Page 225 of The Mercy of Dawn

Cyril tilted her head towards the doorway and, through the tears half-clouding her vision, there stood Ari.

The horror on his face was unmistakable.

The blood, the bodies. Their massacred men.

Ari looked at them suddenly, as if he only just processed the words Gunner said. “What—what can I do?”

“Just hold her steady while I cauterize her side.” Gunner tugged up her blouse again and Cyril whined. She didn’t have any strength left to fight him. “Then fly as fast as you fucking can for Wren. She’s been bleeding out down here for gods fucking knows how long.”

Ari was already moving before Gunner even finished, kneeling at her other side and easing Cyril towards him. He took one of her battered and bloody hands in his, splaying his other across her shoulders.

It felt infinitely worse the second time around.

The captain’s chest dampened her ragged, raw cries as the flames seared her skin again. Desperate for something to tether herself to, Cyril’s fingers grappled with Ari’s uniform, but she was already being pulled away from him and leaned back against the wall.

“Just get Wren,” Gunner said to Ari, “and I’ll keep her comfortable.”

Cyril’s eyes slipped shut as the sound of the captain’s heavy footsteps trailed out of the cellar. She wasn’t sure if she was going to pass out or puke, but Gunner just wouldn’t give her a fucking break.

He tipped her head back, pressing something smooth and cold to her lips as he said, “Now I need you to drink this for me, Cyril. It’s not much, but it’ll help your pain a bit, maybe stop some of the bleeding.”

The sharp, pine-like scent that filled her nose was something she wanted little to do with, but Gunner squeezed her jaw open and tipped it back into her mouth. For a moment, its sharp taste broke through the metallic tang of stale copper, making the coughing and sputtering it took to get it down worth it.

Coolness slid down her throat, and Cyril’s searing pain ebbed almost immediately, settling into a dull sort of ache that pulsed throughout her. Pressing her palms into the ground, she tried to shift, but she couldn’t move her damn body.

She was tired, so tired, and just wanted to lie down.

Preferably somewhere that wasn’t stone soaked in blood and gore and gods only know what else.

“Cyril. Look at me.” Two hands, warm and broad, gripped her face. Gunner’s pale green gaze sat level with hers when she fought to open her own eyes. “I need you to stay awake, okay? Just for a little while longer.”

“I’m so tired,” she rasped.

“I know, I know. And that's going to get worse before it gets better, okay?” He pushed her hair back from her face, a futile attempt with the blood-crusted mess it was. “So why don’t you tell me about Helia?”

“Why?” Cyril sighed—Gunner and his damn questions.

Most nights at the barracks he had at least a half-dozen ready for her, even more if Mikael was still working, and she was sure he’d already asked her about Helia more than once.

“I’ve never been there, and I don’t know much about it,” he said. “Where in Helia did you grow up?”

“The guild.”

“Right, of course you did. Remind me, was the guild house in a city, or—?”

Cyril shook her head. “The country.”

“Okay. And is it just one big house, or lots of little buildings?”

For longer than Cyril could keep track of, Gunner asked her questions about her home. The lands. The people. The food. The women even.

And for each thoughtful question, Cyril fought to muster up a meager answer.

More shakes and nods of her head than words as they went on, and Cyril couldn’t fight the pulling undertow of exhaustion anymore. Gunner squeezed her hands, even pinched her and patted her cheeks, when she struggled to answer him.

She was cold again, unbearably so, and even the jacket he wrapped around her did nothing to stave off the tremor that set into her limbs.

“Just a bit longer, okay?” he said when she made a quiet noise of discomfort.