I lean back, gritting my teeth, and nod again. She repositions my arm delicately before starting. I can feel the tempered needle diving in and out of my flesh, but the warmth of her hands keeps most of the pain at a distance. She finishes the first wound and moves on to a second.

“You’re good at this,” I note.

She makes a thoughtful noise. “Of course I am. No one else can fix your wounds on the course. My father taught me. You should be pleased to know I inherited his steady hands.”

The daughter of champions. I’ve always thought of her father and mother as former winners of the Races, not as parents who taught their daughter useful skills. Of course they did.

“Knowledge that you’re now using to help a sworn enemy. I thought this kind of work was beneath someone like you.”

The next stab is just a touch sharper. It’s quiet for long enough that I open my eyes, expecting her to be glaring at me. Instead, she’s focused on her work. Steady hands and a focused expression. I watch as she draws the thread up into the air.

“You have misinterpreted this gesture.”

I almost laugh. “Is that so?”

“This is an ancient tradition.” She pulls the thread again. “In the Old Games, victors would often tend the wounds of the person they defeated. It was an intimate moment shared between them. A reminder from the victor. These wounds? I gave them to you. I defeated you once, and every one of these scars will be a reminder that I can beat you again.”

She finishes her final stitch before looking up at me, one hand still resting on my arm. Her expression isn’t guarded. This is not the carefully groomed champion everyone sees on the Chats. There’s fire in her eyes. Heat pulses in the air and this time I can’t tell if it’s something in her or something between us. My body feels like it’s charged with the same heat and lightning.

And the moment ends. We both look away.

She hands me the extra bandages before returning to her side of the carriage. The retreating heat produces a chill, and I do my best not to shiver as she speaks.

“The other wounds require an actual doctor. I’m sorry I was the cause.”

Back to neutral, guarded. We are competitors again.

I frown. “Are you really?”

She raises an eyebrow but doesn’t answer.

“What was it?” I ask, remembering the ghostly face. I can’t get that flash of blue out of my head. “Revel had one, too. I saw the thing jump from your horse. I saw its face.”

“Quinn,” she says. “Her name was Quinn.”

That has me grinning, which hurts like hell. “You gave it a name?”

“She already had a name. But she’s gone now. Back to the underworld.”