Page 45 of Silver Claws, Crimson Tears
“Not today.” Sandtide snaps. “Perhaps tomorrow, if she continues improving.”
Part of me wants to call out, demand she let them in. But a larger part feels... relieved. I’m not ready for their questions, not ready to bury my nose in ancient scrolls like the Commander wants me to do. Not when I still feel like scattered puzzle pieces trying to form a complete picture.
So I say nothing, and after a moment, their footsteps retreat.
“Thank you,” I mutter, surprising myself.
Sandtide raises an eyebrow. “For what?”
I shrug, suddenly uncomfortable. “For keeping them out.”
“I’m not doing it for you,” she says, but her eyes soften slightly. “I’m doing it for your recovery.”
I do wonder, however, why Vaylen hasn’t visited. The question is answered the next day.
I’m halfway through my soup when the infirmary doors burst open. Two riders are carried in on stretchers, their uniforms torn and bloody. The smell of burned flesh hits me like a fist as they set them on the beds further away from me.
The orderly routine of the infirmary transforms in seconds. Apprentices scatter like startled birds, grabbing bandages and tinctures. Medics converge on the injured riders, their movements precise despite their haste.
I don’t recognize either rider—a woman with a gash across her forehead and a man whose arm hangs at an unnatural angle. Both wear the charred remnants of Sky Order uniforms.
Pushing my tray aside, I swing my legs over the bed. My head doesn’t spin, which feels like a miracle. Three days of forced rest and food have improved my strength, even if I’d never admit it to Sandtide.
“Cauterize it now,” Sandtide commands. “Hold her down.”
A woman’s scream tears through the room. I flinch, my hand instinctively twitching with tendrils of wind power.
Metal instruments clank against trays. “More pressure here. No, damn it, more!”
The man’s voice rises in delirious moans. “They came from nowhere... from the sun... couldn’t see...”
I creep closer, drawn by a morbid curiosity and something else—a hunger for information about what’s happening beyond these walls while I’m trapped eating soup and answering memory questions.
“Get back in bed, Wyndward,” Sandtide calls without even looking my way.
“I can help,” I say, knowing the offer is ridiculous.
“You can help by staying out of the way.”
Curtains snap closed around the injured riders, cutting offmy view. I catch glimpses of shadows moving behind the fabric—hands raising, bodies bending.
I retreat to my bed. The inaction is worse than torture. It’s suffocation. I pull the pillow over my head, pressing it against my ears to muffle the screams, but they burrow through anyway.
Behind my closed eyelids, shadows gather. Fragments of nightmares tickle the edges of my mind. A girl named Fern. Amber eyes watching me. Darkness and light, pain and fog.
“Stay out,” I whisper fiercely, as if my missing memories are predators I can scare away.
When the screams stop, it feels like a deep exhale. Release. I stare at the ceiling, wishing for sleep—I’ve slept a lot these past few days, and it’s been restorative—but it doesn’t come.
Sometime later, the door to the infirmary creaks open, and there stands Vaylen, looking like he’s been dragged behind a dragon for miles. His uniform is torn at the shoulder, dirt smudges his face, and dark circles pool beneath his eyes. When our gazes lock, something electric passes between us—not quite tension, not quite relief.
He approaches and closes the curtain around me.
“You look better,” he says, his voice rough.
“You look like shit.” The words tumble out before I can stop them.
A tired smile cracks across his face, and I find myself returning it. I pull my knees up to my chest under the long cotton gown they’ve given me, wrapping my arms around them as if they might shield me from the intensity of seeing him again. The infirmary suddenly feels too small, too warm.
