I wiped the blood from my nose with the back of my hand, staring at the smear of red.
Neural strain. Great.
Stuffing the cloth back into my pocket, I pushed open the infirmary door.
It was quiet, lit by a few low lanterns that cast warm, flickering light across the beds. Most were empty, just Kyle's bed near the back and one other patient sleeping soundly a few rows over.
I walked toward Kyle's bed, fully expecting to find him doing something idiotic.
Instead, he was lying down.
Actually lying down.
Under the blankets. Head on the pillow. Eyes closed. Looking peaceful.
I stopped mid-step, blinking.
What.
No way.
I approached slowly, suspicious, and leaned over him.
Still lying down. Still relaxed. Not even fidgeting.
This has to be a trick.
I reached out and pressed the back of my hand against his forehead, checking for fever.
Kyle's eyes snapped open immediately. "What are you—?"
"Checking if you're dying," I said flatly. "Because this is suspicious."
