The healer’s fingers brushed once more along the edge of the fresh bandage before stepping back and snuffing out a flame in the copper lamp. The silence of the room was like the taste of scalded sloe: bitter, yet soothing. Beyond the door, stones clicked underfoot, someone gave a brief command, then more steps, more echoes. I had been counting the rhythm since I arrived here—no judgment, only presence.
A knock. Twice against the frame. The signal from outside.
“Come in,” I said, already drawing my legs under me at the edge of the bed to receive the visitor sitting upright.
It was not Darius who entered first, but the steward: white-haired, straight-backed, carrying a lacquered tray in his hands. On the tray lay a thick paper, gray and white with marbled patterns, sealed at the corner wi
