They were there waiting for him, exactly how he remembered. Two wooden doors, heavy and made of a dark wood Mirk couldn't pick out the murmuring voice of, scuffed at the bottom, the rug spread out before them threadbare and stained. The heater was still off to the right, still unlit. And the bin he'd thrown up in was still beside it. Mirk wondered, as he steeled himself and crossed the vestibule, who'd been stuck cleaning up after him.

Like last time, Mirk grabbed hold of the metal handle of one of the doors with both hands, bit his lip, and dragged it open. Unlike last time, the emotions that poured into the vestibule were strong, but bearable. Just like the sunlight that streamed in and filled the vestibule along with them. It was the first time natural light had washed over him in months.

The street beyond was full of people. All kinds of people, all rushing to places unknown, their dress and their voices as riotous and colorful as their feelings. There were clusters of women, many of them wearing bright red cloaks over their dresses despite the warm breeze, their voices loud and their gestures expansive. Their unrestrained mannerisms stood in stark contrast to the carefully cultivated and refined grace of the noblewomen he’d trailed after for most of the last four years. So did the ease with which they carried along their heaped baskets of clothes and sundries, balanced against their hips so that they had one hand free to wave or jab at their companions. The difference brought a smile to Mirk’s lips.

Then there were the groups of men, ambling along in larger groups, some of them in plain, workman's trousers and shirts and vests, others dressed for fighting, their patchwork armaments making each one of them distinct despite the uniformly black clothes they wore beneath them. The bulk of the fighting men wore at least a cuirass, though few were made of metal. Fewer still wore maille or gauntlets or any of the other dozens of pieces of armor that Mirk's tutors had tried and failed to drill him on the names of. The fighters all carried swords. Most of them were long and heavy, some too big to be worn at the waist, leaving the men no choice but to carry them propped up on their shoulders instead. Their weapons were also, invariably, the worse for wear.

None of them paid Mirk the slightest bit of attention. Thankfully. Which meant that none of them bore witness to the way he stumbled back past the threshold for a moment to draw up enough magical potential to strengthen his shields. Sensing so much at once — amusement, irritation, and, above all else, fatigue that gave the rest of the emotions a muffled feel — was difficult. But it wasn't unbearable. He'd gotten better, somehow. Mirk shuffled outside and let the door fall shut behind him.

There were a few notables weaving their way through the rest of the pedestrians, Mirk noticed, now that he was able to take a closer look from behind reinforced mental shielding. The mages were easy to spot. They wore robes in the City, just like the guild mages in France, unwilling to let passers-by assume they were nothing but an average man of means. But the robes favored by the English mages weren't so flashy and dramatic, not lined with furs or contrasting silk, instead solid colors that signaled the element of the wearer's magic. Though they lacked the usual flourishes, the robes still bore the marks of refined taste. Especially in their tailoring, the waists and shoulders cut closer than the style currently in fashion among the well-to-do guild mages of Nantes allowed.

Amidst all the other passers-by, the wealthy fighters stood out the most. Their overcoats and riding boots were of high quality, their armor more complete, the latter etched all over with sigils and runes that betrayed the layers of magic on them. Especially their swords, which many wore on their backs rather than at their waists even if their length didn't require it, a subtle indication that they were able to afford the enchantments necessary to make drawing from the back less of a hindrance. Yet they uniformly wore plain black, just like the other fighters. Most had a few lower-born attendants trailing after them hauling stacks of ledgers or rucksacks full of equipment. Mirk wondered if officer positions among the K’maneda were more often bought rather than earned.

There was only one person out in the street at the moment who was dressed as he was, in long, loose, plain gray-green robes. And he was waiting at the foot of the steps that led up to the healers dormitory. Mirk took a moment to smooth his hands over the front of his robes before heading down. No amount of ironing or tailoring could make them look tidy, but, at the very least, Mirk thought it'd be best to greet his new superior not looking like he'd just staggered out of bed. Even if that was closer to the truth than he would have liked to admit.

"Ah...Comrade Commander Emir?" Mirk called out, hesitant.

The man looked up. He flashed Mirk a tight-lipped smile and nodded to him. Greeting a superior from ten feet above simply wouldn't do. Mirk hurried down the steps, his feet sliding in the unfamiliar wooden clogs he'd been given to wear along with the robes in place of normal shoes. But he made it down to the street without tripping, allowing himself to feel proud for a moment of how far he'd come, capable of walking outside like a normal person, without any wincing or crying. And capable of bowing to someone in greeting instead of peering up at them from his bed.

However, before Mirk could bow, Emir had shot off from the base of the steps like a rabbit from out of a bush. Instead of greeting Emir properly, Mirk was forced into a near run to try to keep up with him.

"The healers dormitory is the closest to the parade grounds. And the infirmary. So we don't have far to go," Emir said, without either pausing or looking down at him.

"Ah...that's lucky...I'm glad..." Mirk panted, embarrassed by how little activity it took to wind him. It didn't help that Emir was yet another giant among men, not as tall as K'aekniv or Genesis, but still almost a foot taller than he was. The commander of the Twentieth could take two steps for every one of his. Mirk hoped that the other healers would be a more reasonable height.

"It's the most practical place for it," Emir continued. "By dusk, half of us are too exhausted to hold our shields any further. Besides, the dormitory has been where it is ever since I came here. It takes less work to renew the shields every spring than it would to start over somewhere else."

Despite how flustered he was by it all, Mirk found his smile growing. Emir was sensible, composed, just like he'd expected him to be. He couldn't be completely certain of Emir's linage, but the signs were all there -- long dark hair tied back with a cord rather than a ribbon, light eyes with a faint violet cast that contrasted sharply with his golden brown skin, the black tips of intricate geometric tattoos that peaked out along the neckline of his robes.

The commander of the Twentieth Medical Division had to be a half-blood angel from south of the Mediterranean. All the other Moorish half-bloods Mirk had met had the same erect bearing and practical attitude. Except for when they got into debates, or got wrapped up in retelling a story of their youthful adventures across the great desert. Then they tended to get sentimental, wistful in a way that a full-blood angel would never tolerate, either in each other or themselves.

Mirk tried to quit gawking and make polite conversation. But he was having trouble finding both the right words and enough air to speak them. "Oh...that's smart...everything is smart here..."

Emir looked back at him, then paused. Mirk hurried to his side, then stopped to catch his breath. The temptation to clutch his aching sides nearly overwhelmed Mirk's manners. Emir was diplomatic enough not to comment on his panting, instead directing Mirk's attention to the buildings ahead of them. "There are only two other original buildings between the dormitory and the infirmary. The library and the central armory. The armory's the one closer to the parade grounds."

It was easy to tell which buildings were original and which had been built more recently. The oldest buildings in the City of Glass were made of flat, slate gray stones, each of them perfectly smooth and cut so precisely that Mirk couldn't tell if there was anything binding them together beyond their own weight. But unlike the other ancient places he'd visited, the City’s oldest buildings were plain, rectangular and indistinguishable from each other.

Between the older buildings were all sorts of other constructions, none of them quite so perfect. The most popular style was one that featured a ground floor made of salvaged stone, with the levels above half-timber, the gaps between the dark wooden beams painted a bright white that reflected back the morning sun. They were as bright and tidy as the rest of the City around them, even if they lacked the majesty of the older buildings.

The place really was a marvel. The streets were free of all the usual detritus, the leavings of both horses and men churned into an unappealing slop that most people of means took carriages to avoid slogging through. Mirk wasn't sure whether it was due to some magic, or if a large contingent of the workers around them were tasked with keeping them clean. "Your City is very interesting, Comrade Commander. I'm very happy to be able to see it all now," Mirk said, once he was composed enough to better hide how out of breath he was.

Emir clasped his hands behind his back, scanning the faces of the people that sidestepped around them. The crowd avoided them without prompting. As if, in the absence of actual rubbish left out in the street, they were the next worst thing, best avoided and not examined too hard. "Let me know when you're ready to continue," Emir said.

Mirk sighed. His weakness made him feel useless. Though Emir, considering his profession, must have understood better than most how much the kindling sickness exhausted an empath. There was nothing for Mirk to feel ashamed of. Nevertheless, he still felt compelled to apologize. "Ah, I'm sorry, Comrade Commander...it's only been so long since I've been out."

Emir shrugged. "There's no rush. And you don't have to call me that. The high-ranking mages and officers will expect you to use their titles or sir at them, but we don't stand on formality in the infirmary. At least not in the Twentieth."

"Oh...right..." Mirk already felt strange calling those above him in station comrade-something instead of by a proper title. And most of the fighters he’d met from the Seventh refused even that courtesy, Genesis most stridently of all. The word felt too familiar to Mirk's ears. Apparently it was a crude translation of some similar-sounding term in the ancient, long-dead language of the original K'maneda, according to the commander. "I'm sorry. I'll do my best to remember, co...euh...no, not comrade, but maybe ilae..."

Emir's eyes narrowed. "Are my shields that bad? Or is too much getting through yours?"

Mirk shook his head. "Oh, no. I...well, my father was close with the southern half-bloods. Ilae Kasim from our house guard was wingless."

After giving a snort of a laugh, Emir turned away from Mirk, looking off down the street. "Right. I forget that you're a half-blood. You're just so short."

And wingless as well. And soft. And he had few of the other usual markers of a northern half-blood besides, his eyes too dark and only tinged with hints of purple, his hair blond rather than silver or gray, his complexion too rosy, especially considering how fair his mother had been. Mirk and his mother had shared the same unassuming height, though everything else about them was different. Her dark hair made her skin look even more clear and pale, and her lively blue eyes, which she had always brightened by wearing sapphire, were perfectly proportioned to the rest of her fine features. Mirk let his mind linger on the memory of her only for as long as it took to reply to Emir. "I take after my mother."

This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

"I get mistaken for one of Ravensdale's djinn more often than people spot that I'm half-angel. Then again, most of what the K'maneda knows about angels is limited to how to kill them."

"Aren't there other half-bloods here? Or any full-bloods?"

"There's one full-blood in the assassins, but you should stay away from him. As for the other half-angel, you already know him. The Russian." The tired look that crossed Emir’s face made it clear what the head healer thought of K’aekniv.

Mirk chuckled. "Niv’s very nice. He’s just…a little much, sometimes."

"Tell that to my nurses."

They carried on then. If Emir slowed his pace to make things easier on him, Mirk couldn't tell. He was winded again by the time they made it to the parade grounds, a big rectangle of trampled-down grass. A strange metal device made up of two pillars with an archway connecting them high above the ground stood at one end, and a tower at the other. Mirk almost hadn't noticed the tower, even though it was three times taller than all the other buildings. From the outside, it seemed to be made entirely of glass. Glass that cast arcs of rainbow down onto the field below it.

"The City's namesake," Emir said, gesturing at the tower as he paused across the street from the foot of the steps to another old building, the third away from the dormitory. "And the main transporter," the head healer continued, referencing the metal structure opposite it.

There was a crowd of men milling around in front of it, all of them in thick, buttoned outer coats and gloves despite the summer sunshine. Only their helmets and swords give any indication that they were fighters. Exhaustion radiated off them like heat off a brazier. At their head were five djinn dressed in identical black robes that matched the thick collars around their necks. They looked as weary as the rest of the men felt. "Without the transporters, we'd have probably been either taken over by a guild or run out of money centuries ago,” Emir added, when Mirk declined to comment.

"I've heard of those," Mirk said, trying to take deep breaths to hide his strain, in through his nose and out through his mouth.

"Most of the divisions have a smaller transporter they take through to make things easier on the other side. The infirmary has one too. That's how the worst patients come to us. Anyone who can still walk comes back through onto the parade grounds and we have to drag them up the steps. Impractical, but no one listens to me when I tell them that."

Though it was clear to Mirk that Emir was uninterested in lingering in the street long enough for him to get his fill of gawking at all of the City's oddities, Mirk felt compelled to stay beside the parade grounds and the men waiting before the transporter. It was the djinn that kept drawing his attention, Mirk realized. They were sickly, worn down to nothing, their faces too gaunt and their hair so thin that patches of their scalps showed through. Despite all of that, Mirk couldn't feel more than a hint of their fatigue.

Their robes hid their wounds well, but Mirk had seen enough djinn in his life to tell that at least three of them had injuries to one or more of their limbs. All the djinn Mirk had ever seen, pulling open the doors to noble parlors ahead of him or whisking by on their business sending messages back and forth, had been so composed. So upright, so controlled, their faces guarded, yet pleasant. The djinn before the transporter were all wilted, the way they leaned to one side or the other and how their arms hung limply at their sides betraying their pain. The same as their pinched faces, all a sickly yellowy color instead of a rich variety of tawny golds and rich umbers.

"Your team is waiting," Emir said, after a minute or two had passed.

Mirk knew he needed to listen. He was a no one, allowed to stay in the City only out of charity and whatever influence Genesis and the rest of the Seventh had over the divisional commanders. Really, he was being given undue deference as it was — why waste a proper commander's time on someone who only knew the most instinctual parts of healing, whose empathy had been honed at parties instead of by helping make others well?

And yet, Mirk couldn't make himself move. The longer he looked at them all, both the djinn and the men, the more little things he noticed. Open sores. Bodies that were too thin, just sturdy enough to bear up under the weight of a sword. Coughs, covered by sleeves or the odd rag, both pockmarked with blood. "Euh...the healers here really must be very busy," Mirk said, as he tried to buy time, tried to think of a way to express his concerns in a way that didn't sound accusatory.

Emir started to ask a question, but fell silent after only a few words. Mirk glanced back at him. He was looking across the parade grounds at the djinn as well, frowning. "The djinn are all the Tenth's business. Command doesn't allow the healers from the Twentieth to work on them."

"Methinks it's only a little...euh...strange sending them to fight like that," Mirk said, choosing his words carefully. "I don't know as much as you do about how the fighting here is done, of course, but methinks everyone would have an easier time if they were healthy."

"You can always buy more djinn. And more fighters." The way Emir said the words had a second-hand cast, like he was repeating a refrain he no longer held any belief in.

"I...of course. But...still. It all seems a little...hmm..."

"Yes. It's cruel. But it's not my division."

"Are things so...set, here? The way Genesis spoke of things, the commanders all can do a little of what they'd like. But I may have misunderstood. You would know better, of course. Comrade Commander."

Emir laughed. There wasn't a trace of humor in the sharp sound. "You're much more polite about your demands than the other nobles here."

Mirk felt the blood rush to his face in an instant. He wrung his hands together at his waist, fighting against the urge to protest. All his manners were shouting at him to nod and go along with things, to offer a prayer for the djinn and push them out of mind. But what good was praying when healing was what was needed? Healing that was right there, coiled up inside of him, potential that'd been wasted all the long months he'd been in bed? "I'm sorry, Comrade Commander," Mirk said, struggling to speak loudly enough to be heard over the din out in the street. "I know it isn't my place. But can't we do anything at all?"

"No," Emir said, after a long pause. "But he can."

Mirk looked away from the djinn once more, only to find that Emir was no longer staring across the parade grounds at them. Instead, he was looking over his shoulder, back at the tall, plain building they'd stopped in front of. A man in the black fighter's uniform but without any weapons was at the top of its steps, holding one of its double doors open. Without looking to the side to acknowledge the fighter, another man walked out, head held high, nose wrinkling as the sun hit his face.

That, Mirk thought, was more in line with what he'd been expecting out of someone who led a division. Emir was impressive, but only if one knew how to search out the right details. The man headed down the front steps of the infirmary left no room for doubting his authority.

Emir wore the same robes that Mirk did; the man on the steps had his tailored precisely to his frame, and had gone through the effort of adding all the proper adornments to them befitting a man of means. Subtle silver embroidery down its whole length, double-stitched with gold around the collar and cuffs in a pattern so intricate it must have taken nearly a month to stitch, even with magic to help. His long sandy blond hair was held in place with a large clip, also silver, with a cluster of dark stones at its center.

And his hands, swinging at his sides with the practiced, yet natural motions of one who'd been given lessons for years to enhance the grace he'd been born with, were slender and white. With mages and ladies, it always was prudent to take note of their hands. The man on the steps didn't look like he'd held anything heavier than a wand in his life.

The man didn't notice them, or the men on the parade grounds, or even the people on the street who instinctively made way for him. That was, until Emir raised his voice and called out to stop him. "Comrade Cyrus!" The man turned to look, a scowl twisting up his face once he spotted Emir on the other side of the street. "A word?" Emir's voice had taken on a coldness it hadn't contained before.

Though the man's body was well-trained, his face wasn't. He rolled his eyes like a boy being scolded about his penmanship by his tutor before he gave in and crossed the street to meet Emir face to face. "What do you want?" the man, Cyrus, apparently, asked Emir. His resentment at having to crane his neck to look up far enough to meet Emir's eyes skittered across Mirk's mental shielding. He was only half a hand taller than Mirk was. And, Mirk noticed, now that Cyrus was closer, he had padding sewn to the inside of the shoulders of his robes to fill them out more.

"Those djinn shouldn't be going out like that," Emir said, gesturing back at the transporter. But he didn't shift his eyes away from Cyrus.

"That's none of your business," Cyrus snapped, his eyes narrowing. "Mind your own divisions."

"The fighters are from the First. It's half my business."

Cyrus scoffed. "What do I care if Ravensdale decides to throw North a bone? So you'll have a little extra work to do tonight. It's not my problem."

Mirk knew he shouldn't say anything. But the venom in the look Cyrus threw in the direction of the djinn when he deigned to glace at them, the disgust that he threw with it, strong enough to cut past Mirk's shielding, startled Mirk so badly he forgot his place. He'd never felt such animosity from someone over such a small thing. At least, he'd never felt it displayed so openly from someone who should have known how to control himself better. Mirk spoke up. "If it's too much trouble for you to see to it in person, Comrade Commander, I'm certain someone else would. Even a little healing would make things much better for them, methinks."

It took the commander of the Tenth a moment to notice Mirk standing beside Emir. When he did, the press of his annoyance against Mirk's still-tender mind doubled. "Who the hell are you?"

In that instant, Mirk was glad for all the hours he'd had the art of making a proper introduction drilled into him as a child. He didn't need to think to find the right bow, to put the right politely deferential smile on his face, despite how much of a mess he'd stumbled into. Performing the practiced gestures and words gave Mirk time to start thinking up what he'd do after he'd concluded. "Mirk Dishoael d'Avignon. An honor to be of service to you, Comrade Commander."

Cyrus's eyebrows lifted as his attention shot back to Emir. "I thought you were estranged from the rest of the half-breeds, Emir."

Rather than rising to the provocation, Emir ignored it. Unlike Cyrus, Emir had exceptional control over the power of his emotions; Mirk couldn't feel a thing from him, though his tone remained cold. "If even a trainee can tell that those djinn haven't been healed right, then you're doing a poor job. Either heal them, or don't. But know that I will tell North that you've been negligent in your work." Emir paused, glancing over his shoulder at the djinn. If they could hear them discussing their fate, they gave no indication of it. "I look forward to doing the work myself once North complains to Ravensdale about it."

After thinking the threat through for a moment, Cyrus threw up his hands and stalked off, shouting something across the street at the man in blacks still up on the steps beside the doors before hurrying off down the street. Cyrus had spoken too quickly and the noise out in the street was too loud for Mirk to follow his words. But the tired, humorless smile Emir gave in response told the story well enough.

"I'm sorry to have caused you so much trouble, Emir," Mirk said, once he was certain Cyrus was out of earshot.

Emir waved a dismissive hand at him. "You were right about all of it. I'm just used to seeing them like that. It hardly even registers. For better or worse."

Mirk couldn't think of anything to say in response that didn't risk making him sound ungrateful for Emir's intervention. So he changed the subject, just a little. "You're very tactful, though. Methinks none of the other half-angels from across the sea would have been so...euh, delicate about things."

"In the K'maneda, you either learn to make good threats, or learn to give good beatings. I'd prefer to spare myself the headache, so I favor the former. In any case. Your team is waiting for us. Unless Yule was out drinking all night again." Emir grumbled the last bit to himself, not waiting for Mirk to reply before heading off across the street. The doors at the top of the infirmary steps opened again, and this time a group of three healers with bags full of supplies in hand trouped out of it instead of a commander. They nodded to Emir as they passed him at the foot of the steps. Not without a bit of respect, Mirk thought. He could understand why.

Pulling up the hem of his robes so that he wouldn't trip on them, Mirk ran across the street to catch up with Emir. His superior was right. If there was someone in the infirmary who was anticipating his arrival, it wouldn't do to leave them waiting. First impressions always counted. And even though Mirk hadn't done the best job with the commander of either the Tenth or the Twentieth, at the very least he could try to do better with the people he'd be spending his days working alongside.