The healer’s expression softened, just slightly.
“You won’t be weak,” he said, voice steady, certain in a way I wished I could be. I wasn’t sure if I believed that. Weakness wasn’t always something you could see. Sometimes it sat beneath the surface, quiet and patient, waiting for the moment your guard slipped. Waiting for pain. For doubt. For fear. Still, I didn’t argue. I didn’t have the energy.
Sometime later, I lay back against the pillows, my arm secured tightly against my chest, wrapped in layers of linen that smelled faintly of herbs and something sharp and clean. The pain was still there, dull now, lingering like the last rumble of a storm that refused to fully pass, but it no longer stole my breath every time I moved. I could breathe again. That felt like a victory.
What didn’
