Chapter 21: Avoid Strain. Behave.
Dorian kept Lucky gliding low through the dark, the machine trembling under him whenever the wind turned spiteful. Below, the forest ran black and endless. Above, the sky offered nothing useful at all.
Liana sagged against him, cold with exhaustion, her breathing too thin, her body far too still. The arrows had sealed the wounds as they went in. No blood ran now. That was almost worse. Whatever damage had been done sat hidden inside her, and she had already lost too much.
“Liana,” he shouted, shaking her as carefully as panic allowed. “Open your eyes. Stay with me.”
The wind tore most of the words away. Steam hissed around Lucky’s frame, carrying the sharp stink of heated metal, oil, and blood drying into his sleeves. His voice came back thin and useless. He shouted again and hated it for sounding so small.
He used the bloodbound ring again and again, pressing its reflective force into her body, trying to force strength back where it had drained away. The ring obeyed him, as it always did. That was the insult of it. It worked perfectly, and still it barely helped. It was made for Mirrorwalkers. On Liana, it gave only scraps. A little steadiness. A little time. Never enough.
“Excellent,” Dorian muttered. “A priceless family relic, and bloody useless where it mattered.”
Lights appeared ahead, faint and scattered between the trees.
He dropped Lucky hard onto the wooden path. Dark timber halls and narrow walkways wound through the forest, low lamps burning along the galleries. He barely looked at any of it. He snatched Liana into his arms and ran inside, shouting for help with what breath he had left.
For one sharp second, no one came.
Then figures in monastery grey rushed towards him through the half-light. Only when they reached him did Dorian understand where he was.
East.
The Pain Monastery.
Dorian sat bent forward on a bench outside the treatment room, blood-soaked and breathing hard. By then, whatever the Raven woman had given him had likely worn off. Only now did his own pain and exhaustion begin to catch up with him.
Aren came quickly down the corridor with a helper beside him. He took one look at Dorian and stopped. “Are you injured?”
“This is not my blood,” Dorian said. “My friend was struck by two flaming arrows. They sealed the wounds.”
“How long ago?”
“Around two hours.”
“Did you use anything?”
Dorian held up the ring. “This. Reflective energy. Not enough.”
Aren’s eyes sharpened. “A Mirrorwalker?”
“Yes.”
Aren gave one short nod and turned to the helper. “Stay with him.”
The helper stepped forward and reached for Dorian’s wrist.
“My friend needs it more,” Dorian said.
The helper hesitated, then thought better of arguing and moved away.
A moment later Toren came running down the corridor and stopped at the sight of Dorian. Relief flickered across his face, then vanished as he saw the blood on Dorian’s coat. “What happened? Are you hurt? Where is Liana?”
Dorian saw his gaze drop to the blood on his coat. He exhaled sharply. “It is not mine. I brought Liana here. The monks are with her.”
Toren hesitated only a second.
“Why are you still here?” Dorian said.
That sent him moving. Dorian leaned back against the wall and shut his eyes.
Toren ran into the treatment room and stopped short. Liana lay on the bed under hard lamplight, half stripped for treatment, her skin grey with exhaustion. Two monks were reopening the wounds the arrows had sealed. A helper moved through the room with burning herbs. Their bitter smoke mixed with blood and the cold mineral sting of the blue medicine Aren was feeding into her wrist.
Toren stared. “What is that?”
“Something to keep her alive,” Aren said. “She lost too much blood.”
Toren moved to the bedside at once. Liana stirred beneath his hand. Her eyes opened a fraction. “Toren?” she whispered.
“I’m here,” he said, taking her hand. Her fingers felt colder than they should have.
Her gaze shifted past him, unfocused. Then, with effort, she whispered, “Dorian?”
Toren went still for a moment. He could not remember Liana ever calling a Walker by name before.
“He is alive,” Toren said softly. “He brought you here.”
Some of the strain eased from her face, and with it something in Toren eased too.
Aren dropped to his knees beside the bed and crossed his arms over her body, setting his hands where he could without disturbing the wounds. Then he closed his eyes. Liana’s face eased by degrees as strain gathered across Aren’s.
Toren did not let go of her hand until a monk pressed him aside. Even then he stayed close. This was beyond his skill.
When they were nearly done, Aren pushed himself upright and swayed. Toren caught him at once and got him into the chair in the corner despite the weak protest that followed. Aren sat there breathing through it while the monks finished the bandages. Now and then, when Liana stirred, one of them drew off a fraction of her pain.
Before they left, they gave her herbs. Liana swallowed and drifted into sleep. Only then did Toren realise his own hands were shaking. After a while Aren rose and returned to the bed. He checked her pulse and the line in her wrist.
“She is holding for now,” he said. “Watch for fever. Do not let her move too much. If the bandages soak through, call someone at once.” He glanced at Liana, then at Toren. “Whatever your Walker did, it helped keep her alive.”
Your Walker.
Heat climbed into Toren’s face, sharp and unwanted.
Near dawn, Aren found Dorian exactly where he should not have been: alone on a stone bench in a dark passage, coat still on, head resting back against the wall. He looked less like a patient than a man waiting to be judged.
Aren stopped in front of him. “Why are you here?”
Dorian opened his eyes. “Liana?”
“She is alive. Asleep. Toren is with her,” Aren said evenly. “And you should be in a room.”
“I was not invited.”
Aren looked at him for a moment. “Get up.”
Dorian gave him a tired smile. “There is the romance again.”
Aren led him down a quieter corridor to a guest room. It was not cosy, which improved it at once. The bed was wider and softer than the monks’ own chambers. The rest was plain and useful. A small table. A low lamp. A basin in the corner. The smell of linen, soap, old wood, and sharp medicine surrounded Dorian.
Aren set down a folded cloth and a small jar on the table, then turned back to Dorian. “Take off your clothes.”
Dorian watched him with open suspicion. “If this ends with broth, I may leave.”
“It ends with an assessment.”
Dorian did not move at once. “Do you have a name, or must I continue addressing you by profession alone?”
“Aren.”
Dorian gave the smallest nod. “Splendid. Slightly less monastic.”
He unlocked his brass cuff and shrugged off the coat and the clothes beneath with care, his face tightening once when the movement pulled where it should not have. That was when Aren saw his back. Across older scarred skin lay fresher marks from a Raven whip, deliberate and exact.
Aren stepped closer. “Ravens. Their whip-masters are artists.”
Dorian turned his head sharply. “You recognise it?”
“I recognise precision.”
Aren let his gaze rest on the marks a moment longer. “May I?”
Dorian paused, then gave a short nod. “If you must.”
Aren’s fingers moved lower, following the last line of the whipwork near Dorian’s side. As he stepped in, something hard beneath the dark folds of the robe brushed Dorian’s hip. Metal. Cold.
Dorian went still, then glanced at him sidelong. “What is it?”
“My chastity cage,” Aren said. No embarrassment. Just the fact.
Dorian’s mouth curved. “Well. It has been some time since my arse attracted such focused attention. I ought to feel honoured.”
“You are not,” Aren said.
Dorian’s smile sharpened. “I was beginning to think the monastery had taken a personal interest in my suffering.”
“The monastery has taken an interest in your injuries.”
“That is deeply disappointing.”
Aren withdrew his hand. “Turn around.”
When he faced him, Aren’s gaze moved over him once, clinical and unimpressed.
“You are injured elsewhere.”
Dorian rested one hand against the bedpost and sighed. “You monks are determined to leave no part of a man mysterious.”
“No. Only the damaged parts.”
Dorian studied him a moment. “Fine,” he said. “But if you become tender, I shall take it very badly.”
“I have no such plans.”
“No,” Dorian murmured. “I had gathered that much.”
He unfastened his own trousers. Aren looked down with calm, practised precision. Bruising spread across the groin, with swelling enough to make the violence of it obvious. Dorian’s penis had been handled hard and repeatedly. For a moment Aren said nothing. Then his eyes lifted to Dorian’s face. “Who did this?”
“An enterprising man with poor bedside manners.”
Aren ignored that. “Have you passed any blood?”
Dorian shook his head.
“Good. Will you let me treat you?”
Dorian looked mildly surprised. “I thought we were already past that point. Is there an official announcement required?”
“Just yes or no.”
Dorian nodded, faintly amused by the discipline of it. “Yes.”
Aren sat on the edge of the bed. “Come here.”
Dorian’s brow lifted. “That sounded almost inviting.”
“Stand between my knees.”
“The monastery does know how to ruin a man’s sense of safety,” Dorian said, sounding faintly puzzled by the discovery.
Aren waited. Dorian stepped forward at last.
Aren drew him in with one firm movement, one arm low across his back, the other higher, keeping him steady between his knees. Dorian’s bruised groin rested carefully against Aren’s chest, supported rather than jarred. Aren turned his head and set his cheek against Dorian’s ribs, holding him there with calm, practical certainty. The closeness was unhelpfully noticeable. Dorian drew a slow breath. From the rough cloth came clean wool, bitter salve, and herb smoke. Aren was warm through the robe, solid and entirely immovable. There was nothing indulgent in the hold. That was the worst part.
“Comforting,” Dorian murmured. “In a severe monastic sort of way.”
“Be quiet.”
A moment later Dorian shuddered. His fingers tightened briefly against Aren’s shoulder. Surprise crossed his face. “Oh,” he said. Aren did not so much as twitch. Dorian stood still after that, feeling the pain ease by degrees and, with uncomfortable clarity, move into Aren instead. He felt the muscles under Aren’s robe harden and disliked how obvious his relief must have been.
“Well,” he said at last, his voice rougher now, “this is certainly the strangest embrace I have had.”
“You are being healed, not courted.”
“How devastating.”
As Aren shifted back, the fitted line of the cage brushed Dorian’s thigh once more. Dorian went still, glanced at him, and wisely said nothing.
Aren released him at once. “There.”
Dorian straightened slowly. “I confess,” he said, “I had not expected monastic care to involve quite this much close personal attention.”
“It does not. You are a special case.”
“How honoured I feel.”
Aren closed his eyes for a moment, one hand braced beside him on the bed. Dorian did not joke at once. He watched the strain settle across Aren’s face and saw faint blue reflective traces moving under his skin.
“Mirrorwalkers do leave their traces behind,” Aren said without opening his eyes.
Dorian looked at him a moment longer, then said quietly, “You really do make a charming spectacle of self-destruction.”
When Aren opened his eyes again, he reached for the jar on the table and held it out.
“Ointment. Twice a day. Avoid unnecessary strain. And behave.”
Dorian took it. “That is a cruel instruction to give in a monastery full of pretty faces.”
Aren’s expression did not change. “Consider it part of your treatment.”
Dorian watched him go and wondered, with some suspicion, what exactly they had done to Toren in this monastery.