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Summary
“Did you flinch when the dagger pierced you?”
“...yes.” Another spat-out admission.
She shakes her head, careful to be kind. “There is no honour lost to flinch at medicine.”
Silence again. Bandaging is just as important as the medicine itself, and Castti takes extra precautions just to be safe. Castti tugs at the cotton, perhaps too sharply. Still, Throné does not flinch. Castti wishes she would.
“Are you used to it?”
“Used to what?” She shucks her gloves into a small basin to wash in the morning.
“Blood. On your hands.”