Ophelia stroked the boy’s hair. She reached for a long white wooden staff strapped to her back. A dormant white crystal fixed to the top of the staff, caged in sacred white briars. “The Tears of Yrnhaela,” Ophelia said when she caught Quentin looking. She closed her eyes and positioned the crystal near the injury. The crystal activated, glowing brightly, like a star on your palm. Lyke’s leg slowly stitched itself back together, the pink turning into a scar. But Ophelia was straining. With her experience and power, he knew that her healing was not supposed to look like this. He healed that first boy like it was nothing. Quentin knew she had depleted her magic reserves and was battling an already strong corruption of magic.

The glowing stopped. Ophelia struggled to breathe. Quentin pressed ale on her hand, together with freshly baked soft cookies.

Ophelia chuckled through her teeth. "Ale and cookies. Everything is better now." She finished a cookie in one big mouthful. She looked at it, flexed her fingers, shrugged, and took one more. She took big gulps of ale. She seemed to gain some of her strength back, at least enough to lean against the doorframe and talk.

“He won most of the games. Running. Throwing. They wanted to take him, but he needed to…” Ophelia stopped, her hands balling into fists. Quentin saw veins there. “He needed to beat his best friend to a pulp. He didn’t want to do it, of course. So the lower-ranking red priest, that Gul, summoned a fireball and was about to throw it at him. The other nuns and I screamed in outrage.”

She wiped the sweat off her brow. “He moved between his friend to block the fireball, and I was already running to get my staff and send holy light upon the Gul when he threw the fireball directly at me. Lyke was fast. He ran to catch the flame and a holy shield sent by Mother Cassandra wrapped around Lyke, but it was not strong enough to block the intensity of the cursed flame. He still took half of the damage. I healed him there and then as the other nuns formed a human barrier between the soldiers and the students. The rGul commanded them to burn us all down, but even the soldiers knew it was against the rules of their Red Army. He was mad drunk with power, this little red priest. I was not sorry for what I did.” Ophelia stared at Quentin, fiercely. “I cast a bright luminous light that blinded him. The nuns saw and Cassandra told me to flee. She told me that she’d explain that it was against their own rules to harm a spectator. I didn’t know I could still manage such a high-level spell after being dormant for so long.”

“You always had hope in you,” Quentin told her, squeezing her shoulder.

Lyke whimpered. He rolled around and Ophelia gasped when she saw his scorched back. There was fluid leaking out of it. Immediately, Ophelia grabbed her staff again and channeled her healing to the boy’s back, but even after such a bright glow, the boy’s back barely improved. Even with the cool wind that she summoned, Lyke’s back was still hot.

The ungodly burns remained, and that’s just from one lower-ranking red priest. Quentin remembered that white magic cannot simply cure corrupted burns and chills. And that the red magic somehow cancels all of the other disciplines of magic.

Ophelia whispered. “This cannot be. I have to go to the potion master upstairs. Up a tier, I mean. She owes me.”

She turned towards the door but hesitated. Quentin said, “I’ll take care of him. I’ll set him in my room while you go fetch the potion.”

She nodded, leaving her wooden staff, and hurried off. When she had gone, he bent down to carry the boy.

Lyke was taller than Ophelia, even taller than Quentin, but the smaller innkeeper found that when he placed his arms under the lad’s legs and neck, he weighed nothing more than a small child. He carried Lyke towards the passageway and was about to settle him into his room when his keys glowed again. He followed the trail further back inside the inn. He hadn't been in this area before. Partly because it was gloomy and the mystery of this inn cautioned him to explore into its depths.

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He heard another machination, and stairs rolled down from above. He tested his weight on one step and deeming it secure, climbed up to the inn's second floor. The passageway here was a mirror of the one underneath, but this time all the doors had knobs and keyholes.

The brass key remained brass when he unlocked the door closest to the stairs. Once he stepped inside, candles near the bedside lighted themselves. Quentin laid Lyke gently on the fur mattress.

“This is more comfortable than the pelts we use,” Lyke murmured. His voice was deeper than Quentin’s, and even in his wounded state, the lad looked strong. “Where is Sister Ophelia?” he croaked.

“She is getting you medicine.”

“Where?”

“To a potion-maker at the higher tier.”

He groaned. “She’s so strong.” Later, he added, “Not many inns house an orphan like me.”

“Not many inns are like this one,” he whispered.

Quentin scanned the room. There was a small window with a view of some steeples and tiled roofs. He saw lights from many distant lantern posts.

“They plan on bringing me there,” Lyke whispered. He was looking out the window as well. “To their fancy schools. Sister Ophelia told me it was grander before the Red Army came.” He made a face. “As if I want to mingle with spoiled and rotten offspring of the elite. They will always look down on us.”

Quentin did not reply. He looked around the room and saw that it was cozy enough. The bedposts were made of the same kind of hardwood as the furniture downstairs. Blankets made out of wool and pillows stuffed with feathers were prepared in the bed. The only thing missing was food and refreshments. Quentin supposed that lodgers would get that themselves in the bar. He went down, fetching a tankard of ale this time, so that Lyke had something to drink if he kept waking up late in the night. He also grabbed another stale bread from Emralle’s chamber, noticing that the crops were growing nicely. He placed the bread, tankard of ale, and a nice clean towel on a wooden tray, balancing them as he climbed. He thought that perhaps, in the future, when he had more guests, he could build his own machination to carry trays of food upstairs instead of running up and down. Quentin urged Lyke to eat. The lad din, forcing himself to take a bite out of the custard bread. He opened his eyes and smiled, crumbs sticking to his lips. He slept not long after and Quentin wiped the sticky crumbs off his lips. He dimmed the candles and shut the door softly.

He opened the door when he sensed Ophelia was near. Her blonde hair was plastered on her forehead. Breathless, she collapsed on the bar and drank the ale that was ready for her. Her mission was successful: she showed Quentin the small purple vial with a metal latch. She didn’t seem surprised when Quentin led her upstairs to the new part of the inn. She was getting used to the mystery, perhaps.

Ophelia whispered to Lyke and helped him turn around so she could treat his cursed wounds. Quentin watched as she applied the viscous liquid onto the boy’s corrupted burns, the smell of cool mint in the air. Lyke relaxed his shoulders.

“The potion has an added effect of drowsiness, so he’ll be out far longer than usual.” Ophelia almost looked apologetic.

“He’s welcome to stay for however long he likes, even after he has recovered. As are you.”

“I don’t want to be like them. I do not want to go to war.” Lyke was mumbling as he drifted off to sleep. His brows knit together.

Ophelia stroked his hair. “I won’t let them take any of you.”

Lyke’s face relaxed and he began to snore. Ophelia sighed, and the cleric and innkeeper closed the door behind them.

Quentin warmed the cookies by the fire and placed them on soft napkins on the bar. Ophelia took one and brought it with her near the window. They could still hear the distant noise of red soldiers scouring the streets for her and Lyke.

Out of the blue, Ophelia said, “These cookies are helping restore my health and magic.” She holds it out to Quentin. “I can sense it. There is no possible way I could've cast that high-level spell and still have the skill and speed to run up the streets, past the barrier in the gates separating the different districts and tiers, and come back all in one piece. I usually have to rest or pray to the goddess to be able to cast spells again, but one bite of this feels like I’m regaining more of my magic.” She cracked her neck slowly. “Though, I feel it is temporary and I still need to rest to fully recharge.”

“Of course you do,” Quentin said. He was already thinking of placing her next to Lyke’s room upstairs.