Quill of Thieves

Chapter 39

Everything that followed blurred into a barrage of images that flashed across Sebastian's subconscious. Looking back, he mostly remembered the sounds: the slap Abel's hand had made as she had pressed it to her shocked lips as Sebastian's threads had bolstered Astrid's fall; the frantic command Matthias had shouted when he'd ordered the Icicles towards Astrid's prone body; the crack of Sebastian's knee caps against the rocks as he'd finally collapsed in elemental burnout.

After the mayhem of the dragon finale, Melvin had escorted Sebastian into his simple, white tent, separated from both Abel and Astrid until the judges determined the winner of the second task. There must have been a lot of confusion over it because Sebastian felt as if he had been stuck here in solitude for ages with nothing but those terrifying, noisy memories to keep him company.

Slap. Shouts. Crack.

Now, he could hear a series of repetitive, grating thumps as the Scribal woman named Serah used a mortar and pestle to grind up various herbs. Sebastian assumed they were meant to help heal his burned hands, but he hadn't yet worked up the nerve to ask her, especially since he had cut the healing threads to her tongue just the night before.

He stared down at the bubbling blisters rupturing across his fingertips and knuckles when Serah approached him. There were white, linen bandages bundled under her arm, and she held out the bowl with her concoction of herbs that now resembled a leafy, green paste. He looked at it wearily as the Scribe stopped at his bedside. Guilt ripped through his already torn nerves because here she was caring for him.

Serah offered him the bowl and placed it beneath his nose.

It smelled of lavender, morning dew, and damp soil. "No, thank you." He tried to sit up straighter and winced, placing a hand gingerly on his ribcage. "I'm feeling much better already."

Serah's gaze followed his movements with a sharp look that reminded Sebastian, with a painful jolt, of the look Imogene had often given to Abel after she had attempted to take down a black bear last winter with nothing but a kitchen knife and a broken bow.

Reckless, it said.

Sebastian sighed. Reckless he had never been, but considering he had just survived walls of fire, two mechanical dragons, and a rule-defying princess, perhaps he deserved such a reprimand. Especially after his careless actions in the pursuit of truth had caused him to hurt this wizened, Scribal woman.

"Was everything you said true?" He looked up at Serah. "About the prophecy and queen?"

Wordlessly, she bowed her head over the herbal bowl. Yes.

"Hurmph."

The odd sound slipped between his teeth before he could stop it. Embarrassed, he took the bowl from her grasp, trying to keep his hands from shaking. He cleared his throat. "And are you okay, I mean?" He winced as the bowl rubbed against his burns. "I'm sorry for hurting you."

Serah placed a gentle hand against his chest, smiled, and then traced letters over his ruined tunic: Carissénas.

His breath caught. He was already shaking his head before she had retracted her hand. "You said I could be. A possibility."

This time, she dipped her fingers in the paste before spelling it onto the back of his injured hands. We hope.

The unbearably tight, stinging sensation of his burns immediately dulled with the application of her herbal mixture.

"We?"

Her lips thinned, but before he could question her further, both of their attention shifted towards the unmistakable sounds of a tussle from outside Sebastian's tent. With his luck, Scribes only knew who it could be. More Fae? A murderous Elven warlord? A vengeful dragon? Wisely, Serah backed away towards the opposite side of the tent just as Abel stormed into the small space, her fiery hair swinging about her face.