a void expression in his eyes.

Then without warning, I bring the blade down in a flash. A scream tears loose from my throat as I slice through my flesh, cutting the dying pieces from my leg. I repeat the process while Derrín rushes forward, his face a mask of horror as I strip all the loose flesh from my body.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

“The skin is dying, and the edges will die too before those stitches heal. You can’t stitch dead skin. Now move.”

I sob unabashedly, pain dulling my senses until there is nothing but the steady slash of my knife. I steel myself against the pain and fear as I plunge the dagger back into the fire, then lay the flat of the blade against the shallow wounds. The sizzling scent of burned flesh mingles with the snow as I scream until my voice dies in my throat.

But I’m not done. I can’t be. The wound will get infected and if I’m dead, I can’t save anyone. I can’t be the answer.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” I repeat the vulgar word like a prayer as I take the needle from Derrín and holds it above the flame, too, repeating my previous process. I’ve never had a problem with needles before, but now the curved bow of the tiny thing strikes a new fear in my heart.

“Have you done this before?” Derrín’s face pinches.

“Yes, many times,” I lie.

I’ve never done this before. But something in the way Derrín’s face relaxes tells me he never has either. So he returns to sit by the fire, laying Rowan’s sword at his side and staring into the flickering golden flames.

I grit my teeth and slide the needle in, ignoring the mix of pain and the sensation of something foreign entering my body. My calves tighten, the muscles trying to push the needle and thread from my skin. Silent tears streak my face, mixing with the sap, blood, and dirt. I do my best to force the muscles to relax.

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