Most of them were tired, bleeding, a few burnt in places. They huddled close, wary of the people with blue dancing on their skin. Ciaran knew he was an oddity among Deagan’s troops, for his skin remained as clear as the day he’d joined them.
“They’re not my healers,” he said. “They’ll do what they will. If you want their help, ask them.”
Dolan nodded and scanned the crowd.
“You’ll want to ask Deagan or Odran,” Ciaran said, and then his father pushed to the front of the group.
“Are you mad? We’ll ask them for nothing. They’re blue-skinned.”
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