Another pulse. This one took the form of a whip of wind, snatching at Alina’s legs to drag her from the ground. She fought it, pushing against the pull, and wove the wind into a spiral that almost redirected the attack back to its source. Almost. Elara batted the rebound away with a contemptuous flick, sending it up to shred a branch above their heads.
“You see?” Elara said, pausing now, hands folded. “It’s never about the first spell. Or the second. It’s about what you do when you are exhausted, when you are empty, and when you would give anything to stop.”
Alina’s lungs burned. Her arms felt like sacks of stone, hanging limp by her sides. Sweat pooled under her gloves and down the spine of her back, making her shiver in the frigid air.
“Can we—” she bit the words off. She did not want to ask for mercy, especially not from Elara. She would only turn it into another lesson.
“Again,” Elara said, her voice as flat as a knife blade.
The next volley was a storm. Alina was ready, but only just. She bent, braced, pulled at the well of her power, and felt the old hesitation: the fear that she might lose control, as she had yesterday. She remembered Elara’s body lifting from the ground, the shock in the witch’s eyes, the way the clearing had gone utterly silent in the aftermath.
She did not want to do that again. She did not want to see fear on Elara’s face, or her own, or anyone’s.
But she was not here to be safe.
She took the pain, let it spark through her nerves, and then twisted it, using the force of Elara’s assault to build her own counter. Magic was supposed to be an art, but this was closer to wrestling, or bare-knuckled brawling in the palace yard. Theenergies collided in the air between them, throwing up sparks that danced and died in the cold wind.
Elara’s lips curled in something like satisfaction. “Finally,” she said. “Now, can you hold it?”
Alina tried. She really did, truly. She pushed the two streams of power together, letting them merge, and for a moment it was almost beautiful—a lattice of light and pressure, humming in her hands.
But it was too much, too fast, and she could feel her own strength burning away, consumed by the effort. Her hands shook, her knees buckled, and the shield she’d crafted flickered, went thin, then snapped out entirely.
The feedback hit her like a hammer. Magic that had nowhere to go turned inward, ricocheting through her chest and down her arms. She gasped, then screamed—a sound she did not recognize as her own. She fell to her knees, then to her side, curled up against the cold and the pain and the impossible, boiling heat that now poured from her every pore.
For a second, Elara’s face loomed over her, concern blooming behind the mask of detachment. “You pushed too hard,” Elara said, voice now soft. “You fool, you reckless, magnificent fool—”
Then the world went black, and Alina felt herself vanish, atom by atom, into the dark.
She came to with a start, the world contracting to a tunnel of harsh white pain and a vague sensation of motion. Someone was carrying her, their arms hooked under her knees and shoulders,jostling her body in uneven waves that each sent a fresh spike through her skull. A familiar scent enveloped her—leather and woodsmoke and herbs and something else, something that smelled like home. She tried to open her eyes, but found only blur, a flicker of stone ceiling, and then the vague shadow of Kael’s jaw above her. He was breathing hard, sweat dripping onto her cheek where it mingled with her own. They moved fast, deeper into the Caves, the familiar geometry of the corridors transformed by her disorientation: torches were angry smears, the walls a feverish maze.
Alina’s whole body burned. She tried to lift a hand and found it trembling, the skin pink and raw where her glove had torn away. There was a sense of having been boiled alive from the inside out, leaving every bone in her body humming with pain. Each time she shifted her back spasmed with aftershocks, like a lightning strike that wouldn’t fade.
They rounded a corner, and suddenly she could smell a rush of dried thyme, sweet smoke, and underneath, the iron tang of blood—the infirmary. The room was all golden light and shadow, alive with the clutter of bottles and tools and dangling bundles of herbs. She knew the place well; she’d watched Sage Wintermend patch up half the stronghold in this very room. But now, on the receiving end of business, it seemed more like a place of execution than healing.
Sage was waiting for her. She wasted no time, snapping orders before the rebels had even set Alina down. “On the cot. Gently. And fetch the water barrel, not the pitcher—it’s hotter than she is.”
Her voice was calm, brisk, but the lines at the corners of her mouth betrayed a sharp urgency. As soon as Alina was horizontal,Sage pressed a palm to her forehead, then her neck, then her chest, muttering under her breath the whole time. “Pulse wild, skin flaming. Idiots, she should have been here an hour ago. Hold her down if she seizes.” The last command was to Kael and whoever else was there, but the look she gave them made it clear she’d break their fingers if they bungled it.
Sage rolled up her sleeves and set to work, hands moving with the surety of someone who had done this hundreds of times. She dipped a rag in the barrel and wrung it out to drape over Alina’s eyes. The sudden chill was a mercy, drowning the worst of the heat and giving her something to anchor her thoughts.
“Magic toxicity,” Sage muttered. “It happens when you let the current run without a break.” She examined Alina’s arms, prodding the flesh with two fingers. “You’re lucky you didn’t cook your nerves clean through.”
Alina tried to reply, but her mouth was filled with the taste of burned copper and her tongue refused to move. She settled for a weak, inarticulate groan, which made Sage snort with dark amusement.
“Still alive, then,” Sage said, almost fondly. “That’s a start.”
The compress was lifted from her eyes in favor of a fresh one on her brow. Sage barked for more towels, for vinegar, for the green paste in the jar marked with a star. The rebels scurried to obey, their faces serious. The healer peeled back Alina’s training clothes where they stuck to her skin, slicing the sleeves with a knife when they refused to budge. The cold air hit Alina’s exposed flesh and she gasped, startled. Her skin was scored with angry red welts that branched out from her shoulder, following the nerves like roots under the surface. They pulsed with each heartbeat, throbbing in time with her eyes.
Sage reached for the green paste and slathered it onto the worst spots. It stung, then cooled, then stung again, but the pain was at least real, not some wild storm of agony. “Mint and witch hazel,” Sage explained, almost conversational, “and a few drops of poppy for luck.” She wrapped Alina’s arms in strips of soft linen, then tucked the edges tight under her shoulders. She sent her unwilling helpers off and continued wrapping the rest of her patient’s body. A distant part of Alina’s brain celebrated finally being rid of the horrible clothes and cheered at the chance to receive something at least moderately becoming. The image was a welcome distraction, and she held on to it as long as she could.
The treatment was efficient, impersonal, but every so often Sage would pause to squeeze Alina’s hand, or to brush the hair off her forehead with surprising gentleness. It was a strange comfort, like being tended by a mother who had no time for coddling, only results.
The rest of the world faded and Alina with it, drifting between worlds, aware only of the cold compress on her brow, the faint hum of voices at the edge of her hearing, and the sharp chemical taste that filled her mouth whenever she tried to speak. Sometimes she opened her eyes to find Sage glaring at her with a mixture of exasperation and concern. Other times, the room was empty except for the soft rustle of the wind through the corridor, and the slow, patient thumping of her own heartbeat.
Once, in the middle of the night, she thought she saw Kael standing at the entrance of the room. He was talking to Sage, voice low and urgent, arms folded in front of his chest like always. She blinked and he was gone, replaced by the ghost of pain that had settled behind her ribs. When she woke next, she didn’t know if that had been a dream or reality.
As darkness pooled in the corners of the room, Sage settled onto the stool beside the bed and started grinding something in a wooden mortar. The sound was steady, soothing, a reminder that even in the worst of it, someone was watching over her. Someone cared enough to stay.
