The day passes a blur between rest and food until my nerves are as jumpy as a rabbit. The healer came and went, clucking in good natured teasing as she bandaged raw and bleeding wrists from thrashing.

“Ya shoulda stuck to the wild, honey,” she had said.

In my current state, I can’t help but agree with her.

Speak of the devil... I hear her steps coming back. She has a faintly limping thump that is unusual in its consistency. Most times someone with a limp will have a differing pattern of steps, depending on the injury and how it came about. But with Morgana, her limp is even and... practiced. There's a reason the old crone scares me.

She comes in with tea. The whiff that comes to my nose is of lavender and chamomile, but the taste coating my tongue is anything but those slightly sweet herbs.

“What is that?” I ask, tempted to spit the foul coating out or wipe it on my hand.

The tip of her lip turns into somewhat of a wrinkled smirk. “Just something to help ya rest, deary. Nothin' to worry 'bout.”

Soon after, she leaves to check on the other wounded. She takes the dreadful tea cup with her, but the taste lingers on my tongue.

The wolf in me beseeches to be outside and stretch; but I don’t know how the people or livestock would welcome a wolf in their city. Maybe I could scare an egg out of a chicken.

That creature isn't overly fond of me. Those birds are dumber than a beetle with its head cut off; yet they consistently terrify a Kursk assassin. Don’t tell anyone. The big bad wolf has a reputation to uphold.

There’s only so many times I can handle counting the individual knots in the wooden planks of the ceiling and walls. There's only so much cloying earthen herbs my nose can categorize and shelf in my subconscious before it explodes. I’m going to go insane if I stay in any longer.

The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

As if you aren’t already, my subconscious helpfully adds. I don't deign it with a response.

I set my feet on the ground, glad someone provided me with a pair of breeches. Public exposure is not my idea of fun. My bare feet peek out from the black material. I wiggle my toes. Even that somehow brings a sharp pain to my leg. I have to lean on the wooden wall beside my makeshift bed and regain my breath.

My body calls me an idiot for being out of bed. I ignore it.

The night sky calls. I answer.

Snoring emerges from a guard beside the door, his towering and broad frame barely fitting in the hard rocking chair he’s propped on. He’s still in his uniform from the night before—if that’s what you want to call a long, black cloak over a leather vest—but he’s washed up as best he could.

His robes still smell of copper with the burnt hints of horror and fear plus the metallic coppery stench of battle. I sneeze at the sharp odor of peppermint he used to mask his unpleasant stench. There is also a whiff of newborn babe upon him, but it's deeply covered by the more predominant scents... I wonder what he’s doing here when he could be with his babe. If it were mine, I'm not sure a dragon could pull me from my child.

He jerks and wakes at his own snoring, then realizes where he is and unsheathes his sword. I batter it to the side, step into his guard, and nonchalantly grasp his throat in a grip without pain, but remains firm.

“Who are you?” I ask, careful not to squeeze and inadvertently hurt him as I did the healer.

I appraise his frightened, sleep rimmed eyes with surprise, as they also convey kindness and good humor.

“My name is Jace. I am making certain you are safe.”

“Safe?” I question with a raised eyebrow.

He lets his sword slide from his grip and raises his hands where I can see them. The ringing of sword striking hard ground is unpleasant to my sensitive ears.

Given the man’s unthreatening posture, I should step back, but I can’t risk tripping and falling on my bum.

“There are still those who don’t want a Kursk in our small town.” I can’t deny his logic, nor his honest features. But if I step away, he could gain control of the situation faster than I could blink.

“Am I a prisoner or guest?” I ask softly.

“Is there a difference?” he says with a wry grin.

I choke on a laugh. I think I like this guy.