Page 51 of Crown of Storm and Silence
"What happened?" I demand, dropping to my knees beside the injured man.
"Stupid animal caught him in the ribs," one of the onlookers explains. "He was trying to milk her from behind instead of the side. She let him know what she thought of that arrangement."
I can see the damage immediately—several ribs clearly broken, possibly a punctured lung, given his labored breathing. Henrik is conscious but in obvious agony, his hands pressed to his side as he tries to breathe.
"I need to heal him," I say, reaching for the familiar warmth that lives in my palms.
"No." Mira's voice cuts through the crowd with sharp authority. "Absolutely not. You need to preserve your strength for the baby. Healing magic drains you, and you're already exhausted."
"But he's in pain?—"
"He'll live," Mira says firmly. "Broken ribs heal on their own with time and rest."
I look down at Henrik's face, twisted with agony, and feel something rebel in my chest. "I can't just leave him like this."
"You should," Banu says from beside me, her musical voice carrying obvious disdain. "Honestly, standing behind a cow when she's agitated? He was practically begging for a kicking. Some people have no sense of self-preservation."
"That's not the point," I snap, my hands already moving toward Henrik's injured side. "I can help him."
But before I can touch him, Banu steps forward with a sigh of theatrical exasperation. "Oh, for the love of— Move aside, you bleeding heart."
Her small hands settle on Henrik's ribs, and immediately, golden light begins to flow from her palms. Not the warm glow of my healing magic, but something brighter, more refined. Ancient power that speaks of centuries of practice and knowledge I can't begin to fathom.
The crowd gasps as Henrik's breathing eases, his color returning to normal as bones knit themselves back together with impossible speed. Within minutes, he's sitting up, running his hands over his side in amazement.
"How?" I breathe, staring at the fairy I thought I was just beginning to know.
Banu shrugs, but there's something self-conscious about the gesture. "Fairy magic. Much more efficient than your hit-or-miss light business."
Banu's gaze shifts to Elçin with something that might be malice. "You'd know all about that, wouldn't you?"
For the first time since Elçin arrived, I see something crack in her composed facade. A flash of fear crosses her features—so quick I almost miss it—before her warrior's mask slides back into place.
I'm vaguely aware of both Zohan and Elçin going very still at Banu's pointed comment, though their reactions seem different—Zohan looks curious, while Elçin's jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.
"What are you talking about?" I ask, looking between Banu and Elçin with growing confusion.
But Banu just waves her hand dismissively. "Ancient history," she says, though her eyes never leave Elçin's face. "Some stories are better left buried."
The tension hangs in the air like a blade, sharp and dangerous. Around us, the crowd begins to disperse as Henrik struggles to his feet, testing his miraculously healed ribs with obvious amazement.
"Bless you, little one," he says to Banu, his voice thick with gratitude. "However you did that, you've saved me weeks of misery."
"Yes, well," Banu says, waving him off with obvious discomfort. "Try not to antagonize any more livestock. Someof us have better things to do than patch up the victims of agricultural stupidity."
Henrik chuckles and shuffles away, leaving us in awkward silence. The weight of everything I've learned today—about my marriage, my past, the cryptic tensions between people who claim to care about me—presses down on me like a physical force.
But it's Zohan's reaction that catches my attention. Instead of concern about the strange undercurrents between Banu and Elçin, he looks almost…pleased. Like he's filing away information for later use.
"I need to go inside," I manage, swaying slightly on my feet.
"Of course," Mira says immediately, her healer's instincts kicking in. "You've had enough revelations for one day."
As I turn toward the cottage, I see Sinan approaching from the direction of the market, his storm-gray eyes bright with concern. The sight of him—solid, reliable, uncomplicated—makes something ease in my chest.
"Elif," he says, using the name I've grown comfortable with. "I heard shouting. Is everything all right?"
"Everything's fine," I lie, because the truth is far too complicated to explain.
