The evening was colder than previous nights in the forest, and the north would soon be blanketed in winter snow. Aylin exited the bathroom with her skin still tingling from the scrub, her back damp and warm, and the scent of mint clinging to her like a lingering memory. Olga had helped her this time—efficient, silent, motherly in the way she never commented on the marks left behind by years of training and restraint.
The healers told her she needed to use Sasha's cream for a few more days and drink the tonic for a month. They were not sure if she had any internal wounds now that the bruises had faded.
Aimee had vanished with a determined purpose. She had insisted Aylin meet with the fortress's tailor. "You're not a shadow, you're not a servant, and you sure as hell aren't wearing that again," she had said, pointing at the old wool dress folded neatly on the chair. For a girl so rough around the edges, Aimee was alarmingly serious about fabric, color palettes, and sleeve length.
