All was ringing and harsh breaths and the rush of blood in her ears. Talia’s heart beat a painful staccato between her ribs, which screamed bloody agony as she pulled her blade free from where it was buried to the hilt in the still corpse of the garbog.

She felt nothing but numbness and throbbing pain.

The arcanist was once again covered in blood and viscera. She stood shakily, sliding clumsily down from her perch on the wyrm’s back. Around her, delvers stood, exhausted, tending to the aftermath of the battle.

Most of them at least.

A good few had frozen, staring at the woman who had ridden the wyrm into the ground after jumping four meters straight up onto its back. Talia couldn’t quite decipher the emotions that lay behind their eyes.

Her mother’s sword’s strengthening properties were the only thing keeping her stand—

A wet cough wracked its way out of her chest, nearly bending her over from the sharp agony of it. Only her father’s teachings stopped her from convulsing fully. Everything she knew about broken ribs screamed at her to move them as little as possible.

The cough was loud in the suddenly silent tunnel. Any delvers injured enough to truly moan about it were either passed out or…dead. The Deep was unforgiving, but at least, it seemed merciful.

Talia’s bloodshot eyes snagged on the face of the skirmisher she’d smiled at before the battle began. The young girl sat up against the tunnel wall, her shield and spear tossed carelessly beside her, mouth twisted into a rictus smile and raven hair spread out in a sweaty halo about her shoulders. Her cyan eyes, like dreams of brighter skies, were fixed off in the distance, on some place beyond reckoning.

A trail of already drying blood trickled down from between her blue lips, running down onto her unmoving, deflated chest.

Talia stumbled forward, using her sword sheath as a cane.

The staring delvers followed her with their eyes.

The arcanist crouched to shut the dead girl’s sapphire eyes with bruised fingers. Another cough climbed Talia’s throat like a mournful sob. She stuffed sorrow in the box with its friends.

Then she wheezed, taken by an agonising coughing fit, and wiped away the spittle from her mouth.

Purpling fingers came away red. She spat a gob red and white onto the already bloody floor.

Oh. That’s not good…

It didn’t feel like she had a punctured lung, but pink and red were not the colours her spit was supposed to be, that much she knew. Bright spots danced cheerfully in front of her eyes.

Talia registered that someone was speaking, their voice sounding as if it was underwater.

“…a name for yourself already, with feats like that,” Torval was saying.

“Huh?” she replied eloquently.

The delvemaster was standing behind her, leaning on his silverite spear.

“I was just musing over what titles—oh gods. Medic!”

Huh, I don’t remember lying down. But I might just…rest my eyes…a bit.

“…stay…. —wake…hear me…?” came the voice of who Talia assumed must be the delvemaster.

The white spots spread across her vision, fading to black and then to pitch.

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When Talia woke, orange light stabbed at her eyes. Her skin burned irritatingly against an otherwise comfortable cot. Her head pounded. Her tongue felt glued to the bottom of her mouth.

Voices spoke in hushed tones by her side.

“…doubt she’ll even wake. The internal injuries alone should have killed her already. I don’t know how she’s still alive. Pierced lung, four broken ribs and multiple skull fractures, not to mention pneumonia. She should be dead by rights.”

That’s me he’s talking about. I’m…dying?

Talia faded from consciousness briefly.

“…you can Neverin, I don’t expect miracles. Either way, keep me apprised.”

“I will,” the healer replied, “just don’t get your hopes up.”

The lightstone flickered out.

Talia fell back into a feverish sleep, full of dreams of purple runes and dying suns.

----------------------------------------

An indeterminate amount of time passed. Cycle upon cycle of darkness and colourful visions, interrupted by the odd conversation. She was never present enough to communicate. Simply aware, present. But the presence of others in wagon seven calmed her, made her feel cared for, at least.

Each time she surfaced from sleep, Talia felt a little stronger, a little better.

Finally, the convalescing mage woke truly.

“Water,” she croaked.

A yelp sounded out, followed by the crash of glass shattering against wood. Talia turned her head gingerly to see one of Lazarus’ apprentices staring at her in shock.

“’Oly shite. Yer aloive,” he muttered, mouth agape.

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Through her body ached still, nothing about the grinding thirst in the back of her throat indicated anything other than life. Talia quirked her chapped lips into something resembling a smile.

“Seems—” she coughed painfully “like it.”

The dwarf just stared at her in shock.

“Could I get some water?” she tried again.

But the apprentice was already gone, mumbling something about ‘Master Lazarus’ and disappearing through the entrance curtain, leaving her alone on the sole cot stuffed into a corner of the specialist wagon.

Dammit.

After pressing experimentally at her ribs and feeling only tenderness, Talia gingerly swung her feet out from under the covers. Her legs were weak from what a quick glance at the time trinket on the wall told her had been nearly a month of recovery.

Holy hells, no wonder my ribs feel fine.

But there would be time to consider that later. Sweeping her gaze thirstily across the organized room full of worktables and open space, Talia’s eyes spotted her objective. On a side-table lay a half-eaten mushroom sandwich and a large, untouched mug of something liquid.

If he’s just going to leave like that, only fair that he shares his lunch.

Resting her shaky legs on a nearby stool, the young woman snatched the fare from the table, digging into it in small bites punctuated with sips of water. Talia had seen enough patients make themselves sick from overeating after a long illness to know she should take it slow. Which honestly wasn’t hard, since the sandwich was awful.

Just who in the hell puts mushrooms on mushroom bread? By Wyrr, I’m pretty sure there’s mushroom gravy in there too. Gods man, a little variety never killed anyone. Well, except when it comes to wounds, or illnesses, or…mistresses. Oh, just shut up and eat, Tals.

For a worrisome moment, she almost snarked back at her internal monologue that she was doing just that but caught herself. Probably not an indication of mage-madness. Probably.

Her gluttonous impulsivity was, unfortunately, interrupted by the curtain being pulled open, followed by a flurry of voices, all demanding different things.

“You’re awake!”

“You shouldn’t be out of bed!”

“Holy shit she’s naked!”

“What happened to her hair?”

Talia froze mid gulp, looking over to see Torval, Zaric, Lazarus, Osra and the yet-to-be named dwarf all crowding in the doorway. A feeling of déjà-vu rushed over her.

I’m just going to go ahead and add ‘getting caught mid ravenous binge’ to the list of things to stop doing.

“Is that my sandwich?!”

Embarrassment and social discomfort delayed by needful hunger, and unable to think of something appropriate to say, Talia swallowed her water before taking another bite of the sandwich.

“It tastes like shit. But thanks,” she rasped, still chewing.

Zaric had turned away and put his hand in front of Osra’s eyes. The dwarf seemed unsure where to look, caught between the naked woman sitting before him, and the sandwich in said woman’s hands. Lazarus had a shocked, bewildered look on his face.

Torval was staring right at the long, jagged scar that rippled down the right side of her chest, his face inscrutable. A sense that Talia couldn’t quite place told her that it inspired both pity and curiosity in him, but she dismissed the thought as Lazarus broke the silence.

“Alright! That’s it! Out, all of you, out. You can speak to the young lady after I’ve given her a clean bill of health. Gregory, you head over to the cookpit and grab her something to eat. Stew and soft foods only. And remind me to have a chat with you about how to properly care for a patient that has just woken from a coma.”

The now named dwarf gulped, but was the first out of the wagon, followed by a beet-red Osra, tugged towards the exit by her master. Torval was the last to leave, pulling his gaze from Talia’s scarred chest and meeting her eyes briefly before closing the curtain behind him.

Lazarus harrumphed at their retreating backs, then looked her up and down in a way that might have made her uncomfortable, if a voice in the back of her mind hadn’t whispered that he was cataloguing any potential injuries. Not a lecherous thought crossed his mind, only concern mixed with an incredulous undercurrent.

Though in that moment, if she had been pressed, Talia wouldn’t have been able to explain how she knew that.

“Why don’t you settle on the bed, and I’ll get you some clothes. Yours are in wagon two, but you’re slight enough that Mirielle’s should fit you in the meantime. Actually, on second thought, give me a moment please.”

Lazarus poked his head back through the curtain.

“Osra, be a dear would you, and go fetch me a set of clothes and underclothes from the arcanist’s bunk?”

Panic shot through Talia at the thought that Osra might stumble upon her books.

“The drawer beneath the bed!” she yelled, voice cracking.

“What?” the healer asked, “Oh, she says you shall find them beneath bed.”

Whatever the apprentice mage answered was too muffled for Talia to hear.

Phew, dodged a bolt there.

The healer came back to her, and immediately began peppering her with questions. Did it hurt when he pressed here? No? What about there? Could she bend over? Back? How were her ribs feeling? Any shortness of breath?

The battery of medical curiosity went on for nearly an hour, interrupted only by the arrival of food and clothes. In the end, after examining every one of Talia’s facial cavities and waiting outside the door to the water closet while she was doing her business to ensure he was being extra thorough, the healer gave up. Though he appeared baffled by her condition.

“It’s simply not possible,” Lazarus muttered.

Exhausted all over again and still struggling with a gnawing hunger, Talia just nodded and dug into her second bowl of bland but filling stew.

“There’s no way anyone could simply walk away from what you suffered through. Not after a month. For god’s sake I had to push two of your ribs out of your left lung! There isn’t even a scar!”

Talia nodded, affecting a suitably shocked expression. Lazarus didn’t even look at her, pacing around the room, chin in his hands. Then he stopped. The young woman thought she felt the epiphany hit, almost like a click in his mind.

She frowned into her stew and shook her head.

What is going on with me today?

The elven healer pulled up a chair and sat at the small table with her, staring her down with intense green eyes.

“Unless… did anything odd happen during the battle? It would be something you couldn’t explain. Did you feel suddenly stronger? Did the wind still or speed up, or the earth move at your command?”

The young woman’s spoon froze for a split second on its way to her mouth

Shit. It’s ok. If I stay calm, I can probably just pass it off as fluke. People get miraculously better all the time, right?

Talia sighed.

Who am I kidding. Keeping this secret is going to get me killed.

She thought back to the fight with the garbog, imagining what she might have accomplished if she’d had full control of her powers. Hiding meant that she’d have no time to train and would have to hold back constantly. Thinking back, it had definitely gotten people killed who would have otherwise survived. If she’d been able to pull people from danger with her mind or project a shield like her mother’s artefact, but on her own… who knew how many she could have saved?

Cyan blue eyes and raven hair flashed through her thoughts

Maybe if she came clean, Torval would understand, and she would be able to work on mastering her powers more. Train with Zaric and Osra maybe. Evincrest had implied that the delvemaster might be sympathetic.

Moreover, justifications aside, it was the right thing to do. She didn’t know them well, but none of her fellow crew members deserved to know of the risk she posed. From Kasias’ Treatise, she knew that mage-madness was extremely rare at her age…but rare didn’t mean impossible.

“How did you know?” she asked.

Lazarus stiffened, but his gaze was kind.

“The Apothecarium teaches us the signs. Accelerated healing is only one, but it’s one of the most common too,” he replied softly.

“Why don’t you send for Delvemaster Torval. I’d been meaning to tell him eventually.”

Lazarus hesitated, then patted her awkwardly on the shoulder.

“I will go get him. Shall I call for the Mage-Commandrum as well?”

Talia paused for a second to consider, but then nodded.

I know it’s the right thing to do, but why does it feel like I’ve just signed my death warrant?