Page 42 of Silver Claws, Crimson Tears
“Head Medic Serna Sandtide,” Phoebe says quietly. “She’s the best in Fort Ashmire. Tough as granite but fair.”
As we approach, the Head Medic turns, her gray eyes sharp and assessing. She’s older than I expected, with fine lines around her eyes and strands of silver threaded through her hair. A thin scar traces her jawline.
“Skysinger Breezehart,” she acknowledges Phoebe, then her gaze lands on me, narrowing slightly. “And who is your charge?”
“Skysinger Rhealyn Wyndward,” Phoebe responds, her voice carrying a hint of pride, as if presenting a rare specimen.
The Head Medic’s stern face shifts, her eyebrows climbing toward her hairline. “Wyndward? The one who—” She stops herself, reassessing me with new interest.
“The one who disappeared a year ago and has miraculously returned,” I say. “I seem to be quite the attraction today.”
Sandtide’s lips press into a thin line, neither amused nor offended. “It’s rare to have a Skyrider come back to life, but I wish they all would. We lost nine riders this past year, and countless other soldiers die every day.” Ground forces from the Land Order defend cities and towns, and they don’t fare as well as Skyriders.
“High Prime Stormsong requests a full examination for Rhea,” Phoebe adds quickly, filling the uncomfortable silence.
Sandtide’s clinical gaze sweeps over me, taking in my too-thin frame, the hollows beneath my cheekbones, the dullness of my skin. “To begin,” she says dryly, “I can tell she’s malnourished, dehydrated, and needs a good bath.”
“So glad my obvious deterioration is making this easy,” I mutter.
A ghost of a smile touches Sandtide’s lips. “Bitter sense of humor intact. That’s something.” She gestures to a bed near her workstation. “Sit. Let’s see what’s left of you, Rhealyn Wyndward.”
I hesitate, wondering if everyone in Fort Ashmire knows who I am now. Is that good? Part of me recoils at the attention, at being singled out. But another part—the part that wants change for Embernia—that part whispers this might be optimal. Visibility has power. People who are seen can’t be ignored.
“I don’t bite,” Sandtide prompts, “unless you refuse treatment.”
I climb onto the bed, the thin mattress giving a soft creak under my weight. Phoebe hovers nearby, shifting from foot to foot like an anxious bird. The Head Medic slides a table of instruments closer to the bed, metal tools clinking against each other. She settles onto a stool and fixes Phoebe with a pointed stare that could pierce armor.
“I’m sure you have duties elsewhere, Skysinger Breezehart.”
Phoebe’s cheeks flush pink. “I… well, I thought I should?—”
“An examination is between medic and patient,” Sandtide cuts in. “Not medic, patient, and spectator.”
I almost snicker at Phoebe’s embarrassed expression. “It’s fine,” I tell her. “Go research whatever Voltguard wants. I doubt I’ll die in the next hour.”
“I’ll come back to check on you,” Phoebe promises, backing toward the door with a last concerned glance.
Once she’s gone, Sandtide rises and pulls a heavy curtain around the bed. The fabric swishes into place, enclosing us in a private cocoon. I’m surprisingly grateful for the barrier between me and any potential curious eyes.
“Strip to your underclothes,” she says matter-of-factly, turning to arrange her instruments.
“No lunch first?” I retort, but my fingers are already working at the fastenings of my clothing.
Sandtide’s eyes flick to mine, unimpressed. “In my experience, Skysinger, those who joke the most hide the most.”
“In my experience, Head Medic, those who observe too much should mind their own business.”
A dry chuckle escapes her. “Your body is my business for the next hour.” She points to a dark bruise on my ribs as I remove my shirt. “How did you get that?”
I stare at the mottled purple-green mark. “I don’t know.”
“And these?” Her cool fingers trace scars on my back I can’t see.
“I don’t remember,” I whisper, sudden fear crawling up my spine. What happened to me? What did they do to my body that I can’t recall?
Sandtide’s frown deepens as she circles me, cataloging marks whose origins I ignore and making notes. The silence stretches between us, punctuated only by her occasional hum of interest or soft click of her tongue.
“You truly don’t remember how you got these?” she asks finally, tracing a line down my shoulder blade.
