FARAH
Elara doesn’t speak for a long time after he leaves.
She moves around the room quietly, pressing a damp cloth to my forehead, easing a cup of something bitter and herbal to my lips, pulling blankets up around my shoulders with the practiced efficiency of someone who has tended to wounds far worse than mine. But her eyes keep darting to the closed door, and her hands aren’t quite steady.
“How many times has this happened?” I ask her. “The episodes. How many times have you cleaned up after one of them?”
She stills, just for a moment, before she resumes tucking the blanket around me. “This is the third.”
“And the other two? Were they like this one?”
“Worse,” she says quietly. “The first one, we thought you were dying. He—” She stops herself, pressing her lips together. “The healer
