What bit of camaraderie that had come over Elayra vanished instantly at Ghent’s expression to her request. Her gaze darkened as he put on a show of searching for the dagger. 
	[i]If he lost it, I swear—[/i] Ghent cut off her thought with the confirmation of exactly that.
	“You [i]dropped it[/i]?!” Anger rose in her chest, drowning out the hint of geniality—or at least as close to it as she’d come in years—from only a moment ago. His simple, uncaring shrug and the ego-wrenching reminder of her near-death experience only stoked the hot emotion.
	She stood quickly, glaring at Ghent. 
	[b]“What? Don’t you have another one you can use?”[/b]
	She ground her teeth, fists clenching at her sides. She tore her gaze from him and looked to the stream, staring as if her will alone could call the dagger back to her. But, of course, it couldn’t. What bit of magic it held wouldn't bring it back to her. Sure, Drust had a couple extras in his bag she was sure he wouldn’t mind her using to replace it. But none of those [i]meant[/i] anything to her. They were nothing but spoils of war. Easily traded or replaced. What value the lost weapon had to her didn’t reside in having a monetary value among Omitten, but in where it had come from.
	“You idiotic—” She cut herself off with a hasty glance to the trees.
	She looked to the ground with a huff, scrunching her eyes shut. She took a deep breath, trying fruitlessly to calm herself. The female terraflame may not return, but there was no guarantee others weren’t close enough to sense the presence of one of its favorite meals.
	Hands still fisted at her sides, she strode to where she’d dropped her sword in the fight. Retrieving it, she kept its tip lowered as she returned to Ghent. If she wanted to find her dagger, she couldn’t waste time rummaging for another in Drust’s bag. She tossed the double-edged saber to the ground near Ghent's feet without meeting his gaze. The blue blade glinted in the light as it landed with a dull thud, a couple pieces of grass succumbing to its sharpness. 
	“Use that to cut a swath of the bandage,” she ordered bitterly through her teeth. “If you think you can manage to not lose it, anyway,”  she added with a sneer. “Get the cloth damp with the moondrop milk. Dab it on your wounds.” She stepped around their stuff and headed toward the stream. “It's a disinfectant, and will speed up healing enough to clot the bleeding.”
	She hesitated near the edge of the water. Nerves made her stomach churn at the thought of going back under there. Of willingly giving herself to the element that had nearly stolen her last breath. 
	Her fists tightened, her anger turning instead toward the water and herself. She would [i]not[/i] let it frighten her. It was just water, after all. And this time, she’d be entering it on her own terms. 
	Taking a deep breath, she took the last couple steps to the gently burbling stream.