The infirmary smelled of bitter herbs and old blood.
Bright sat on a narrow cot, stripped to the waist, while a healer—an older woman with steady hands and sharper eyes—cleaned the cuts across his ribs and shoulders. The wounds weren't deep, but they were everywhere. Small nicks from deflected blades, bruises blooming purple-black where strikes had gotten through.
"You're lucky," the healer muttered, dabbing antiseptic that burned like fire. "Another inch to the left and this one would've punctured a lung."
Bright didn't answer. He was too busy watching Duncan across the room.
Duncan sat slumped on another cot, bandages wrapped around his ribs, leg propped up. The bite from the cave had reopened during the fight—not badly, but enough to bleed through the old dressing. A younger healer worked on him, muttering about "reckless initiates" and "ignoring medical advice."
Duncan caught Bright's eye and grinned weakly. "Worth it."
"Barely," Bright replied.
