“...not his blood! It’s the…” Danuta’s plea broke in the fog, cut short by the wet thud of an arrow striking meat. Zosia gripped Bramor’s bicep as the fragment hung between them. Bramor roared, a deep, guttural sound that vibrated through Zosia’s bones. His stride faltered, his head snapping towards the gorge’s lip where Danuta had been moments before. He was already turning, intending to vault back across the chasm, to rage against whatever had silenced her. But the chasm was too wide, the mists too thick, and the vanguard too numerous, their silhouettes already swarming the far side. “No!” Zosia cried, pulling him with all her might. Her small frame strained against his immense power, but she held fast. “We can’t go back for her now! We have to trust her! She knows the Hollow. She knows how to hide. We have to reach the springs!” Her voice frayed. Stopping now meant capture, and losing the valley entirely. Bramor hesitated, his great chest heaving. Pain flickered across his dark pupils, but he yielded to her pull. With a final, sorrowful gaze across the mists, he turned, his powerful legs pounding against the mossy path, propelling them deeper into the sanctuary. Zosia ran beside him, her lungs burning, her small hand swallowed by his. The air grew humid, thick with sulfur and wet moss. The path opened into a vast chamber, its high, vaulted ceiling arching over a network of pale, steamy pools. Bioluminescent flora, like inverted constellations, clung to the calcite walls, casting a soft, jade light that danced on the steam rising from the waters. This was the inner sanctum, fed by subterranean heat. Then she saw her. Danuta lay sprawled at the edge of the largest pool, half-submerged in the steaming water, her face ashen. A dark raven-feathered arrow protruded from her left arm, just below the deltoid, staining the clear spring water with scarlet tendrils. She was conscious, her eyes wide with pain, struggling to push herself upright. “Danuta!” Zosia rushed forward, dropping to her knees beside the huntress. The water was warm, almost scalding, but Zosia ignored it, her hands already moving. “Stay still. Gods, stay still.” Bramor stood tall beside them, his bulk shielding the archway, his gaze hardened into slate. He tore broad, pale leaves from a stalk near the water, grinding them between his scarred palms until sap oozed across his skin. The faint scent of pine and something metallic filled the air. “Good, Bramor, yes,” Zosia murmured, her focus entirely on Danuta. She carefully nudged Danuta’s tunic away from the wound, grimacing at the sight. The arrow was deep, the fletching almost touching the skin. “This is going to hurt, Danuta. A lot.” Danuta’s teeth were gritted. “Just… do it, little fool.” Her voice was a strained gasp, her usual biting tone muted by pain. “Kajetan… his sword… it’s what’s poisoning them…” Zosia’s head snapped up, her eyes meeting Danuta’s. The fractured words from the gorge suddenly made a terrifying sense. “The sword?” But there was no time for questions now. The arrow had to come out. “Hold her shoulders,” Zosia said. She placed one hand firmly on Danuta’s injured arm, just below the wound, and with the other, she grasped the shaft of the arrow. “Bite down on this.” She shoved a fistful of wet moss into Danuta’s open mouth. With one sharp yank, Zosia dragged the shaft free. Danuta bucked, a muffled shriek catching against the moss as dark crimson fouled the water. Zosia didn’t falter. The arrowhead was barbed, a cruel design meant to tear flesh. It took all her strength, but it finally slid free. She immediately pressed Bramor’s prepared poultice of sap-soaked leaves onto the gushing wound, holding it tight. The sap began to glow faintly, seeping into the torn muscle. Zosia pulled a strip of fabric from her own torn tunic, soaked it in the clean spring water, and began to gently cleanse the surrounding skin. Danuta, pale and shaking, leaned heavily against Bramor’s side, her breathing ragged. “He’s poisoning them…” Danuta managed again, her breath thin. “His own people. He thinks he needs Bramor, but it’s his tainted blade.” The warlord had spread the sickness himself, weapon in hand, blinded by his own ruinous remedy. Once the binding held, Zosia sat back. Bramor remained near the tunnel mouth, watchful, his shoulders squared against the dark. Her forearms were tacky with sap and blood, the adrenaline dropping away into leaden exhaustion. “Come here,” Zosia said quietly. She extended a hand to Bramor, pulling him gently towards the largest, deepest pool. “You need to recharge too. We both do.” He came, his movements fluid despite his size, stepping into the warm, mineral-rich water. Zosia followed, the buoyant heat easing the tension in her muscles. The warmth loosened the knot in her spine. She leaned back against his chest. His arms, thick and strong, came around her, holding her loosely, protectively. His skin, ridged with old scars, felt fever-warm against her shoulder blades, the dark taint quieted by her proximity. As their skins pressed together, a gentle warmth spread through her, radiating from their shared point of contact. It wasn’t just physical heat; it was an internal resonance, a hum that settled deep in her bones. His steady earth-sense met her verdant pull, sinking through her ribs like deep roots finding groundwater. He moved then, his large hand breaking the surface of the water, swirling it gently. The fine sand at the bottom stirred, catching green light in soft eddies. He began to trace, slowly, deliberately, a story in the shifting sands. His palm moved, drawing what looked like a rough, jagged mountain range, then a series of small, huddled figures. A sun, dark and angry, appeared above them. His people, sickened beneath a barren sky. Then he drew a single, larger figure, isolated, its form vaguely bovine, hunched and alone. Himself, before her. A pariah, outcast, bearing the curse. His palm drew an enclosing circle around the lone figure—the sanctuary. Then, a smaller, delicate form appeared next to him, her own outline, slender and bright. The dark sun above them began to lighten, its harsh edges softening. The distant shapes in the ridges caught flecks of green silt. He was showing her what her presence offered—a life beyond rot. Zosia rested her chin against his collarbone. The forced smile she kept pinned to her lips had melted away hours ago, leaving only raw, quiet truth. She laid her hand over his knuckles where they rested on her collarbone, matching his slow inhalation until her pulse steadied. A harsh roar shattered the quiet, rolling across the stone and churning the pool's surface. It was Kajetan’s voice, distorted, resonant with dark magic, echoing as if from every direction at once. “ZOSIA! WRETCHED HEALER! I KNOW YOU ARE HERE! YOUR OLD KINSMAN, ZWIEZDA, HAS A MESSAGE FOR YOU!” Zosia flinched, her body tensing. Zwiezda. Her former Alpha. The one who had inflicted years of quiet, insidious abuse, always with a smile. The one whose funeral she had fled. He was Kajetan’s hostage. A low drone hummed through the rock. The jade moss along the walls grayed and died back. Along the pool’s rim, an oily slick seeped in from the outer passage, carrying the stench of rotted pine and iron. With a sharp crack, glowing fissures laced the stone ceiling. The inner wards fractured into dust, dissolving before they hit the water. The barrier had fallen.

Scars in the Sand