(Dylan)

Concern replaced the brief relief on Nathan’s face. “Where are Zepperlin and Ramone?”

“I couldn’t find them.” Meekan shook her head. “But I’ll keep looking.” She bolted back down the hallway without waiting for a reply.

“Meekan said you needed me?” Le’pard strode into the infirmary, scanning the room.

“Dylan, meet Le’pard. Le’pard, this is Dylan.” Nathan’s introduction was quick and distracted.

Dylan reclined in the chair, eyes half-shut. He held up a hand and wiggled it in what he hoped was Le’pard’s direction. “Hi.”

“We need to keep him alive.” Nathan gestured toward Dylan, moving swiftly to the cabinet to retrieve three blue vials.

“What’s wrong with him?” Le’pard asked, his eyes trailing Nathan as he dashed around the room. “What do you need me to do?”

“Restore his health whenever it drops, and use this when your mana runs low.” Nathan pressed a blue vial into Le’pard’s clawed hand.

“A mana potion?” Le’pard eyed the vial, concern etched across his face. “How long do we need to keep healing him?”

“Until an elf appears in that corner.” Nathan gestured toward the glowing rune on the wall. The healing river inside Dylan ebbed, only for the prismatic elf to replenish it with another spell.

Nathan locked eyes with Le’pard. “Dylan’s running on a delayed-release healing potion, but I’m boosting it with an ability. It’s wearing off soon, and I’m not sure the two of us can keep him alive.”

Le’pard’s practiced eye scanned Dylan and the situation, piecing everything together with ease. “How many potions has he taken?”

“Two. He needs to take this poison cleanse in…” Nathan’s voice trailed off as he glanced at the clock, exhaling through his nose. “I didn’t check when he took the last one, but it should be safe in five minutes.”

Le’pard tilted his head, his gaze narrowing on Nathan. “You didn’t check?”

“He was too busy suffocating me,” Dylan replied.

Le’pard blinked, confusion flickering across his face. Nathan crossed the room and leaned out the door, scanning both ends of the hallway.

The prismatic elf turned around. “He tried coughing it up.” He folded his arms, fixing Dylan with a stare.

Le’pard gave a slow, understanding nod.

Dylan crossed his arms, mirroring Nathan. “And that was because he tried to drown me with it first…”

Le’pard’s brow furrowed, confusion returning to his features.

“You were slipping in and out of consciousness because you were dying.” Nathan said flatly.

The healing river inside him dried up, shadows creeping back in. Dylan no longer cared who won the argument. “I think it’s worn off.”

“Are you sure?” Nathan glanced at the clock again, his voice tight with concern.

“Yep.” Dylan winced. “I feel like shit again.”

Le’pard studied Dylan with a raised brow. “Interesting description.”

Nathan sighed. “His culture’s full of idioms.” He stepped back, giving Le’pard room to work. “I’ve done what I can. It’s your turn now.”

Le’pard strode to the sink, filled a mug, and took a long gulp. He cleared his throat twice, then drew a deep breath. The draconi began with a low rumble, his voice booming through the room and reverberating down the hallways. Dylan’s ears felt the song as much as heard it.

‘He’s a bard,’ Dylan thought as he listened to the wordless baritone. The deep, powerful notes resonated through the air, soothing his mind as much as his body.

Le’pard shaped his voice into sounds of wonder, sustenance, and beauty. Dylan had never been to the opera, but he was certain this was far better.

Tears welled in Dylan’s eyes—not just from relief, but from the sheer beauty of Le’pard’s voice. The harmonic draconi’s song carried no discernible message, only raw, emotional healing.

Verse after verse, Le’pard paused only to sip water. Meanwhile, Nathan administered the poison cleanse potion as the harmonic draconi’s magic fought to keep Dylan alive.

Fifteen minutes had passed since Le’pard began, and he stopped again—this time to down his second mana potion.

Le’pard shot Nathan a worried glance. Nathan, still stationed by the door, shook his head, scanning the hall for any sign of Meekan or another mender.

Flushed and weary from each verse, Le’pard’s breath came heavier, and the strain crept into his voice. Each note felt heavier than the last, his throat tightening as fatigue set in, but he refused to let it falter. His muscles ached from holding steady, every verse pulled from a dwindling reserve of strength. Yet he pressed on, knowing that stopping now wasn’t an option.

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The pain surged back, sharper and fiercer than before, crashing through Dylan like a tidal wave. He curled onto his side, his arms hugging his midsection as if bracing against the onslaught. Each breath hitched, ragged and shallow, as he fought to stifle his cries—but the sounds escaped anyway, low and broken, slipping past clenched teeth.

‘It’s been too long,’ Dylan thought, panic bubbling beneath the surface. ‘If I die, I’ll just end up back here. I don’t want to go like that. “Deathloop Dylan” sounds like a terrible way to go.’

Le’pard drew another deep breath and began again. The notes dulled the pain, but only slightly; this was a losing battle. Dylan’s health dropped faster than Le’pard’s magic could restore. Curled on his side, eyes shut tight, Dylan clung to the beauty of his voice.

Four minutes later, Le’pard finished the final verse and collapsed into his chair, elbows braced on his knees, gasping for breath.

“That’s it.” Le’pard sucked in another breath. “I’m spent. How long until the next potion?” He didn’t even have the strength to lift his head.

“About a minute,” Nathan said, his voice dropping. “But we can’t use a healing potion.”

“Why the Infernal not?” Le’pard snapped, still catching his breath.

Nathan bit his lip, glancing at Dylan, who was curled on the chair, writhing in pain. “He might need one more poison cleanse potion.”

Le’pard glanced at Dylan, then dropped his gaze to the floor. Dylan lay with his back to them, muffling his whimpers.

The harmonic draconi stood, filled his mug to the brim, and dumped it over his overheated head. “Give me another.” He held out his hand, water streaming down his face.

Nathan shot Le’pard a confused look. “You can’t—your cooldown isn’t up.” His eyes shifted back to yellow as realization dawned.

The harmonic draconi kept his hand steady. “I won’t die if I take another potion.” He nodded toward Dylan. “But your friend will, if I don’t. Now hand me the infernal mana potion.”

Nathan hesitated, his grip tightening around the blue vial. He knew exactly what it would do to his fellow mender, and the weight of that choice anchored him in place for a heartbeat too long. With a reluctant sigh, he extended the last mana potion. Le’pard took it, holding it up to the light, inspecting it with a frown.

“What was your friend’s name again?” Le’pard stared at the blue vial, turning it slowly in his hand.

“Dylan.”

“Well, Dylan.” Le’pard twisted the top off, raising the vial in a mock toast. “If you survive this, you owe me one.” He downed the potion in a single gulp, and they both waited for it to take effect.

Le’pard patted his stomach, glancing around. “Hmm, maybe—” A second later, he doubled over, dropping the empty vial. “Ugh, there it is. Sacred Mother, that stings.” He slumped back into his seat.

“Your elf friend has three, maybe four, verses to get here.” Le’pard opened his mouth and launched into the first verse.

Dylan’s rigid body eased, his thoughts drifting. ‘Where are you, Charles?’

Le’pard sang until he could sing no more—and then he pushed past that. No one counted the minutes he bought them. Exhausted and trembling, barely upright in his chair, his voice finally gave out. Dylan’s whimpers and Le’pard’s ragged breaths hung heavy in the silence.

The harmonic draconi rasped through a parched throat, “Give him the potion.”

Nathan kept his gaze fixed down the hall, avoiding both of them. “I can’t.”

Dylan lay motionless on the reclined chair, his chest barely rising and falling. His mind teetered on the edge of consciousness.

“You… can’t?” Le’pard let out a dry laugh. “I’ve given him everything I’ve got—and then some.” His eyes stayed shut, his trembling elbows braced on his knees.

“There’s still time. If I give him a healing potion now, and we don’t have enough status gummies to purge the poison, he’ll die anyway.” Nathan swallowed hard, forcing himself to stick with the plan.

“What difference does it make? Give—” Le’pard broke off as Charles materialized beside Dylan, a glass jar tucked under one arm and a few wrapped loaves under the other.

Charles strode over, setting the jar and loaves on the countertop by the sink. “Apologies for the delay. I was arrested.”

“Arrested?!” Nathan upended the jar onto the countertop, quickly sorting out the green ones.

Charles stepped toward Le’pard, who remained slumped over. From his pocket, he pulled the severed hand of an elf and held it under Le’pard’s nose. “Get this to the hospital. Immediately.”

Le’pard straightened, horror dawning in his eyes. “Are those… teeth marks?”

Charles ignored the question, letting the hand drop into Le’pard’s lap before turning back to Nathan.

“When you’re done saving Dylan, send your best theropod handler and a corruptor with crowd-control expertise to your office.”

“To my office? Why?” Nathan glanced up, still sorting the status gummies.

“Please, don’t put her down.” Charles swung his bow off his shoulder and propped it against the wall by the doorway.

“What do you mean, arrested?” Nathan resumed picking out the green status gummies.

“We assaulted an officer.” Charles slid both daggers from their holsters and tossed them beside the bow.

Le’pard stared at the severed hand, his voice rising. “Did you kill them?!”

Charles shook his head. “No. We were close enough to the hospital; he should still be alive.” He drew both swords at once, the blades clattering to the ground beside the other weapons as he continued disarming.

The rugged elf unfastened the quiver from his thigh and propped it in the corner between the floor cabinet and the wall.

“This hand was… chewed on.” Le’pard grimaced, holding it out to Charles.

“Once Dylan and Vera are safe, I’d take it as a personal favor if you stopped by the constabulary.” Charles turned and made for the hallway.

“And where are you going?” Nathan called after him.

Charles paused in the doorway. “To turn myself in.” And with that, he was gone.

“Get that on ice.” Nathan nodded toward the hand.

A slightly winded Meekan reappeared in the doorway. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t find them. They might be in town or at the hospital—I’m not sure. How’s he doing?” Her gaze shifted to Dylan, concern shadowing her features.

Nathan propped Dylan up, guiding the poison cleanse potion to his lips. “Alive, for now.”

Meekan peered around Nathan at Dylan, biting her lip. “What else can I do to help?”

“Grab the container from Le’pard and get it to the hospital—fast,” Nathan instructed.

“How’s that supposed to help Dylan?” Meekan tilted her head, frowning.

“It doesn’t. There’s a hand in there that needs to be reattached to an officer at the hospital. I don’t know what happened, but we need to hurry.” Nathan held up six green status gummies.

Meekan snatched the box and sprinted toward the hospital.

“Dylan, can you hear me?” Nathan’s voice was steady but urgent.

Dylan let out a weak grunt.

“We don’t have time to do this one at a time,” Nathan said.

Dylan gave another low grunt.

“Sorry, but this is about to be the worst ten minutes of your life.” He shoved all six green status gummies into Dylan’s mouth.

Nathan readied the bucket and adjusted Dylan’s chair upright. Dylan chewed, swallowed—and, as promised, endured the worst ten minutes of his life. Just when he thought there was nothing left, another wave of nausea hit him hard.

After the ten terrible minutes, Nathan wiped Dylan’s mouth and chin with a damp cloth before taking the bucket. “Thank the Mother we didn’t use the last healing potion.”

“Thank you,” Dylan muttered, the words barely escaping before exhaustion claimed him.