The Tyrant's Tomb

Stop making me cry
Or buy me some new tear ducts
My old ones broke down
PRIORITIES CHANGE WHEN YOU’RE rushing a friend to emergency
medical care.
It no longer seemed important that we had won a major battle, or that I
could finally take BECOME A ZOMBIE off my alert calendar. Lavinia’s
heroism and her new dancing shoes were momentarily forgotten. My guilt
about Thalia’s presence was also pushed aside. She and I didn’t exchange so
much as a word as she rushed in to help along with all the rest of us.
I even failed to register that my sister, who’d been at my side only a
moment before, had quietly vanished. I found myself barking orders at
legionnaires, directing them to grate some unicorn horn, get me some nectar,
stat, and rush, rush, rush Frank Zhang to the medical tent.
Hazel and I stayed at Frank’s bedside until well past dawn, long after the
other medics assured us he was out of danger. None of them could explain
how he had survived, but his pulse was strong, his skin was remarkably
unburned, and his lungs were clear. The arrow punctures in his shoulder and
the dagger wound in his gut had given us some trouble, but they were now
stitched up, bandaged, and healing well. Frank slept fitfully, muttering and
flexing his hands as if he were still reaching for an imperial throat to
strangle.
“Where’s his firewood?” Hazel fretted. “Should we look for it? If it’s lost
in the—”