What in heaven's name happened to your neck? Eira asked sharply, her capable paws brushing aside Hasdrubal's fur to reveal the bruised and battered flesh beneath, hues of green and purple mottling his skin. Her cold brown eyes met his opal gaze with a piercing scrutiny. She shook her head in disapproval. I don’t know what kind of trouble you’re getting yourself into when you’re not lying here bothering me, but I suggest you limit it, at least until you're healed.

There was no warmth in her tone—only the straightforward practicality of a doctor intent on her patient’s survival. She had no use for kindness where this one was concerned. They’d never make it back to Godsmouth if he kept injuring himself like this. Perhaps that was his intention. Her jaw clenched, mouth tightening into a thin, stern line.

And for your information, the girl you were supposed to protect? You failed. She’s been injured. Quite seriously, I might add.

Eira’s ears pressed flat against her skull, her whole body bristling with a barely contained fury.

Don’t you dare, she hissed, her voice sharp as a whip crack. Don’t you dare, not for a second, turn this into some kind of pity party for yourself.  That girl is out there, bleeding, because of you, and you’ve got the gall to make this about you? How dare you.

You think you did all you could? she scoffed, the sound thick with disgust, her lips curling as she spoke. You could have died—that, Hasdrubal, would have been all you could do. That would’ve been justice. And instead, here you are, alive and well enough to whine.

Her eyes, cold and blazing with pain, dared him to challenge her.

Sorry isn't good enough. Eira’s breath came in hot, ragged huffs as she pinned Hasdrubal with a stare as cold as the mountain wind. Sorry isn't even in the realm of being good enough.

Her tail lashed, the tension in her every movement speaking volumes as she ranted. Moroi or not, you’re also as manipulative as the day is long, selfish to your core, she declared, her Southern drawl thick with emotion, and I dare say, from what I’ve seen, I don’t believe you’ve ever truly given "everything you could" in regard to anything at all.

It felt oddly satisfying, letting out the torrent of pent-up emotion that had been festering for far too long. But the pleasure was fleeting, especially when all Hasdrubal did was flinch and draw into himself like a scolded child. That alone stoked the fires of her frustration—what relief was there in this, if all he did was shrink away? It grated on her nerves, more than she cared to admit—both his pitiful response and the unwelcome flicker of guilt that stirred in her chest for yelling at him. Him!

With an exasperated snort, she turned away from him, unable to look at him any longer. You said you were tired and achy, didn’t you? she asked curtly, her tone clipped and irritated.

Eira took a slow, measured breath, steadying herself before facing Hasdrubal once more. She reached for his pulse, counting the beats with an expression that revealed little beyond professional restraint.

After a few moments, she withdrew, shaking her head. You're fit as a fiddle, 'side from that leg of yours, she said evenly, though a flicker of doubt passed through her eyes. A suspicion was beginning to take root in her heart, that this, too, was just another one of his tricks, buying time that wasn't his to claim.

Her gaze hardened, her tone cool as she straightened herself. We’ll be packing up and moving camp in a week’s time. If you're not up to traveling by then, you'll be carried to our new site, same as you were brought here. And let me make one thing crystal clear—if you think playing sick will keep you from heading back to Godsmouth, you're gravely mistaken. Her cold, unwavering gaze met his, leaving no room for doubt. I can offer you something to dull the pain, but not a thing more.

The mountain woman offered no reply, merely turning her back to him as she set about the task of gathering the plants she would need—fennel, rosemary, and sage—each a familiar companion in her healing arts. Yet, as her paws reached for the herbs, a flicker of hesitation crept in, a dark thought threading its way through her mind. Doubt had begun to weave itself into her heart, and here was an opportunity to dispel it.

Her paw moved, settling instead upon a different selection, one that felt heavier with consequence.

Here.

She did not meet his gaze.

Hasdrubal’s breathing steadied as the plants began to take hold, their effect evident. Eira watched in silence, unease settling in her chest. A part of her felt a sickening twist inside—disbelief in what she had done, in the steps she had taken. She told herself it was necessary, it had to be. If he was lying, the malpractice wouldn't matter, but if, just if, the story he clung to held any truth at all...

Her throat tightened, and she swallowed hard. She had to know—there was no turning back now.

Finally, she met his gaze, those unsettling, cryptid eyes staring back at her.
What happened that night?

She hadn't expected this—this torrent of grief, raw and overwhelming in its perfect mirror of her own. Her jaw locked tight, but it did nothing to stop the creeping tendrils of dread winding their way through her chest, twisting in places she’d long thought numb.

The serum had done its job—too well. She had wanted answers, yes, but not this. Not this flood of sorrow that filled the space between them, drowning them both. She’d expected him to confess. Expected a vile villain's monologue where he owned up to the things he’d done, and set her doubts to rest. And she would finally get the closure she so desperately needed. She would say to herself, "How silly I was to worry! I was right all along." And she would feel oh so justified in her hatred—her loathing.

But instead, all she was left with was this—the broken, shattered remnants of the boy she once knew, laid bare before her. He was not the proud, terrible creature she had come to despise. No, he was something else entirely now—fragile, shattered, and far too mortal.

Herod... She breathed the name like a curse, like something vile on her tongue. She knew. She already knew. Her heart pounded against her ribs, her pulse loud in her ears. She hated him. Hated the sound of his name. Hated the way it tasted. But most of all, she hated the way she had let her grief cloud her vision—let it twist everything until she didn’t know which way was up.

Her throat clenched, but she pressed on, pressed on because she had no choice. The words came out strangled, desperate.

Was it him, Hasdrubal? Did Herod—?

Her voice cracked. Eira reached out, her paw trembling as it found Hasdrubal’s, cold and shaking beneath her touch. She held her breath.

Waiting.