The infirmary smelled like herbs and antiseptic.
The kind of place that reminded you that magic could heal wounds but couldn't make the process any less uncomfortable.
I sat in a wooden chair beside Kyle's bed, my arms crossed, watching him fidget under the bandages wrapped around his torso.
The healer—a stern-looking woman in her forties—had done her work efficiently.
Mended the broken ribs, sealed the internal bleeding, stabilized everything that Marcus had broken. But she'd been clear: Kyle needed rest.
Kyle, naturally, was ignoring that advice in spirit if not in practice.
"So," he said, his voice slightly strained but trying for cheerful, "how bad does it look?"
"You're wrapped up like a mummy," I said flatly.
"But like, a cool mummy, right?"
"No."
"Come on, man. I've got battle scars now!" He gestured vaguely at his torso. "Girls dig scars. That's a thing, right?"
"You got your ass kicked and nearly died. That's not attractive."
"It's heroic."
"It's stupid."
