Dante

I felt it, the second I entered the infirmary. That bitter, winding twist of something I wouldn’t name—falling low in my chest. She was lying in the cot, limp and quiet, one of her arms extended for the doctor to swab clean the injury on it. Blood had stained the fabric beneath her, dried black on her skin. She didn’t flinch, not once. Nico stood by the door. He went rigid the moment he saw me and snapped to attention.

“She’s stable,” he said. “Just a surface cut. Nothing ...