The walk to the infirmary was longer than Cassian remembered. Or perhaps his legs were just heavier. The mud had dried on his boots, cracking with every step, a rhythmic reminder of the courtyard. His left arm hung at his side, swaying slightly with his stride. It didn't swing naturally. It dragged, dead weight tethered to his shoulder.
The numbness had spread. During the fight, it was just the wound site. Now, it crept up his forearm, a cold patch of skin that felt like it belonged to someone else. He tried to curl his fingers. The thumb moved, stiff and resistant. The index finger twitched. The middle, ring, and pinky remained locked in a semi-clench, rigid as carved wood.
He pushed open the infirmary doors. The air inside was thick with the scent of dried lavender, antiseptic alcohol, and the underlying sweet rot of old injuries. It was a clean smell, but it didn't mask the reality of the place. This was where broken things went to be fixed or discarded.
A woman sat behind the main desk. Healer Verra. She was older, her hair streaked with gray, her hands stained with herbal dyes. She didn't look up from her ledger as he entered.
"Name," she said. Her voice was dry, like parchment rubbing together.
"Cassian Vane."
Verra stopped writing. She looked up. Her eyes, pale and sharp, scanned him. They didn't look at his face. They looked at the arm. The sleeve was torn, soaked with blood that had already turned black.
"Courtyard duel?" she asked.
"Yes."
"Elian?"
"Yes."
She stood up. The chair scraped against the stone floor, a harsh sound in the quiet room. "Follow me."
She led him to a partitioned alcove. There was a cot, a basin of water, and a tray of surgical tools. She didn't offer him a seat. She pointed to the arm.
"Show me."
Cassian rolled up the sleeve. The scar was visible now. It wasn't pink or fresh. It was gray, textured like tree bark, ridged and hard. The skin around it was pale, waxy.
Verra didn't flinch. She reached out, her fingers hovering over the wound. She didn't touch it immediately. She was sensing the mana residue.
"High-density adaptation," she murmured. "This isn't a standard cut. The flesh... it rejected the blade."
"It healed fast," Cassian said. He kept his voice flat. If he showed fear, she would dig deeper.
"Healing implies restoration," Verra corrected. She finally touched the scar. Her fingers pressed hard. Cassian felt nothing. No pain. Just pressure. "This isn't healing. This is replacement. Your body didn't knit the skin. It grew something else."
She pulled a small crystal from her pocket. It glowed with a soft white light. Standard diagnostic tool. She held it near the arm.
The light flickered. Then it turned a sickly violet before dying out completely.
Verra's eyes narrowed. She looked at Cassian. For the first time, there was suspicion in her gaze. Not anger. Curiosity. And caution.
"Magic doesn't take," she said. "Why?"
"Curse," Cassian lied. It was the easiest explanation. Noble families often hid genetic defects or ancestral curses. "Family bloodline. Sometimes it reacts poorly to external mana."
Verra stepped back. She wiped her hands on a cloth. "A bloodline curse that hardens flesh against steel. That's not in the registry."
"It's private," Cassian said. "Duke Vane prefers it stays that way."
It was a gamble. Using his father's name as a shield. In the academy, politics often outweighed protocol. Verra stared at him for a long moment. The silence stretched, tight as a bowstring.
Finally, she sighed. She turned to the tray and picked up a bottle of dark liquid.
"Drink this," she said. "It won't fix the arm. Nothing will. But it will stop the necrosis from spreading. If that gray stuff moves past your elbow, you lose the whole limb. Maybe the shoulder."
Cassian took the bottle. The glass was cold. He uncorked it. The smell was bitter, like burnt almonds.
"Thank you," he said.
"Don't thank me," Verra said. She was already writing in her ledger again. "I'm filing this as 'Non-Magical Trauma'. If the Headmaster asks, you refused magical intervention. Do you understand?"
Cassian understood. She was covering herself. If his arm turned into a monster later, she didn't want the blame.
"I understand."
"Get out," she said. "Come back in three days. If the gray has moved, I'm amputating."
Cassian tucked the bottle into his pocket. He pulled his sleeve down over the dead hand. He walked out of the infirmary without looking back.
The corridor outside was empty. Classes were in session. He leaned against the stone wall, closing his eyes. He could feel the pulse in his neck, but not in his wrist. The disconnect was nauseating. He was carrying a piece of furniture attached to his body.
He took the bottle out again. He didn't drink it. He poured it onto the stone floor. It hissed where it landed. Acidic.
He didn't need medicine. He needed data.
He pushed off the wall and started walking toward the dormitories. He had three days before the gray spread. Three days to figure out how to control the thing his body had become.
***
The dormitory room was small, shared by two students. Cassian's roommate, Julian, was absent. Likely in class. The room smelled of stale paper and unwashed clothes. Cassian locked the door.
He sat on the edge of his bed. He placed his left arm on his knee. He stared at it.
The gray scar tissue pulsed. Not with blood, but with a slow, rhythmic contraction. Like a muscle breathing.
"Move," he whispered.
He focused on the pinky finger. He sent the signal from his brain. *Curl.*
Nothing.
He focused harder. He imagined the nerve firing, the tendon pulling. He sweated. His forehead beaded with moisture.
The finger twitched. Just a millimeter. Then it locked back into place.
Cassian exhaled. It wasn't paralysis. It was resistance. His body had adapted to hold the sword so tightly that it refused to let go. The adaptation was permanent unless overridden by a stronger stimulus.
He stood up and walked to the desk. There was a dagger there, used for sharpening quills. He picked it up with his right hand.
He looked at his left arm.
"If you want to hold," Cassian said, "you need a reason to release."
He pressed the dull edge of the dagger against the gray scar on his forearm. He pushed. The skin didn't cut. It was too hard. He pressed harder. The skin indented, then resisted.
He needed pain. The mechanic was clear now. Pain triggered the change. But the change came with a cost. To regain movement, he needed to damage the adaptation enough to force a new one.
He hesitated. This was madness. Self-harm to gain motor function.
He thought of Elian's sword. He thought of the numbness. If he couldn't use the hand, he was useless. If he was useless, he was dead.
He slammed the dagger down.