of elves that were carefully refilling empty arrow quivers.
“Here, please drink this.” The elf maiden bowed her head and held out the bottle. “This is a ginger-based tonic—it should help your stomach.”
“Thank you.” Angelique took the bottle and glanced back at Themerysaldi—who was carefully holding Quinn.
“What else can I get you?” the elf maiden asked. “Do you wish for refreshments?”
Angelique uncorked the bottle and took a swig of the brew—grateful the sharp taste of ginger washed away the rancid aftertaste of her price. “I’m fine—but thank you for thinking of me.” Angelique offered the elf maiden a smile, then slowly followed Themerysaldi, stopping every few feet to take another slug of the ginger drink—which settled her stomach the more she drank.
“Has anyone recovered enough to make a healing spell?” Themerysaldi asked as he carried Quinn up the steps and into the eaves of the castle.
“Not that I’ve found, but I’ll put another call out,” Alastryn grimly asked. “Where are you taking her?”
“To my bedroom.”
“Understood. I’ll see what other supplies we have—but I fear we’ve almost entirely run out of potions since we’ve been unable to restore our supplies.” Alastryn swiveled around and dashed up a different hallway.
Angelique silently followed behind the king as he tensely asked the retinue of elves chasing after him for additional supplies.
By the time he reached the room, only Angelique, the unconscious Quinn, and Themerysaldi remained.
He settled Quinn in his bed, carefully easing her down on the silken sheets as he took care not to jar her injured shoulder.
It took Angelique a few moments to recognize the hardened expression on the Elf King’s face as fright—his fingers were almost white with strain as he yanked blankets up around Quinn. The creases around the corners of his eyes were deep.
He’s worried.
Angelique finished off her ginger drink and was feeling remarkably better—well enough, in fact, to be snarky. “Hold this.” She chucked the empty bottle at the Elf King, then gracelessly plopped down on his bed and dragged herself across the covers so she sat next to Quinn.
When the Elf King wordlessly held the bottle, turning it endlessly over in his hands instead of saying something sarcastic and annoying as she had expected, Angelique knew without a shadow of a doubt that the proud Themerysaldi had lost his heart to Quinn.
Angelique gathered a silvery healing spell at her fingertips—this one stronger than the patch-job she’d done out on the battlefield—and slowly poured the magic onto Quinn’s shoulder. “She’s going to heal just fine.”
“She doesn’t look fine,” Themerysaldi prowled up and down the length of the bed like a caged wolf.
“It’s because she lost a lot of blood,” Angelique said. “Even magic can’t instantly replenish blood.” She waited just long enough for her magic to take hold before she gestured for the king to join her. “See? Her wound is already scabbed over and is closed up. She’s breathing easier. I’ll apply a few more healing spells, but by tomorrow afternoon, she’ll only have a few aches and stiffness left. As long as you don’t let her run outside for target practice for a few days, that is.”
Themerysaldi collapsed into an ornately carved wooden chair. He covered his eyes with his arm and clutched the empty bottle as tension visibly drained from his previously stiff frame. “Thank you, Angelique.”
Angelique glanced at him as she spun a little more of her deadly core magic into a warm healing spell. “Of course.”
She worked in silence for a few moments, and just as she wondered if she ought to ask the Elf King if he needed a healing spell—or at least a cup of tea—elves swarmed the room.
“Please allow us to assist you, Lady Enchantress.” Two elves—a male bearing a steaming tub of water and a female carrying bandages and towels—scurried up to the bed.
“Thank you.” Angelique looked up from Quinn’s shoulder just long enough to smile at them. “Another minute, and I’ll have her shoulder healed enough that you can clean her wound and wrap it.”
An elf dressed in leather jerkins and bearing a bow slipped into the room, stopped just short of Themerysaldi’s chair, and bowed.
“We have reports from the scouts,” she said. “Three packs of goblins had peeled off from the main army and started marching north—to the Farset capital, Navia, it is assumed—before the rest of the forces attacked us. Those packs are still moving north, but an alarm has already been raised in Navia. It seems the red rider and her horses are being sent out.”
Themerysaldi stood