“Your injuries… okay. So, Alexander,” Cordelia began, her voice steady despite the severity of her words, “Bad news. We can’t complete the trip. You need a hospital. While none of the injuries are life-debilitating by themselves, your Gloss doesn’t even register half of them. Want me to list?”

  Her mana was weaving itself around me, a comforting warmth like a soft blanket. It didn’t numb the pain, but it eased the edges, making it just a little more bearable. Her energy was calming, even if her words weren’t.

  “You’re... a doctor?” I asked, my voice coming out more weakly than I intended. The thought didn’t make sense, given everything I knew about her. It wasn’t information my uncle had provided. Her role had always been shrouded in mystery, an enigma. I never expected her to be the one to take care of me like this.

  She didn’t hesitate, though, as if the question were irrelevant.

  “Psyker. You know this. Medically, I specialize in aromatherapy and can play triage nurse when needed. Your ankle is the worst—bone inside is completely shredded. Good job pulling it out, by the way. The type of stone was paldikryte. It’s a neurotoxin because of the amount of mercury it contains.” She spoke, as always, with an unsettling calmness, as if she were commenting on the weather or a mundane task. Her nonchalance made the situation all the more surreal.

  I stared at her for a moment, processing her words. I’d felt the pain, the sheer agony of pulling the stone out myself, but hearing her break it down with such a detached tone somehow made it all the more real.

  “So… how long do you expect me to be out of commission?” I asked, already bracing myself for the answer. The words tasted bitter as they left my lips. I had a time limit on all of this. I couldn’t afford to sit around healing forever. The future loomed ahead of me like a ticking clock, and I was well aware of the brevity of it. I might be sixteen now, but that didn’t change the fact that I had a timeline, one that stretched for just eighty-two more years if I was lucky.

  Her eyes flickered with something I couldn’t quite read, but she didn’t waste time. She ran a hand over her temple, drawing on her psyker abilities to scan me more thoroughly.

  “At least two weeks in a proper medical facility for starters,” she replied. “Your ankle’s not going to support weight anytime soon, and without treatment, it’ll only get worse. The rest of your body? Mostly superficial damage, but the bruising, the lacerations… they need more attention than what we can do on the road.” Her gaze softened a fraction. “You’re lucky you didn’t bleed out. You’ve been running on fumes, Alexander.”

  The thought of waiting, of being confined to a hospital bed, frustrated me. I clenched my fists, the pain in my body somehow less of a concern than the weight of the situation.

  “I don’t have two weeks,” I muttered under my breath. “I need to keep moving, keep advancing, keep—”

  I cut myself off, realizing what I was saying. The desperation in my words was evident, but so was the need to grow stronger. Time wasn’t something I could waste. Not when I was this close to my potential.

  Cordelia tilted her head slightly, her expression unreadable. She paused, then spoke with quiet certainty.

  “I know,” she said, her voice almost gentle. “But you don’t get to rush this. Not this time.”

  I wanted to argue, to push back. But I didn’t. Something in her tone, the calm yet firm authority in it, made me realize she wasn’t just speaking as a member of my team. She was speaking as someone who knew exactly what was at stake—and someone who understood the price of pushing too hard.

  I sighed, feeling the weight of it all. This wasn’t how I planned it. This wasn’t how I expected things to go. But sometimes, the journey demanded more than just willpower. It demanded patience.

  “Two weeks then,” I said, gritting my teeth. “But that’s the limit.”

  Cordelia didn’t respond immediately. She just continued tending to my injuries, the soft hum of her mana weaving around me. Her touch was gentle but firm, and for the first time since the fight, I felt… truly cared for. Despite everything else, despite the looming challenges ahead, I knew she’d keep me alive. At least long enough to find the next step in my journey.

  And then, with a soft exhale, she spoke again, her voice as steady as ever.

  Soon, a floral fragrance was in the air. Calming. Heavenly. I couldn’t help it as my eyes were drifting off to sleep.

  ***

  I awoke to the steady beep of a heart monitor, the rhythmic sound reminding me that, despite everything, I was still alive. My body ached, the weight of my injuries pressing down on me like a suffocating blanket. The sterile smell of the hospital room filled my nostrils, and as I blinked into the dim light, the world slowly began to come into focus.

  A man I’d never seen before stood to my right, his hands expertly working to assess the heart monitor, his brow furrowed in concentration. His presence was sharp, commanding yet calm, and something in the way he moved told me that this was a professional who had seen his fair share of injuries. A doctor, or perhaps a surgeon, given the way he approached everything with such meticulous care.

  But it wasn’t him that made me freeze.

  No, to my left—sitting comfortably in a chair, as though he had all the time in the world—was Morres. Morres, golden and opalescent as ever, was casually reading what appeared to be some kind of printed newspaper. His golden skin shimmered in the low light of the room, and his hair, that striking copper with a red patina, framed his face as he turned a page with a leisurely grace.

  I blinked, convinced for a moment that I was still trapped in some kind of strange fever dream. But no. The steady beep of the heart monitor, the sterile hospital smell, the soft light—it was all too real.

  I tried to sit up, but the pain in my body was immediate and overwhelming. I winced, falling back onto the soft mattress with a groan.

  The man to my right—who I now saw was wearing a doctor’s coat—noticed the movement immediately. He turned toward me, his face lighting up with recognition as he hurried over.

  “Ah, you’re awake,” he said, his voice serene, almost too calm for my rattled nerves. “I can see why that would startle you. You’re alive. You’re fine. Just rest.”

  Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

  His words were soothing, the kind of voice one would expect from a seasoned surgeon who had long ago mastered the art of reassurance. There was no coldness in his tone, no sense of hurry—only the practiced ease of someone who had performed these routines a thousand times. His demeanor, while cordial, also had a touch of cunning, like someone who had seen all manner of injuries and understood their consequences in a way that most people never could.

  I tried to speak, but my throat was dry, my words weak. The weight of everything—the fight, the pain, the fear—still lingered on me like a heavy fog.

  “Where... where am I?” My voice cracked slightly, the words feeling strange on my tongue.

  The doctor smiled gently, adjusting the heart monitor with a few quick taps. “You’re in a hospital, safe now. You've had quite the ordeal, but you're out of danger. Rest is the only thing you need for now.” He glanced at the heart monitor one last time before meeting my gaze. “Everything seems to be in order.”

  I could barely register his words. My mind was fixated on one thing—the man to my left, casually reading a newspaper as if nothing had happened.

  “Morres?” I asked hoarsely, still unsure if I was seeing things clearly. “What are you doing here?”

  Morres glanced up at me from his newspaper, a smile tugging at his lips. His golden eyes glinted with a strange mix of amusement and patience, as though he’d been waiting for me to fully process everything.

  “Ah, Alexander. I see you’re finally back with us,” he said, his voice a velvety mix of warmth and authority. “I’ve been waiting for you to wake up. You’ve been through quite a lot, but rest assured, you're not going to be left in the dark for much longer.”

  I narrowed my eyes at him, still too disoriented to fully comprehend why he was here—or why he seemed so... at ease. He shouldn’t have been here. He was a distant presence in my mind, a figure tied to my inner journey, yet now he was sitting in a hospital room with me, like an unwelcome part of a story I had not fully understood.

  “I don’t... understand,” I managed, my voice barely a whisper. “Why are you here? Why did you—”

  Before I could finish my sentence, Morres raised a finger to his lips in a silent gesture, his eyes locking onto mine with a knowing look. He then pointed upward, where a small crystal floated just above his head, faintly glowing. I watched it closely, sensing the weight of his intent. A sudden ping from my Gloss flashed in my vision, followed by a text.

  Morres: I can’t have you tell the doctor who I am or what our Artes are. I’m not supposed to be here. He can’t see me. The only reason you can is because I’m allowing you to. Remember my Providence? It’s part of that.

  5939: Okay. Great. Can you tell me what's going on?

  Morres: Later. After the doc leaves.

  I blinked in confusion. What did he mean by Providence? Did the Truth or Lie do anything? The Ideal? And why was he so insistent on keeping his presence secret from the doctor? My questions swirled, but I was interrupted by the doctor’s voice, which cut through the haze of my thoughts.

  “I’m here to make sure the bone reconstruction of your ankles and two of your ribs went fine, as well as repairing the tendons, nerves, and bones of your right foot,” the doctor said, his voice steady. “Everything else went well… but bonework isn’t many people’s specialty, aside from Marryllin’s.”

  I froze. My mind immediately latched onto the name, but the casual way he said it caught me off guard. No “Prince Marryllin,” just Marryllin’s. The context seemed… wrong. The pieces didn’t fit.

  “Who… are you?” I asked, turning to look at him fully, now certain that this man wasn’t connected to the place I thought I was. My heart raced.

  The doctor seemed to pause for a moment, a shift in his demeanor that had me on edge. He straightened up, his body language suddenly more formal, like he had just dropped any pretense of being a simple, reassuring medical professional. His voice shifted too, no longer the calm, empathetic tone I’d heard earlier, but something colder, more militant. Then, just as quickly, he reverted back to his previous demeanor, almost as if nothing had changed.

  “Surgeon Fincarr Rittman of the Technocracy of Myne,” he answered, the words carrying weight. “The moment your license class was admitted into the hospital, you became my responsibility.”

  A chill ran down my spine at the mention of the Technocracy of Myne.The technocracy. Our devout allies, although their stance on magic is absurd. Magic isn’t real. Everything was technology, science, and everything could be explained. A fireball from your hand? That was the expansion of superheated air, into a near plasma state causing oxidized combustion. What was he doing here, and why had the Technocracy taken an interest in me?

  I opened my mouth, but the flood of questions that arose from his statement threatened to overwhelm me. Before I could ask, Morres’s voice cut in, though this time it was a bit more distant, a soft murmur that I felt in my mind rather than hearing aloud.

  Morres: He’s not a typical surgeon. But that’s not your concern right now. You’ll understand soon enough. Just focus on resting for now, Alexander. You’re being watched, but we have time.

  I wanted to respond, to ask what he meant, but I couldn’t. The words caught in my throat, and all I could do was watch as the doctor finished his assessment. I had too many questions and no answers in sight.

  “Okay. Everything seems to be good on the tests—no infection, no rejection. You’ve gone over your healing limit four times, so you’ll need an additional three days of rest,” Surgeon Fincarr Rittman explained, his tone professional but firm. He paused, looking at the digital readout on the side of the bed before tapping his Gloss screen. “Follow this meal plan.”

  A new message flashed on my Gloss, detailing a structured meal schedule designed to help with my recovery. The list made my stomach growl despite myself.

  For breakfast, I was to have a bronze waxing coin paired with a powdered wheat donut. It seemed simple enough, though the combination felt oddly off. For a snack, two apples and a peach, spaced two hours after breakfast. I raised an eyebrow at that—fruits to supplement the rest of my sustenance? I didn’t exactly feel like I had the appetite for that, but I wasn’t about to argue.

  Lunch gave me a choice: duck curry, roasted chicken salad, or a tofu dish. I grimaced slightly, not sure which to choose. The thought of duck curry sounded rich, hearty, but I knew I’d have to pace myself. Roasted chicken salad seemed like the safest bet, but tofu? It seemed like it belonged in a diet plan for someone far more disciplined than I felt at the moment.

  A snack followed two hours later—a medicinal yogurt that contained some kind of pill I was to take with it. I wasn’t sure what the pill was for, but the yogurt had an oddly calming look about it. Maybe it was part of the concoction to help my body repair the damage.

  Finally, dinner. A light vegetable salad, paired with three small slices of fish. Simple, manageable, but lacking in any sort of indulgence. I sighed, knowing it was for the best.

  With all the prescribed meals laid out for me, I had little choice but to comply. The details had a quiet, almost clinical precision to them, designed for efficiency, healing. But somehow, I found myself resenting the lack of options, the limitations. This wasn’t about choice or comfort. It was about survival.

  “Understood,” I muttered, looking up at Surgeon Fincarr with a mix of thanks and frustration. “Three days, huh?”

  His eyes softened slightly. “Yes. But you’ve been through much more than expected. Just follow the plan, and you’ll be back on your feet in no time.” He gave a gentle nod before turning to leave, the door sliding shut behind him.

  I sat in the sterile hospital room, staring at the meal plan on my Gloss, feeling a strange sense of unease. Everything was laid out for me—clear, organized, precise—but it only served to remind me that I was at the mercy of a system I barely understood. How much of my life was truly mine to control anymore?

  But for now, I had no choice. I had to heal. I had to survive. The world outside was waiting, and I couldn’t afford to be weak for long. I took a deep breath, feeling the weight of it all pressing down on me, and forced myself to focus on the task at hand: recovery and answers.