Playing the nurse

There was blood on her sleeve and annoyance on my face. I'd meant what I said out there—I didn't need saving, not from an over-eager recruit or from Lyra, with her reflexes and her endless talent for making herself necessary.

But the look in the soldiers' eyes had lingered: fear, awe, gratitude. Not for me. For her. As if I were glass, and she, the sword.

Now we sat in the so-called nurse's office, which—naturally—was devoid of any actual nurse.

The room was always empty unless someone was dying in the corner, and even then, the palace nurse had a talent for vanishing.

Perhaps she had learned to hide from the ice queen and her bodyguard. Smart woman.

I glared at the spotless bed, the untouched cabinets, the neat row of medical supplies, and let my irritation fill the air. Lyra slouched in the only chair, arm outstretched, the gash on her forearm still oozing, eyes following me as I paced.

"Honestly," I snapped, yanking open the drawer with unnecessary force, "does no one in this palace do their job? We pay these people to do what, exactly—take tea and gossip in the kitchens?"

Lyra grinned, teeth bared, looking like she'd be just as happy getting patched up by a vulture. "Maybe you scared them off, Princess. Your bedside manner's legendary, after all."

I found the bandages, a jar of antiseptic, and a small, wicked-looking pair of shears. "If you want to bleed to death, go ahead. Less trouble for me."

She raised an eyebrow, entirely unbothered by my threats. "Aren't you supposed to faint at the sight of blood or something?"

I rolled my eyes, snatching a cloth and dipping it in the antiseptic. "Unlike you, I don't have the luxury of weakness. Hold still, idiot. Unless you want me to make it worse."

She held out her arm, and to her credit, she didn't even flinch when I pressed the cloth to her wound.

The skin was warm, rough with old scars, and the blood had already slowed. Still, the cut was ugly—too deep for a simple scratch, not enough to need stitches.

I worked with brisk, efficient movements, biting back the memory of just how close that sword had come to my spine.

"Stop looking so smug," I muttered, cleaning the wound. "It was an accident. I didn't need your heroic sacrifice."

Lyra tilted her head, watching me like I was some strange creature. "You're welcome, by the way."

I dabbed at the cut a little harder than necessary. "Yes, yes, you're very brave, I'm sure the king will pin another medal to your ass at the next banquet. Try not to get blood on my dress."

She snorted. "If you wanted me undressed, Isolde, you could have just asked."

My hands stilled, then resumed with twice the force. "Don't flatter yourself. I'm only doing this because our nurse is useless and you're apparently too stubborn to die."

Lyra grinned, unrepentant. "I knew you had a soft side. Or is it just that you're a control freak and can't stand anyone else touching your bodyguard?"

Heat crept up my neck, and I cursed myself for letting her get to me. I finished cleaning the wound, then reached for the bandage, tearing it with more aggression than necessary.

"If I were you," I said sweetly, "I'd be grateful. Not everyone gets medical care from royalty. Or from someone with actual skill. Now shut up and give me your arm."

She obliged, still grinning. Her muscles flexed under my fingers as I wrapped the bandage tight and fast, careful not to show just how gentle I was being.

I couldn't risk making it worse. If she was incapacitated, someone else would be assigned to me. Someone not her. That was, I told myself, the only reason I cared.

Lyra studied me with open curiosity. "Where'd you learn this, anyway? Didn't think princesses got blood on their hands."

I rolled my eyes. "Someone had to look after Seraphina when she decided to fight dragons in the garden as a child. Besides, you don't survive court politics without knowing how to treat a wound. Some of us aren't as invincible as you like to pretend."

She looked… surprised. Maybe even impressed, which was irritating. "Huh. I'll try not to bleed on you again."

"See that you don't," I said, tying off the bandage with a final tug. "Or next time I'll leave you for the crows."

For a moment, the room was still. She sat back, flexing her hand, testing my work. Our eyes met. I glared, daring her to say something foolish. She just grinned, almost… warm.

"I'll live, Princess. Nice work. You're wasted on the throne."

I ignored the tiny twist in my stomach and swept the supplies back into the drawer. "If you die, I'll have to fill out paperwork. That's the only reason."

She pushed to her feet, rolling her shoulder. "And here I thought you'd mourn my tragic end."

"Don't be ridiculous." But my voice was softer, the old edge not quite so sharp.

She made for the door, pausing just long enough to toss me a wink over her shoulder. "Lunch?"

I bristled. "I suppose even brutes like you need to eat."

She laughed, letting the sound fill the corridor as we headed toward the dining hall, our footsteps echoing on polished stone.

Lunch was served in the smaller banquet room, sunlight pouring through high windows, the clink of cutlery and murmurs of conversation providing a backdrop to my irritation.

The king and queen were already seated, deep in conversation about something that looked distinctly like state business.

Lyra dropped into the chair beside me—closer than necessary, as usual—her movements unhurried, relaxed. As if she belonged at the royal table.

I stabbed at my food with more force than required. The morning's events still rattled around my mind: the near-miss, the blood, Lyra's insufferable grin.

She seemed even more at ease now that she'd bled for her cause. I could feel her watching me, amusement flickering in her gaze.

The king finished his conversation, then turned to us with a smile that was all politics and mischief. "You two seem to have survived the morning. No assassins, no duels to the death?"

Lyra smirked. "Just a little blood, Your Majesty. Nothing serious."

The queen raised an eyebrow. "Do I even want to know?"

I shook my head. "An accident. All dealt with. I'm fine, in case you're worried."

Lyra snorted. "She's tougher than she looks."

The king's smile widened. "Good. I need both of you in fighting shape."

He waited until the servants had cleared the first course before speaking again, his tone shifting from light to official.

"In one month time, you'll be traveling to the Southern Islands," he announced, addressing us both but looking straight at me.

"They've requested royal assistance with some pirates. I expect you to represent Blackwell, Isolde. Lyra, you'll be responsible for security."

I stilled, fork halfway to my mouth. The Southern Islands—hot, wild, unpredictable. A place for exiles and pirates, not princesses and their troublesome knights. I swallowed hard, masking my unease.

"Of course, Father," I said, voice calm, regal. "I'll do what's required."

Beside me, Lyra grinned, looking for all the world like she'd just been handed a sword and told to cause trouble. "Sounds fun. Do I get to interrogate pirates, or just stab them?"

The king's eyes twinkled. "Whatever the situation requires."

The queen, ever the voice of reason, added, "You'll be accompanied by a small retinue—nothing ostentatious. This is a mission of diplomacy and strength, not intimidation. Understood?"

I inclined my head. "Understood."

Lyra's eyes met mine across the table, a challenge sparking between us. For a moment, all the old rivalry, the old chemistry, was there—alive and dangerous. I let my lips curl into a half-smile, refusing to let her see anything else.

Lunch ended with the promise of more chaos to come. As we rose from the table, the king caught my arm, his voice low. "You handled yourself well today. I expect the same on the islands."

I nodded, pride and irritation swirling together. "I won't disappoint you."

Lyra joined me as I left, whistling softly, the bandage bright against her skin.

"Well, Princess," she said, all mock formality, "looks like we're going to the ends of the earth together. Hope you packed your sense of humor."

I shot her a withering glare. "I'd rather pack a muzzle. For you."

She laughed, a sound that lingered even after I'd swept away, already planning, already bracing for what came next.