Ragnar's hands hovered uselessly over Circe's burned arms, close enough to feel the heat still radiating from her skin. The blisters were already forming, angry swollen welts that rose beneath the surface, raw and red, the sight of them enough to make his stomach churn violently.
"Circe—gods, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." His voice cracked under the weight of it, strained and uneven. He wanted to pull her into his arms, to hold her close and soothe the pain away as he always did. But the sheer terror of hurting her again kept him frozen in place, his hands trembling in the air, caught between instinct and fear.
Casilo crouched beside them, the sparring match long forgotten.
"Your highness, what was that?" he demanded, his voice edged with disbelief. "Your sword was on fire. That's not—" He cut himself off abruptly, his eyes narrowing as realization began to dawn. "That should not be possible."
