Damoria’s olive skin was slick with sweat, the crystalline sword balanced between her breasts, rising and falling with every labored breath.
“She won’t survive the night,” the toothless healer said. She peered beneath one bloodied bandage and hissed a beer-soaked, Darathokian curse.
“You must save her,” Tion said, frustration marring his oath-scarred face. He could not live without her. His fingers scraped through his braided hair, leaving behind streaks of blood and mud.
“Tis the gods who will decide, if the oath-breaker lives.”
Tion’s eyes turned to iron. “And I will decide if you will.”
(Written for The Prediction. Challenge words: bandage, frustrate, olive)