Riven looks less like a threat and more like someone carved the life out of him with a dull knife. He lies propped up on a stack of pillows, skin pale, lips cracked, chest rising shallowly under the healer’s bandages. His hair is dark and long enough to fall into his face. His features are sharp in a way that would be attractive if he did not look like he had crawled through a hurricane made of knives. Every inhale sounds like it has to fight its way through him, scraping up his throat.
The healer moves around him with quiet efficiency, checking his pulse and lifting his eyelids, but even she keeps a wary distance, like she is treating an injured wolf with unpredictable teeth.
Leah sits on the edge of the bed, clutching his hand like she is terrified he might vanish if she lets go. She t
