"Don't move!" The healer changing her dressing spoke urgently, fingers securing the herb-infused compress wrapped around her wrist, brow furrowed. "This poultice was just applied. If you keep moving, the healing essence won't bind to your blood properly. You've got thirteen stitches in your forehead—the wound is deep. If you keep aggravating it, even our strongest salves won't prevent scarring. You'll carry that mark forever."
Lyra's arm froze in midair. Her gaze drifted slowly to the healing pouch suspended above her head.
Clear liquid dripped through the woven tubing, cold and indifferent. She parted her lips, her throat so dry that each word scraped like sandpaper: "How... did I end up in the healers' den? Who brought me here?"
The healer tidied the dressing tray as she answered casually, "Your intended mate brought you in. He said you two had a dispute, you got worked up during your emotional state, and you smashed a ceremonial vase over your own head. Made quite a scene—we could hear the commotion from across the den."