The infirmary smells like antiseptic and old stone.
Damon is on the table before I've finished catching my breath. The pack's healer — a compact woman named Sona who has the energy of someone who has seen every possible kind of injury and stopped being impressed by any of them — cuts away his shirt without ceremony and gets to work on the bolt.
I stand against the wall.
The mark is still doing what it started in the clearing: burning low and constant, a coal-glow that doesn't flare and doesn't fade. Different from anything before. I press my thumb against it, a habit now, and feel it pulse back like a second heartbeat that isn't mine.
Sona pulls the bolt free.
Damon doesn't make a sound. His hands are flat on the table, fingers spread, knuckles going white.
"Silver contamination is s
