The stranger’s warning still echoed in the mist when they reached the far bend of the gorge. By then, Dane was barely awake, his head hanging weakly on Bren’s shoulder. Each breath was rough, shallow, and strained. The fire in his side had spread, with black veins crawling from the wound like roots feeding on his blood.
“Put him down,” Liora urged. Her hands shook as she unpacked her satchel. “Now.”
Bren obeyed, kneeling so carefully it was almost reverent. Dane groaned faintly, his eyes fluttering but unfocused. When Liora pulled back the bandages, she hissed through her teeth. The wound was no longer red and raw. It pulsed with something dark, a sickly glow threading through the torn flesh.
“That’s not rot,” Killian said grimly, kneeling beside her. His jaw was tight, his eyes colder
