Viktor swallowed hard.
“You’re here, Captain Seraphim,” came a voice from within.
A woman stepped from the shadows—elven, auburn hair braided back, a leather apron bristling with instruments at her waist. She crossed the room with easy confidence, though her eyes lingered on his burns.
“I am Saecily Evryn,” she said. “I’ve served in Masten Storne’s employ near a decade.”
Her voice was low, controlled, the kind that could still a storming horse.
“Tonight will be my first time assisting a Ruakite. May I call you Viktor?”
He only nodded once, jaw tight.
A second figure slipped in—a boy with dark hair and restless hands.
“My apprentice, Zakkari,” Saecily explained. “Not yet sixteen. Wide-eyed, but quick.”
The boy flushed under her glance, eyes darting when Viktor looked at him.
Saecily gestured for Viktor to sit. The stone bit cold beneath his hands as he pushed himself onto the table.
Saecily examined briskly, fingers light against his ribs and chest, her expression unreadable.
“You run. Long distances.”
“Yes,” Viktor answered, teeth tight as her hand brushed a tender place.
She drew back, studying him with a tilt of her head.
“Your body is in remarkable condition, Viktor. How old are you?”
“Twenty-five.”
One brow lifted, almost amused.
“A young Ruakite. Strong. And yet…”
She glanced toward Zakkari, then back to Viktor.
“Tonight you will see what it means to be what you are.”
Her mouth twitched.
“You will heal yourself.”
Viktor drew a sharp breath.
“Heal… myself?”
But Saecily was already reaching for her tools, her braid slipping forward like a rope of flame.
“Steady, Captain. We’ll help you.”
Viktor sat rigid as Saecily lifted her scissors.
“Forgive me,” she said, slipping the blade beneath his tunic. “I’ll need to cut this away.”
He shrugged. “It’s probably beyond saving anyway.”
