Niko’s hands took six stitches and a firm lecture from Dris.
“Stop trying to rearrange your own anatomy,” the doctor muttered, taping gauze around the last finger. “I have patients who pay for this level of self-harm therapy. You’re getting it for free.”
Niko rolled his eyes but didn’t pull away. He was still pale, wolf tucked so far back I could barely feel it.
“Open,” I said, when Dris stepped back.
Reluctantly, Niko turned his palms up.
Under the white bandages and drying blood, faint lines glimmered on his skin. Not scars; not yet. More like bruises of light, just below the surface.
Runes.
“What the hell,” Dris breathed.
“Language,” I said automatically, then, to Niko, “When did these first show up?”
He stared. “I— they weren’t there before,” he said. “I’d have noticed.”
“Not
