The wound had opened along one edge of Delara’s stitching.
It was not as bad as Sera had feared, which irritated her because fear had clearly been present without permission. Blood had soaked through the bandage and dried against his skin, but the worst of the black poison had retreated. The remaining gray lines near his collarbone looked like old cracks in porcelain. Still, the torn stitches had left the skin raw and angry, and every breath pulled the wound wider by the smallest fraction.
Sera cleaned it without looking at his face.
That was easier.
She focused on the work. Wet cloth. Dried blood. The edge of the bandage. Ash-water first because Delara had said poison memory hated ash. Clean linen after. Pressure when the bleeding welled fresh. Her fingers moved carefully, more carefu
