Queens of Mist and Madness (Fae Isles, #4)

by Lisette Marshall

Ylfreda set to work with commendable efficiency, grumbling all the while about reckless idiots and risks of perforated lungs. The arrow in Creon’s back turned out to have lodged itself into a rib between spine and shoulder blade, which he called “a manageable scratch” and Ylfreda called “a madman’s unearned good luck”; the resulting grisly wound was deep but at least clean. I attempted to get to my feet to help them heal it and found my vision blotting aggressively as soon as I did, black spots crawling over my field of sight like poisonous spiders. Out of nowhere, Agenor’s large hand landed on my shoulder, gold-flecked fingers squeezing tight. ‘Best leave that to me, Em.’ I sank back to the floor with more relief than I wanted to admit. So close to Creon’s spine and wings, I wasn’t sure if I trusted myself not to leave any damaged nerves or muscles behind; after a few centuries spent dealing with the consequences of battlefields, my father might be the better candidate for this job.