Corin
The afternoon sunlight had already turned the walls of the room orange when Mason entered again. This time he was not carrying food. A large stack of clean towels and a soft white shirt rested over his arm. He stopped at the foot of the bed, and his gaze, usually as hard as uncut stone, seemed somehow softer now.
“You can bathe, Corin,” he said simply. “The healer says the water will help your fever, and we need to wash the old ointment from your back before I put fresh on it.”
My stomach tightened. The thought of bathing was tempting. For days I had felt the smell of sickness, blood, and forest clinging to my skin. But my helplessness filled me with dread.
“But I… I cannot do it alone,” I whispered, pulling the blanket tighter against my chest. My right arm still lay motionless
