“Maybe,” I say, shrugging it off.

The thought, however, I can’t seem to shrug away.

It’s later that night, as we’re passing through a nearby village, that we hear the news. Rather, we witness it.

Smog bears down on our lungs as the ruins of this nameless village smolder in the evening breeze. What was clearly once a town center now appears as a path of rubble and destruction.

“What do you think happened here?” I ask Blaise, but she doesn’t appear to hear me.

Her ears twitch, and I remember her hearing is better than mine. What sounds like muffled voices coming from inside the few structures that are still standing are as clear to Blaise as if we occupied the same room.

“They were attacked,” she says. “The villagers say it was silver monsters.”

The words and their weight hang in the air between us.

The wind changes direction, slamming the stench of rotting flesh into our noses. I fight back a retch, but Blaise clamps a hand over her nose.

“Blood?” I ask.

Blaise blinks. “Yes, but I can handle it. I…”

She breaks into a run, and I follow her, though there’s no use trying to keep up with her. It’s hard enough just keeping her in my sight.

We end up in the ruins of what looks to be a fallen bakery. All that’s left standing is the iron stove in the corner.

“Help me,” Blaise commands, jumping into the pile of rubble and slinging charred planks behind her as she digs. I do as she says and help remove debris.

Underneath is the blistered corpse of a mother still clinging to her child.

An image flashes through my mind, of this mother hearing the roars of the Others. That her only thought was to wrap her child in her arms, using her body as a shield from whatever atrocities might come.

Fragments of a peasant’s dress still cling to the little girl’s body. I can’t make out her features, not with the soot obscuring the child’s face, but given her size, I imagine she’s younger than Amity.

I am suddenly very sick.

“I can hear a pulse,” Blaise says, reaching out for the child.

Blaise falters as her hands wrap around the child. Then she pries her from her dead mother’s protective arms.

The girl doesn’t move. Doesn’t seem to notice.

“Blaise.” Trepidation gnaws at me as she pulls the girl from the rubble. “Blaise, I don’t think there’s anything we can—”

“There’s a healer a few houses down,” she says. “We can take her to him.”

I stare at the child, her body crushed under the weight of her own home, her skin blistered by flames.

I know exactly what this healer will do, will say.

One look at Blaise, and I realize she doesn’t.

The local healer has taken up shop in one of the few cottages left standing. The place is packed with the wounded, several laid out in rows on the floor.

Some get pallets, but most do not.

The healer is coaxing liquid into a patient’s half-opened mouth when we arrive. He takes one glance at the girl in our arms and deflates.

“Erida,” he says, though I have no idea how he recognizes the child in her current state.

He nods us over to the only empty spot on the floor.

On either side of the lone patch of flooring are corpses.

Blaise swallows. “No. No, she’s not dead. There’s a pulse.”

The healer appears even more distraught by this news.

“Very well,” he says. His knees creak as he stands. He’s an elderly man, his face carved with the sorrows of a life acquainted with death.

He shuffles over to his workstation and pulls a vial from the counter.

Still, Blaise refuses to set the girl on the floor. Instead, she cradles her, holding her to her chest.

The healer navigates the rows of bodies, then uncorks the bottle.

Blaise’s nose immediately curls. “What is that you’re giving her?”

“Blaise,” I say, but it’s no use.

“No,” she says, hugging the girl tighter, like she’s protecting her from the healer. “It’s opium. I can smell it. The girl’s heart is barely beating. If you give that to her, it’ll kill her.”

The healer purses his thin lips. “I am not the one who killed this child.”

Blaise is practically shouting now. “That’s because she’s not dead.”

I place my hand on Blaise’s shoulder, but she shrugs me off.

The healer sighs, then presses his fingers to the folds between his brows. “Erida was such a vibrant child. Thought I might take her on as an apprentice if I lived long enough. She had the disposition for a good healer. Sharp of mind, soft of heart.”

Again, I can’t help but think of Amity, and my heart aches for my daughter.

“Her pelvis and torso are crushed,” says the healer. “Have been for days now. Her organs will have been leaking into her bloodstream, poisoning her from the inside out. If I had the resources to save her, I would try. But I don’t. And even then, I’m not sure saving her would be possible. I appreciate you for pulling her out of the rubble. I would have hated for her to suffer alone at the end.”

Blaise blinks, unable to hold back the tears. “There’s nothing you can do?”

The healer shakes his head. “Other than ease her pain and stay with her until the end, no.”

“Shut up,” says Blaise, and the healer flinches.