“I’m fine,” she managed to say, her voice a raw whisper. “It’s his leg. Polan… he kicked him. And Night is hurt.”
Jaedon’s gaze hardened. “We saw,” he said, his voice tight with a fury he was barely holding in check. “Flint, Renn, help me with him. Gently.”
“Renn, check the cat,” Jaedon added, his eyes never leaving Ky.
Renn moved instantly to the crumpled shadow near the parapet. He knelt, his hands hovering over the bloody gash on the lynx’s flank before gently palpating the skull.
“He’s alive,” Renn called out, his voice grim. “Pulse is thready. He took a massive blow to the head, and the hip is a mess. We need to move him flat.”
They moved with the efficiency of men who had done this a hundred times. As they carefully shifted Ky’s weight off her, Gessa felt a moment of pure panic, an irrational fear at losing his grounding presence. She scrambled to her knees, her hand instinctively reaching for him, not wanting to break contact.
When they fully exposed his leg, a collective intake of breath hissed through the group. It was worse than she had realized. Twisted at an unnatural angle, the joint was clearly shattered. Gessa’s stomach lurched, and a new terror for him cut through her shock. He had faced down his worst nightmare to save her, and this was the cost.
“Mistress Salvehand is setting up a field hospital now,” Flint said, his voice a low rumble. “We need to get him down there.”
“Torvin, Bram,” Jaedon barked. “Lash your cloaks. We need a sling for Night. He’s too heavy to carry loose down those stairs without causing more damage.”
The two recruits scrambled to obey, shedding their cloaks and knotting them together. With Renn’s help, they eased the unconscious, breathing bulk of the lynx onto the makeshift stretcher, Night letting out a low, pained wheeze as he was lifted.
As they prepared to lift him, a hand touched Gessa’s shoulder. She looked up to see Torvin, his usual skepticism gone, replaced by a quiet respect. He held a small, wicked-looking tool, like a miniature set of iron shears.
“The collar, Gessa,” he said softly. “We need to get it off you.”
She had almost forgotten the dead weight on her neck. She nodded mutely, tilting her head to give him access. There was a sharp, metallicsnip, and the iron band fell away, clattering onto the stone.
The silence had been a suffocating blanket for two days, a chilling echo of her old life. But for months now, she had grown used to the constant hum of magic at the Academy. When the iron fell away, the world didn’t just return; it crashed in.
The Ley Lines crisscrossing the region, the potent energy of two dozen Spurs and their Soul Beasts, the very life force of the world—it all slammed into her senses at once. But it wasn’t a song. It was a physical blow of static and pressure. The air buzzed with a frantic, electric energy that made her gasp, her vision whitening at the edges. She swayed, and Bram’s strong hand shot out to steady her.
“Easy,” he murmured, his voice almost lost in the noise.
She tried, but the sensation was overwhelming, like a million angry insects buzzing against her skin. It was too much. Instinctively, her mind sought the one thing it knew, the negative space Ky had trained her to perceive. She reached for the silence between the static. For the void.
Her head cleared just as the other Spurs lifted Ky onto a makeshift stretcher. They began the slow, careful descent. Gessa followed, her hand trailing on the cold stone wall for support, her newly awakened senses painting a dizzying picture of the world.
As they emerged from the tower, she got her first clear look at the aftermath. The battle was over. Torches illuminated a scene of clinical precision. Polan’s men were on their knees, disarmed and bound, their faces a mixture of fear and disbelief. Spur recruits were moving among them, their expressions grim and business-like.
In a shadowed corner of the courtyard, she saw a still form covered by a rough canvas sheet. Her monster, just a shape under canvas. The sight stirred nothing in her. No triumph, no satisfaction. Only hollow emptiness.
They carried Ky to a large tent pitched on uneven ground, the grass inside already trampled flat and stained dark; Mistress Salvehand’s domain. Torvin and Bram followed close behind, grunting under Night’s weight as they lowered the lynx onto a pile of furs in the corner. The healer was already there, her face set in grim lines as she took in the state of Ky’s leg.
“Out,” she commanded to everyone but Jaedon and Flint. “All of you. Give me space to work.”
Gessa didn’t move.
“That includes you, girl,” Salvehand said, not unkindly. “You’ve been through enough. Go rest.”
“No,” Gessa said, the word quiet but unyielding. She moved to the head of the cot where they had laid Ky, taking his limp hand in hers. “I’m staying with him.”
The healer looked from Gessa’s determined face to the way her hand held Ky’s. A flicker of understanding crossed her features. She gave a short nod. “Fine. But stay out of my way.”
Jaedon paused at the tent flap, looking back at the unconscious form of his friend. He reached into his belt and pulled out two heavy, dark objects.
He stepped forward and set them down on the small table beside Ky’s head with a heavy, metallicclank.
The spurs. The serrated iron shanks the scar-faced lieutenant had stolen on the road. They were stained with the grime of the bandit camp, but they were reclaimed.
“Found these on the lieutenant,” Jaedon said, his voice grim. “He won’t be needing them anymore. Keep them safe for Ky. He’ll want them when he wakes.”
