Two figures entered.
Not Velryn. Not Scar'oth.
Two female wolves—one grey, one brown—carrying what looked like medical supplies.
Herbs bundled in cloth. Clay jars. Clean water in leather skins.
The grey wolf spoke first, voice neutral and professional.
"His Eminence sent us to tend your wounds. The Collective wants you delivered intact."
'Of course. Can't sell damaged merchandise.'
The brown wolf knelt beside Faelyn without waiting for permission, setting supplies down.
"Hold still. The rib wound needs cleaning."
Faelyn tensed but didn't resist.
What was the point?
They were going to do this regardless.
And honestly, the wound DID hurt. The blade had gone deeper than she'd initially thought.
The grey wolf pulled out a small knife.
Faelyn flinched—
"For cutting bandages," the wolf said flatly. "Not for you. You're worth more alive."
'Comforting.'
The brown wolf dabbed at the rib wound with water-soaked cloth.
It STUNG.
Faelyn hissed through her teeth.
