IrinaThe healer snipped the thread, and the sound felt like a gunshot in the quiet room.I sat there, slumped in that hard wooden chair, feeling the pull of the fresh stitches against my ribs. It was a dull, thrumming ache now, not the white-hot fire of the blade, but it made me feel heavy. Old. I looked down at my hands, stained with my own blood. I felt stupid. I was the Queen of Valdris, a woman who had outmanoeuvred high lords and survived Aldric’s cold bed for two decades, and here I was, getting stitched up by a man who smelled like wet dog and antiseptic in a room that looked like a bird had exploded in it.The healer didn't say a word to me. He did his final rounds, checking the tension of the bandages, his fingers rough and clinical. When he was satisfied, he gave a short, jerky nod to Fenris and Sera."It's fine," he said, his voice a dry rasp. "The blade missed the vitals. The body just needs time to knit the meat back together. Keep her still."Fenris gave a single, tight
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