The medics at the infirmary have a room waiting for Bren and launch into action as soon as we arrive. I take up a station
in the corner of Bren’s room, watching as they transfer him to the bed and cut away his tunic to assess his injury. The wound in his side shows sickeningly raw alongside the web of older scars that crisscross his chest. The gash is the length of my hand, its red edges pulled snugly together by the Cormorant’s magic. The skin around it is swollen and shiny, bruised.
I look up from it, toward his face, and my gaze catches on the silver chain hanging from his neck. I blink, focusing on it. Looped through the chain is my grandmother’s ruby ring. I stare at it, remembering how Bren would sometimes touch the front of his tunic, the pendant there—not his own sign but my ring
