Page 74 of Fallen Nocturne

“Interesting,” the commander says thoughtfully. “We’ll consider it.”

They talk for another eternity. Finally, one of the commanders stands. “Enough business. Let’s enjoy the evening. The Painted Moth has excellent entertainment.”

Kharlis laughs. “I could use a drink and perhaps some company.”

“The serving staff here is exceptional.” The commander’s smile makes my skin crawl. “We should take advantage of Thorn Vale’s hospitality while we are here.”

They move toward the door, their footsteps and voices fading down the corridor.

The room falls quiet.

Arescaine doesn’t release me from his wings. I can feel him still trembling.

“They’re gone,” I whisper.

His wings slowly unfurl.

I pull back to look at him. His face is pale like an ordinary Nightwalker, jaw clenched tight.

“How bad?” I ask quietly.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine. I felt you—”

Through the crack in the door, I can hear voices in the main room. Kharlis and the commanders, calling for servers and more wine.

Arescaine and I can’t leave without being seen. We can’t risk exposing ourselves now. I look at his wings. They are still extended, with the membranes showing angry red burns across the surface.

“Let me heal you,” I whisper.

“It’s too risky,” he breathes.

“They’re in the other room. I’ll be careful. Slow. Just enough to—”

“Rhianelle—”

“Please.”

He stares at me for several heartbeats, resistance tightening every line of his face. Then his gaze lowers to my hand, and he nods once.

I press my hand gently against the burned membrane of his wing. He flinches but doesn’t pull away.

Closing my eyes, I call upon Anastarros’s blessing. The healing magic answers immediately. I hold it tightly under my control, allowing only the smallest thread to flow from my palm.

There can be no bright flare of power. Nothing can betray our presence to the commanders nearby. The magic seeps quietly into the damaged membrane beneath my fingertips. It eases the heat trapped within the burns.

Scorched tissue begins to mend beneath my palm. The delicate structures draw together strand by strand.

I work slowly, giving him only enough magic to soothe the worst of the damage while keeping our hiding place concealed.

Arescaine’s breathing steadies slightly. I move my hand across the wing surface, finding the worst burns and healing them one by one. So slowly and so carefully.

Yet he continues to tremble. In the dim light, I see the strain carved into his expression. His eyes are half-lidded, his jaw tight, and a muscle jumps in his cheek. A low sound escapes him when my fingers pass over a vein in the membrane. It is barely audible and disappears almost as soon as it forms.

“Is it still hurting?” I whisper.

The burns are healing. They should not be hurting him this much anymore. A pulse of alarm moves through me. Have I done something wrong? Have I somehow made the pain worse instead of easing it?