The hot water hit Kael's chest and ran down his body in streams that found every bruise, every ache he had been ignoring since that river.
His head dropped forward, both hands braced on the marble that used to be stone. His ribs expanded for what felt like the first time in days. Each breath pulled steam into his lungs and pushed tension out through his skin.
The water turned pink where it crossed his bandage, thinning the blood that had been sitting there since the last healer session, and he watched it spiral down the drain with the detached calm of a man who had bled enough this week to fill a bathtub and was running out of fucks to give about it.
He reached for his soap before remembering that his soap was gone. What remained was a bottle of something that smelled like a flower shop fucked a funeral.
He used it. He would deny this forever, under oath, under torture, under a second bottle.
His dragon had opinions.
