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... a tiny gourd filled with warm liquid salve they’d mixed this morning. It smelled faintly of citrus and smoke.
"Hold still," she said.
Zephyr extended his arm without argument. The claw mark along his bicep was shallow but smarted now that the battle had passed. Fenna dabbed the salve with a folded moss wrap, her fingers deft but gentle. Warmth liquid soaked through his skin, a quiet pulse that numbed the ache.
"Thanks," he muttered.
"You took a hit for the chick." ...
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