The days that followed were a strange, surreal blend of confinement and care.
Fiadh was a constant, bustling presence, her cheerful determination a stark contrast to the heavy, suffocating silence of the palace. She fussed over Rache, bringing her meals, changing her bandages, and keeping her entertained with endless, one-sided conversations about the latest palace gossip.
Rache listened, her mind a quiet, distant observer, a part of her processing the information, filing it away for future use, while the other part was lost in a fog of pain and exhaustion.
The burn on her neck was healing, the raw, angry red slowly fading to a dull, puckered pink. The medic's salve was working, but the wound was a constant, throbbing reminder of the danger she was in, a brand that marked her as a target.
Donncahd was a constant, looming absence.
He didn't visit her. He didn't send for her. He didn't even send a message.
Wherever he was, he didn't even return to the room.
