Slowly, the horse settled, his breathing ragged but rhythmic.

Dante watched us, his gaze lingering on the way the horse leaned into my shoulder.

“He doesn’t trust anyone,” Dante murmured, his voice softening just a fraction. “Not since…”

He paused, his eyes turning toward the dark rafters of the stable.

He didn’t finish the sentence, but the weight of it hung in the air.

I cleaned away the last of the dirty salve that Marco had used to hide the injury.

Underneath the grime, the skin was blackening.

“This wasn’t a wire cut,” I said, squinting at the shape of the puncture.

“What do you mean?” Dante asked.

“A fence scrape leaves a ragged tear,” I said, tracing the edge of the wound. “This is a neat, round hole. It was made by something blunt, driven deep on purpose.”

I picked up the scalpel from the tray.

“I have to lance it now. The infection is trapped inside the muscle sheath.”

“Do what you have to do,” Dante said.

I took a deep breath and positioned myself slightly to the side, out of the direct line of a kick.