Page 70 of The Bound Mage
He couldn’t. He couldn’t control them—every breath he took, every beat of his heart was soaked in their pain, drowning him in their grief and rage. So Loren did the only thing he could to protect them both.
He fled, dragging the shadows with him.
Chapter
Thirty-One
“I don’t knowwhy he did that.” Araya hovered over Thorne as the door crashed closed on Loren’s heels, her shield flickering and dying with the danger gone. “We were just talking. He wanted me to work on my magic with you?—”
“I think I’ll pass,” he rasped, his chuckle turning into a groan as Araya pressed the hem of her skirt against his wound. He slumped back, his head thudding against the stone wall.
“You’re bleeding too much,” Araya said, her voice shaking as his blood soaked the thick woolen fabric. “You need to Heal yourself?—”
“Magic doesn’t play nicely with shadow-inflicted wounds.” Thorne leaned forward, his breaths coming shallow and uneven. “Bind it as tightly as you can—good.” He smiled at her, but his face was too pale, his lips already tinged blue. His hands trembled as he held them out to her. “Now, help me up. We have to get to Veria.”
Araya wedged her shoulder under his good arm, bracing herself as he hauled himself upright with a hiss. He was far heavier than she expected, his weight crushing down on her with every step.
“Goddess—” Veria’s face went white as Araya shoved through the door, her eyes widening. “Sit him here.” The clatter of knives and pans stilled under her hand as she swept the workbench clear with a burst of magic, taking Thorne’s other side to help lever him onto the heavy table.
“Keep pressure on that wound,” Veria ordered. She sliced through Thorne’s shirt with a pair of kitchen shears, revealing the bruised and frost-bitten skin beneath.
“It’s shadow rot,” Thorne said, trying to sit up again. “The real problem is my arm. A poultice of yarrow and honey?—”
“Will help stop the bleeding and slow the spread,” Veria snapped, shoving him back down on the table. “I was helping your mother make poultices before you were even out of swaddling, Thorne Emberwood. Iknowwhat kind of poultice to make for shadow rot.”
“Sorry, sorry—” Thorne laughed weakly, falling back against the table. “I’ll just lay here and concentrate on not dying then.”
Araya’s gaze whipped toward Veria. “Is he going to die?”
The older female’s mouth pressed into a grim line. “Not if we slow the bleeding long enough for him to Heal himself.”
A mortar and pestle leapt across the room, already grinding green leaves and honey into a thick, sticky paste. Veria snatched it out of the air, scooping the mixture inside out with her bare hands and slathering it across the torn flesh of Thorne’s arm, ignoring how he hissed and flinched.
“Clean cloths,” Veria barked, nodding toward the whistling kettle. “Soak them and bring them here—quickly now, dear.”
Araya scrambled for the clean towels Veria kept folded neatly beside the workbench, throwing them into a bowl and dumping the contents of the kettle overtop. Steam curled into the air, but Veria didn’t hesitate to plunge her hand into the water, wringing out the first cloth and pressing it over the poultice
Thorne groaned, his back arching as steam rose from his arm, but Veria didn’t let him move. She added towel after towel, until finally blood stopped soaking the white linen.
“There,” she breathed, sitting back. “There we go. Now he’ll be able to take care of it himself. See?”
Araya stared down at Thorne’s face. He did look pinker—less pale. But his eyes were closed and his brow furrowed in pain.
“You did the right thing by getting him here.” Veria took Araya’s hand, gently pulling her away. “Now come sit down. It’s going to be a while yet.”
Thorne didn’t openhis eyes again until the sun had set, stirring with a groan that had Araya leaping to her feet, the untouched bowl of soup Veria had pressed on her forgotten as she rushed to his side.
“Remind me not to get in between the two of you again.” Thorne groaned, accepting her hand as he shoved himself to a seated position. He peeled back the layers of now-cooled linen, grimacing at whatever he saw beneath. “Goddess help me. Veria?”
“She left to fetch Ilyana.” Araya stared at Thorne, unable to tear her gaze away from the shadowmarks that snaked across his chest, dark bands scarring his skin where the shadows had tried to crush him. But her own skin was unmarked, even though she’d been right there—prying the shadows off him and shoving them away. “Why don’t they hurt me?”
Thorne let out a short, pained laugh. “Because you’re his mate.” He grabbed a fresh cloth, carefully wiping the poultice away to study the twisting marks left behind. “He was protecting you.”
“Protecting me?” Her broke, rising high and thin. “From what—his best friend?”
“We all knowdara’elhas a mind of its own.” Thorne’s mouth curved into a thin smile. “They must have seen me as a threat.”
Araya swallowed, bile burning the back of her throat as she thought of the shadows—snarling and tearing as they dragged Thorne across the stones. Loren fighting them—and failing.
