Royal Final Battle (End)

"Let me," she said, voice still hushed but steadier. Her hands trembled as she cleaned the wound with wine, then pressed the fabric down. Each tie she knotted took two attempts. Lyan watched her brow furrow in concentration, the stubborn set of her mouth. He felt the warmth of her breath on his forearm, the light brush of her hair against his knee.

Griselda's voice flicked across his thoughts—half tease, half warning. (Little hearts mend quickly after chains break.) He ignored the spark of amusement, focusing on Ara's face. Smudges of soot marked her cheeks, a crooked streak of dried blood angled across her temple, yet in the soft ritual light she looked improbably luminous.