Chapter 60 Stitches
Warden Voss
I lay on the cold concrete floor of the old enchanted fabric factory, chest heaving, each breath scraping my throat raw. My mouth opened wide, muscles straining to force out the scream building inside, but nothing came. No sound at all. The spell that man had recited—Silencio—had sealed my voice completely. My lips moved, forming every curse I knew, but the air stayed silent.
Blood pooled under my Collectors. Ballard’s tunic was soaked dark across his chest where the flaming sword had cut deep. Darrick pressed his right forearm against his ribs, blood dripping steadily between his fingers onto the floor. The others—two more—lay sprawled in varying states: one clutching a gash along his thigh, the other breathing shallow with a wound high on his side. None of the cuts looked immediately fatal, but they were bleeding too fast. In minutes the floor would be slick with blood if I didn't move.
My own injuries also demanded attention. The golden sphere had hit me center-mass. The black wool of my coat and the linen tunic underneath were charred and fused to the skin across my sternum and lower ribs. Every movement pulled at the burned tissue. Skin had blistered and split; I could feel the wet heat of exposed flesh whenever I shifted. My left cheek throbbed worse. The wolf’s jaws had torn a ragged strip from just below my eye to the corner of my jaw. Blood ran down my neck in a steady line, soaking my collar.
Even if I could summon someone, I had no voice. Silencio still held me. All I could do was cling to the hope that Magnus would find us—but that might take time. I had to help at least a few of my Collectors before then.
I pushed up onto my elbows, then my knees. The room tilted once, then steadied. Legs shaking, I crawled the four paces to Darrick first. He was conscious, eyes wide, face the color of old parchment. His breathing came in short gasps.
I reached into the inside pocket of my coat—left side, where I always kept it. My fingers closed around the small glass vial. The mending elixir inside was pale green. A scant measure remained—barely enough for several doses if I measured carefully.
I pulled the cork free with my teeth. I tilted Darrick’s head back with one hand. I let three careful drops fall onto his tongue. He swallowed immediately.
I pressed my palm over the worst of the bleeding on his forearm, closing my eyes and channeling what little energy I had left. The familiar pull started behind my navel, moving up my arm like a thread of cold water through my veins.
The bleeding slowed, then stopped. The skin hadn’t closed, but the wound was stable, no longer dripping. This wasn’t ordinary magic. My mending elixir was potent, my own power stronger than most, yet the cut on Darrick’s arm refused to seal completely.
I collapsed beside him, my back hitting the cold wall. Exhaustion pulled at every muscle. One hand pressed to my burned chest, searing where the sphere had struck. My lungs struggled with each breath—shallow, sharp, stinging with every exhale. Pain throbbed through my body, relentless, but I forced myself to stay upright enough to keep watch.
Suddenly, I heard footsteps approach. A long shadow fell across me. I looked up.
Magnus stood over me, grey eyes narrowed, mouth a flat line. No words at first. He simply crouched, took the vial from my slack fingers without asking, tipped three drops onto my tongue, then placed both palms flat on my ruined chest.
“Emendio,” he said quietly.
Light bloomed from his hands—bright, blue-white, precise. It wasn’t warm; it was clinical, exact. The burning stopped almost instantly. The charred fabric loosened, flaking away. Muscle spasms eased. The deep ache in my ribs faded until only a dull surface tenderness remained. I drew a full breath—clean, steady, complete. My cheek throbbed, but the blood had slowed to a trickle.
I sat up slowly. The burn on my chest—a pale, irregular patch the size of my palm—remained stubborn, raw and unhealed. I pressed my fingers against it. No heat, no pain, just the persistent mark of damage that the spell could not erase. My cheek was the same: torn flesh, but no blood. The flap of skin hung loose. I would need it stitched soon or it would scar badly.
Magnus handed the vial back. “What happened, Elara?”
I opened my mouth, tried to speak—but no sound came. I tapped my throat, frustrated.
He gave a short, humorless laugh and flicked his fingers. “Sonus.”
A faint pop echoed in my ears, and my voice returned.
“Sera Bale,” I croaked. The words were hoarse, but clear.
Magnus raised both brows. “She did all this?”
“No,” I said. “She had help. A man. Tall, well-dressed, carried himself like someone used to command. Rebel, I assume. High ranking.”
“Did you see a leaf insignia? Brass, on the collar or cuff?” he asked.
“I did not see one. But the way he moved, the way he wielded the sword… trained in the dark arts. Possibly Arcanis stock.”
Darrick stirred beside me, forcing himself to sit straighter. “His eyes…” he said, voice thin. “I have never seen eyes like his.”
Magnus turned to him. “Describe them.”
“Like fire,” Darrick said. “Not glowing—actual flames in his irises. Yellow and orange, moving, shifting.”
Magnus straightened, expression hard. “Summon the Mistress. Have her stitch your face, soothe the burn, and tend the others. I’ll find the girl and the man. Gates are sealed—they’re still inside the district.”
He touched the pearl orb at his neck. A pulse of blue light flashed, and he was gone.
I pressed two fingers to the gold insignia pinned above my breast. Intact. The golden sphere had scorched everything else but left the insignia untouched. Small mercy.
Lloyd appeared at the doorway, breathing hard. “Warden. I have news—”
I cut him off. “Find the Mistress,” I said. “Tell her I’ll cancel every outstanding debt she has with me if she comes now and works fast.”
He bowed once, then ran.
I turned to Ballard. He was still conscious, glassy-eyed with pain, lips pale, laying perfectly still. I tipped four drops of the elixir onto his tongue—more than I’d given Darrick—his chest wound was deeper, the bleeding worse. I pressed both hands over the gash, pouring what remained of my energy into it. The familiar pull spread through my arms. The bleeding slowed, then stopped, though the wound itself remained—a jagged tear in his tunic and flesh alike.
It was obvious. Our injuries would require stitching. All of us would need the Mistress’s hands.
One by one, I moved to the others. A drop of elixir. Hands pressed. Focused will. Each time, the spell drained more from me. By the last Collector, my arms shook violently, my vision narrowing at the edges. I sank to my heels, chest tight, breathing through my mouth, every inhale still stiff but better than before.
I cast a quick glance at the Enforcers still sprawled across the factory floor, then at the nearly empty vial of elixir in my hand. I could do no more for them. The Mistress would have to finish what I started.
She would arrive soon—needle, thread, salves, and elixir in hand. She would close the tear in my face properly. The Collectors and Enforcers would live. They would rise again. We would walk once more—as survivors.
But Serafina Valen would not.
I pressed my palm against the burn on my chest again. The raw tissue felt alien under my fingers. A reminder. She had stood over me with her boot on my throat, looked down at me like I was nothing, taken my voice, burned my skin, cut my people, and walked away.
Eleven years I had kept order in Dust. Taxes collected. Ledgers balanced. Rebels rooted out before they could spread. The Empire asked for obedience; I delivered it. I kept this district from collapsing, kept the starving and ill from the streets, the way none had before me. Order had a price. She had not understood that.
Now, she had made it personal.
I rose slowly. Legs steadier now. I walked to the open doorway and scanned the dark streets beyond the factory yard. Lanterns flickered in the distance. Somewhere out there, she was running—her, the man with fire in his eyes, the wolf. They thought they could leave Dust. They were wrong. Magnus would find them. If he didn’t, I would.
Serafina Valen had humiliated me in front of my own people. She had made me bleed. She had made me silent.
She would pay for every second of it.
I tapped my foot impatiently. Nyxara was taking her sweet time, as usual. Her delay would cost her—she would pay for her insolence.
I turned back to the Collectors. “On your feet when you can,” I said, my voice hoarse but steady. “We have work to do. We need to find them. That includes the little girl Isemay saw speaking with them. To the tower. We can see everything from there.”
They stirred, grimacing as they moved, each motion slow and heavy. Fear and exhaustion lined their faces, but they rose, steadying themselves.
I pressed the orb at my neck. The factory dissolved around me, replaced by the familiar height of my tower. My fingers brushed the gold insignia on my breast, pressing it with silent command.
“Mason,” I said, voice rough, “bring needle and thread.”
He appeared almost immediately, a small black bag slung over his shoulder. His eyes widened at the sight of me—scorched coat, chest raw, sweat and blood streaking my face. He grimaced. “I’ve stitched before, Warden. Sit.”
I did, ignoring the sharp pinch as Mason pressed the needle to my wounded cheek. I kept my hand on my insignia, sending the rest of the Collectors to the tower.
There was no time for weakness. Every second mattered.