Healer U-Mao's eyes narrowed, his voice rising in irritation. "What kind of attitude is that? Of course, I am here to check on Darius' wound."
Abel, standing firm in the doorway, didn't budge. "Darius' wound looked fine before you treated him the other day, and now his condition has worsened." His words were sharp, carrying an accusation that struck deep.
A flicker of something unreadable—guilt, perhaps—passed through U-Mao's eyes, but it was gone before Abel could catch it. The healer's jaw tightened. He hadn't forgotten the injuries his two sons suffered at the hands of that damned soldier. Three days had passed, yet their bruises remained black and blue.
The healer saw an opportunity, a way to extort more silver to soothe his wounded pride—and his sons' aching bodies.
