Chapter 13—Price

“Victory cries are loud, survival cries are quiet.”

The doors to the Academy infirmary slammed wide under Tadari’s shoulder. Rain and mud smeared the tiles, Randall close behind with bow still strung. On Tadari’s arms, Ophelin hung limp, her bandages sodden red, breath a ragged whisper.

“Clear a bed! Now!” one attendant cried.

The air was thick with alcohol and boiled herbs, sharp enough to sting the nose. Cots lined the chamber—several already filled with Barowen lackeys, groaning from arrow-pierced legs or bruised ribs. But none as pale, as broken, as Ophelin.

Menders rushed forward. Ms. Lila herself led them, sleeves rolled, hair bound, eyes steady even as she took in the wounds. “Here, set her down. Quickly!”

Tadari lowered her gently. Blood spread across the sheets at once. Lila’s fingers traced the length of the thigh wound, then the twisted arm. Her lips pressed thin. “Severe. Months, if she survives the night.”

Raiden stood stiff at the foot of the cot, boots caked in mud, hands trembling. She can’t… not like this.

The menders moved in a flurry of discipline. One pressed cloth to the thigh, another traced sigils into the air, threads of light weaving into flesh. A third chanted under breath, easing shock. Raiden watched their faces—tension pulling at their brows, lips pale, sweat beading though the room was cold.

And then—

A flicker. Not in the room, but inside his mind.

For a heartbeat he wasn’t in the infirmary. He saw a woman in light armor sprawled across stone, blood spilling from her side. His own hand—no, a hand he wore—dragged a blade across skin, spilling drops of crimson into her wound. Flesh knit before his eyes, closing, sealing, until hours became seconds and her breath steadied.

The vision snapped away, leaving only Ophelin’s broken form before him.

Raiden’s breath caught. His pulse hammered. What… was that? A memory? A dream?

His gaze darted to the tray of tools. A scalpel glinted.

The menders shifted to fetch bandages. Raiden seized the chance. He caught the scalpel, pricked his palm, and held it above Ophelin’s ruined arm. Three drops of crimson fell, vanishing into the blood already there.

No glow. No change. Flesh remained torn.

Raiden clenched his fist, nails biting into skin. Then it was nothing. Just madness. Hallucination.

“Steady her!” Lila barked again, snapping him back. He pulled his hand behind his back, as if it burned.

Tadari’s low voice cut in, hoarse from the fight. “She’s tougher than she looks, Raiden. Don’t break now.”

Raiden gave a stiff nod, jaw tight, eyes refusing to leave Ophelin. She has to come back.

The hours stretched. Spells, poultices, chants—one after another. Three menders rotated, never resting long enough to breathe. Their faces grew gaunt, fingers twitching from overwork. Casting heal, purge, stabilize in cycles took its toll—Raiden saw it in the way their lips quivered, in the glaze to their eyes.

Thunder outside dulled to a murmur, but inside the infirmary the storm lived in the rattle of breaths and the iron stink of blood.

The doors burst again. Mr. Carn strode in, cloak dripping, eyes wide. “What in the gods’ names happened?”

Menders did not pause. Lila snapped, “Not now! She’s fading!”

Carn’s voice lowered, taut as a bowstring. “There are others wounded—dozens of Barowen’s lot. None like this. What happened in those stables?”

Randall answered, calm but sharp: “An ambush. Twelve against three.”

Carn’s jaw worked. “Barowen again.” He spat the name like poison. Then, louder: “Focus on her. I’ll deal with the rest.” With a final glance at Ophelin, he turned on his heel and left.

Raiden’s lungs eased only slightly. His sleeve stuck damp to his palm where blood still seeped, unnoticed.

The night deepened. Ophelin drifted in and out, groans fading to rasping breath. At one point she stirred, eyes half-lidded, her lips forming a whisper: “Still… fight…” Her hand groped weakly for the pitchfork she no longer held. The will still burned. Her body refused. She sank again into silence.

“Don’t you quit,” Tadari muttered, binding cloth tighter to her thigh.

Raiden sat close, every sound of hers a knife. The vision gnawed at him—the armored woman’s wound closing, blood stitching what magic could not. But here, nothing. Only cloth and prayer. Why show me that if it meant nothing?

Randall leaned against the far cot, bow finally unstrung. His calm presence was an anchor, though his eyes never left Ophelin.

Time bled. The menders kept at it—sigils brightening, then fading, again and again. One swayed mid-cast, caught by another’s hand. Still they pressed on, exhaustion etched in every motion.

At last, Lila stepped back. Her shoulders slumped, but her words carried. “She’s stable.”

The room exhaled as one.

“She’ll live,” Lila continued, “but the thigh will take months, even with care. The arm…” Her gaze lingered on the bandaged limb. “Half a year, if we’re fortunate. And even then, she may not wield it as before.”

Raiden’s chest twisted. Months? Half a year? He kept his head low, letting his hair shadow his eyes.

“She’ll need constant tending,” Lila said, voice softer now. “Keep her warm, feed her light broth when she wakes. That is all anyone can do.”

Lanterns burned low. The storm softened to rain. Students in other cots slept or groaned, but the chamber was quiet now, save for the drip of water and shallow breaths.

Raiden hadn’t moved from his seat. His eyes lingered on Ophelin’s bandaged arm. He remembered the fight, the cry when the blade took her, the way she’d still tried to swing. His stomach knotted.

Randall’s voice broke the silence. “You saw her eyes before she fell, didn’t you?”

Raiden glanced up. “…Yeah.”

“She wanted to fight. Even broken.”

Raiden nodded slowly. “But she couldn’t.”

Tadari exhaled from where he leaned against the wall. “That’s the cruel part. The will stays, but the body fails.” He rubbed at his face, voice low. “Still—she’ll live. That’s what matters tonight.”

The quiet returned, heavy but not hopeless. Raiden studied the menders slumped on benches now, mana burnt near dry. Even victory demanded blood from everyone.

He looked back to Ophelin, chest tight. His lips parted, words spilling rough, unsteady:

“She’s stronger than this. She’ll come back.”

It wasn’t loud. But it carried.

When dawn touched the windows, pale and gray, the menders spoke again:

“She will live. But her road will be long.”

Raiden sat straighter, though his hands still trembled. Randall stood, calm as stone, and Tadari closed his eyes at last, letting fatigue take him.

Ophelin slept, breath shallow but steady.

The storm had passed. But its mark remained.