Chapter 17 Paxton was taken straight into the infirmary wing of the castle, along with four other men. Several refused treatment. Eight had been killed that night. Six Kalorians, one Lochlan, and the youngest Zandalee. Paxton considered himself lucky, though his injuries were worse than he’d first assumed. The gash on his arm gaped, filled with dirt. A path of now-dried blood had run down to his hand, soaking his tan tunic, so he removed it. His back, chest, and stomach were bruised. And on his left side he had cracked ribs and several severe scratches where the beast had kicked him. But he was alive. He leaned against the wall on the cot in the infirmary room where the guards had left him alone. The room was small and clean with only a cot, a side table, and a chair. He’d cleaned his wounds and now sat waiting. Without a knock, the wooden door opened and an old woman stepped in pushing a cart with a covered plate. She had a long, gray braid across her shoulder. Her eyes were wise as she approached Paxton.
