The lamp above the metal table hummed, a thin tone that stretched the silence. The room smelled of iron, of old sweat, and of that sour note of disinfectant that always comes too late. Lina knelt before Alaric, her fingers still damp from water, the gauze bandage hanging like a white breath between her hands.
"Don't move," she whispered, but his restlessness wasn't in his muscles. It was in the air, a shimmering heat emanating from him that quickened her own pulse. His eyes were fixed on her, neither hard nor soft—alert, as if he was truly seeing for the first time.
She dabbed at the blood on his temple. A small, red crescent remained. "It burns?" she asked.
"Less than the other," he murmured.
"Which other?"
"Everything that doesn't heal."
