I wake to the sting of alcohol on torn skin and the scrape of stone at my back.

This isn’t an infirmary cot. It’s one of the narrow service alcoves near the lower passage—hidden enough to avoid questions. Smart.

Smarter than dragging me where half the quadrant could see.

Shadows gather under my hand on instinct as I force my eyes open and find you kneeling beside me, healer blue sleeves rolled to the elbow, blood on your fingers that definitely isn’t yours.

I look from the bandage to your face. And I barely moved my hand, for my shadows to flow across the floor and sharply trip the healer's legs, dropping him? Or her? To the floor.

“You had one decision to make,” I say, voice low. I raised myself up and immediately fell to the floor from weakness next to the healer.