Page 136 of The First Scar
Dreadscale picked up the pace.
Chapter 31
AMARIA
The tunnel spat us out into a ravine choked with twilight and elder roots.
I staggered two steps and stopped. My lungs seized—not from pain, but from the sheer volume of air suddenly available. After hours of recycled breath and close stone, the open sky hit like a slap. The wind moved across my bare arms and I shuddered hard enough that Serenya stirred against my shoulder.
We weren't the first ones out.
Three rebels crouched at the treeline, weapons drawn, coiled and still, eyes locked on the ravine. I recognized two of them from the bonfire—the tall lady who'd sung the old war hymn, the young male with the crooked nose who'd laughed too loud at Brannick's jokes. They'd come out through a different passage. A fourth emerged from the brush as we stumbled into the clearing, breathing hard, grey cloak torn at the shoulder, nodding once at Kaelen like a report delivered without words.
I stumbled, my knees finally buckling under the weight of the last few hours.
Serenya slumped with me, a dead weight in my arms. I lowered her to the mossy ground, my hands trembling as I brushed hair from her face.
Around us, the others collapsed.
Maxx paced the small clearing, agitation radiating off him in waves. He kept glancing at Serenya, then away, then back, like he couldn't decide if looking at her hurt more than not looking.
Dreadscale moved to Serenya's side. Gentle—he lifted her into a sitting position, one broad hand bracing her back. He tilted a water skin to her bleeding lips, waiting patiently as she struggled to swallow.
When a thin stream escaped down her chin, he wiped it away with his thumb. The gesture was so far from the merciless master who'd driven me to my breaking point in training that I had to look away. "Thank you," I murmured.
He didn't speak. Just lifted his hand to my face, brushed his thumb once across my cheekbone, and nodded.
Then he stepped back, and my gaze found Kaelen.
He stood at the ravine's mouth, a statue carved from shadow and grim resolve. His eyes scanned the distance—mist-shrouded peaks, the darkening sky—calculating odds I didn't want to know.
"We need a healer," I rasped.
"The network activated the moment you were taken," Kaelen said without turning. His voice was quiet. "Every cell from here to the border. The old mill is the rally point—half a day's march east. Healers among them. She'll hold until then."
I looked down at Serenya—pale, barely conscious, her breathing too shallow. Half a day felt like a lifetime.
"She has to," I said. More to myself than anyone.
Maxx crouched beside her, pulling a strip of cloth from his sleeve and pressing it against the worst of the wounds. His hands were steady, but a muscle worked in his cheek.
He hesitated, then produced a small vial from his coat—dark glass, liquid shimmering faintly inside.
"I have this." He held it up, not looking at me. "Field stabilizer. Dulls the pain, slows the bleeding, but it keeps her under until we reach a real healer." He swallowed. "It's strong. Saved it for emergencies."
I stared at him. "And this qualifies?"
He finally met my eyes, and whatever I saw there, he didn't bother burying it.
"Yeah," he said quietly. "This qualifies."
He tilted Serenya's head back, gentle as I'd ever seen him, and tipped the vial against her lips. She swallowed reflexively, a small sound escaping her. Within seconds, the tension in her face eased. Her breathing steadied.
"She'll sleep through the worst of it now," Maxx murmured. "But we need to move."
I wanted to thank him. The words stuck on the way out.
He didn't seem to need them. He just tucked the empty vial away and looked toward Kaelen.
