Shadows and Steel | ✓

chapter forty-one

-41-

Elle awoke spluttering for air through her aching lungs. Everything hurt. She turned her head slightly, taking in the infirmary room. Bland and stark apart from the red rug that had been placed at the foot of her bed in an attempt to offer some colour. Her surroundings were speckled with dark spots.

Groaning, she lifted a hand to her temples. How long had it been since the trials? Hours, days? The thought that the heir's ceremony could have happened already horrified her; that her team would know of Cerid's identity already.

Bustling medics carried trays back and forth at the end of the room. Their pristine aprons hardly dirtied with the constant click-clack of kitten heels on the stone soon drove her mad. She had half a mind to spring out of bed and rip them off their feet.

She frowned down at her sore body. The mess of muscle and limbs which had got her through so many scrapes. Tightly wound bandages against the nasty wound on her thigh, cuts covered most of her arms. Her foot was in some kind of cast. The assassin didn't need to look at her faced to know bruises flowered over her skin.

Her ribs sent sharp zings up her body with every breath.

The doorknob creaked open as someone slipped inside. She was about to yell at the intruder and banish him from the public infirmary before she caught misty eyes and honey hair. Cerid looked worse-for-wear than the last time she'd seen him. He had surged forward as soon as the match had ended, shouting for medics, for help.

"You look like shit." She croaked.

He released a breath, shaking his head at her. "You can't talk," he muttered, then added. "These last few days haven't exactly been relaxing,"

"It's been days?"

"Four, to be exact. You've been in and out of consciousness between them fixing your foot and sorting your lungs." He bit his lip, perching himself on the edge of the cot. Such guilt and sadness lit his eyes that she unfurled her fingers, intertwining their hands loosely. Smiling, he gave a gentle squeeze.

There was a long silence before he spoke again.

"You missed his heart."

Rand. Elle sighed, sinking back into the pillows. It hurt her jaw to talk too much. "I never miss."

"Then why didn't you kill him? The bastard poisoned you and showed you no mercy." No anger coated his tone, only curiosity.

She had been tempted, oh so tempted to drive Cerid's blade through his heart and be done with the awful man. He had survived because of her. But in that moment all she could think about was how she had been in control, her emotions gave her strength but her mind calculated every decision. Cerid's training had proved useful. If she told him as much he'd never let her hear the end of it.

"Is he recovering in another infirmary?" Was all she asked.

"No." Cerid's voice was hard. "He's rotting in our prison as he should. As soon as your match was over Tan exposed his poisonous plot," he huffed. "She was all too eager to do so. I don't trust that she wasn't in on it either."

"Tan?" She hummed, raising a brow. He nodded. "Whitelace."

She knew it. Internally she pinched herself—what kind of assassin was she?

"When's the ceremony?" Elle's groggy mind cleared some.

"I tried to postpone it further. My father wasn't pleased that I wouldn't have two days after the trials as is custom."