Elyse lay sprawled on the floor, unconscious, a crimson puddle where she stood only moments before. Marcus knelt beside her, his face etched with a mixture of shock and concern. His hand hovered over a gleaming dagger that lay on the floorboards next to Elyse's outstretched arm, a scarlet stain marring the silver hilt. Across the room, Isaac stood by the table, his face pale but resolute. Caleb, surprisingly, seemed to be awake, a bloody handprint smeared across his chest.

The scene before me defied comprehension. What had transpired in these few moments of silence? Where did the dagger come from? And most importantly, who had attacked Elyse? My questions hung heavy in the air, unanswered.

"What happened?" I gasped, my voice barely a whisper. Marcus looked up.

"He's okay," Marcus said, the words hitting my ears with the force of a revelation. I turned, searching his face. Relief battled exhaustion in his eyes, but a genuine smile, the first I'd seen in what felt like forever, tugged at the corners of his lips.

My vision, blurred with worry, sharpened. There on the table lay Caleb. His chest rose and fell, shallow but steady. Gone was the sickly green glow that had emanated from him moments ago, replaced by a faint, rosy flush.

My legs, shaky from the adrenaline surge, propelled me towards Caleb. Every muscle in my body ached, a dull throb that paled in comparison to the storm of emotions churning inside me. Tears pricked at my eyes as I saw the peaceful rise and fall of his chest. Relief battled with a fresh wave of worry.

"What about Elyse?" I whispered, my voice hoarse.

Marcus' gaze flicked to the unconscious figure lying a few feet away. Her brow was furrowed, even in sleep, and her pale skin seemed almost translucent. Concern creased his brow. "She used a lot of energy," he explained. "She'll be unconscious for a day or two, but she'll be fine."

His words should have been a comfort, but a knot of unease tightened in my stomach. Elyse, always so vibrant, drained? The cost of saving Caleb seemed heavy, a debt we owed her tenfold.

I forced myself to focus on the present. Caleb was alive. That was all that mattered, for now. But a silent vow bloomed in my chest. We wouldn't leave Elyse's side. We'd repay this debt, whatever it took.

I eyed the bloody handprint on Caleb’s chest and the dagger on the floor next to Elyse. "What kind of magic was that?" I blurted out, curiosity warring with worry.

Marcus hesitated, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his features. His eyes darted towards Elyse, then back to me. "Look," he said, his voice low, "There are things about Elyse's magic...things she keeps close to the chest. Trust me, it was powerful. But if I explained it, well, let's just say she wouldn't be too happy with me."

Then, across the room, a flicker of movement. Caleb's eyelids fluttered open, revealing a sliver of brown. His gaze, unfocused at first, met mine, then slowly sharpening with recognition. A weak smile, or maybe a grimace, tugged at his lips.

"Sparkle," he rasped, his voice barely a whisper.

"Caleb," I breathed, my voice thick with emotion. Tears welled up again, blurring my vision. Relief, overwhelming and fierce, washed over me.

Just then, Isaac beside him spoke. "Easy there," he said gently, offering Caleb a small cup. "Let's get you some more pain relief."

The flickering fire cast dancing shadows on the walls of the infirmary as Marcus stretched and stood before the cots that now served as Caleb’s and Elyse’s sickbeds. "Alright you two, I should probably head back to the dormitory. But if anything changes, anything at all, you yell for me, alright?"

I glanced at Caleb, his face peaceful in sleep despite the grimace that had been etched there earlier. Elyse, nestled beside him, was a tangle of white hair and soft snores. A pang of worry twisted in my stomach.

"Actually," I started hesitantly, then stopped. How could I explain the disquiet that settled over me?

Sensing my hesitation, Marcus raised an eyebrow. "Something wrong?"

I chewed on my lip. "I, uh... I was thinking maybe I should stay. Just in case."

Marcus's gaze flickered between me and the sleeping couple. "You sure? You look beat. We can take turns watching over them."

I shook my head, the image of Caleb stirring in pain flashing in my mind. "No, I want to be here. But you don't have to stay either. I'll be fine."

Marcus studied me for a moment, his expression unreadable in the firelight. Then, with a slow nod, he conceded. "Alright. But if you need anything at all, don't hesitate to call, yell, send up smoke signals — whatever it takes."

A grateful smile tugged at my lips. "Thanks, Marcus."

With a final wave, Marcus disappeared into the night. I settled into a worn armchair facing the fire, the warmth radiating against my skin a small comfort.

Isaac knelt on the cold stone floor beside a pile of bloodied cloths and empty vials. He worked meticulously, his brow furrowed in concentration as he folded the leftover bandages and sorted through the meager medical supplies we’d managed to salvage. Every clink of a vial against stone echoed in the vast chamber, a jarring counterpoint to the ragged breaths of Caleb and Elyse.

Sleep, heavy and unwelcome, pressed down on my eyelids. But every time I drifted close, a flicker of movement or a sigh from Caleb would jolt me awake.

The fire dwindled to embers, casting an even dimmer light on the room. Exhaustion gnawed at me, but I remained vigilant, a silent guardian in the armchair, determined to be there if my friends needed me.

Over the next few days, a fragile routine settled in. Isaac, meticulous and focused, cleaned Caleb's wound every morning and evening. I, with a quiet efficiency, brought him simple meals – broth, porridge, anything easy to swallow. He was still too weak to speak, but the unspoken communication flowed. A hand on his shoulder, a concerned glance, a reassuring smile – these conveyed more than words ever could.

Elyse consumed Isaac's every waking thought. He rarely left her side. He'd check her breathing ever so often, a frown creasing his brow each time it hitched. He cleaned her body gently, washing away the grime, and brushed her tangled hair, his touch feather-light. Every so often, he'd murmur words of comfort, his voice barely a whisper, willing her to wake.

Caleb slept a lot, his body working tirelessly to heal. Slowly, strength began to return. He could manage a weak nod in response to questions, a flicker of his eyelids to communicate basic needs. The pain in his shoulder remained, a constant reminder of the ordeal, but it was starting to dull with each passing day.

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Drawn by a quiet need, I found myself drawn to his bedside. Settling into the rickety chair beside him, I stole a glance at his face. The intensity that usually marked his features was softened by sleep, replaced by a quiet serenity. His dark eyelashes, usually bristling with alertness, lay fanned out against his cheek, their tips casting delicate shadows.

My gaze lingered on the smattering of freckles sprinkled across the bridge of his nose - a detail I had never noticed before. They were like a constellation, each tiny speck a silent whisper of a childhood spent under a relentless sun.

A strange tenderness bloomed in my chest. Now, a different kind of awareness filled me, a quiet attentiveness that surprised me.

My fingers, seemingly of their own volition, reached out, hesitantly hovering over his head. Then, with a feather-light touch, I stroked his hair. The coarse strands felt warm beneath my fingertips, sending a jolt through me.

I quickly retracted my hand, a blush creeping up my neck. This was a wounded warrior, vulnerable and exposed in sleep. My traitorous heart hammered against my ribs, a confusing rhythm against the quiet rasp of his breath.

My gaze drifted to the jagged scar that ran diagonally across his cheek and through his eyebrow. It was a badge of honor, a testament to his courage, yet it also held a hint of something else - a story untold, a glimpse into a life before the rebellion that I knew nothing about.

As I continued to watch him sleep, a million questions swirled in my mind. Who was he before the rebellion? What had led him down this path of resistance? But for now, the answers could wait. The rhythmic rise and fall of his chest was a soothing melody, a reassurance that he was alive, that he was going to be alright.

Shame washed over me, a bitter tide that threatened to drown out the bird’s chirping outside. I realized, with a sickening clarity, how much I had taken Caleb for granted.

There was the selfless way he'd taken us under his wing, training us with unwavering patience even though it likely set back his own objectives. He'd welcomed us, two strangers with nothing but desperation in our eyes, into their already precarious resistance. He'd shown us unwavering trust, even though we had nothing to show for ourselves yet – no grand feats, no victories to justify his faith.

And how did I repay him? With childish pouting when he left on a crucial scouting mission, something far more important than our rudimentary training. Self-pity clouded my judgment, making me blind to the weight he carried.

I stole a glance at him, his profile etched with worry in the sunlight. A lump formed in my throat, choking back the apology that yearned to escape. How could I express the depth of my realization, the sudden understanding of his sacrifices? Words felt inadequate, lost in the vast emptiness that stretched between us.

One morning, I approached the bedside with a steaming bowl of watery porridge, the best we could manage with our limited supplies. "Here you go," I murmured, carefully propping him up with pillows. "Just a little something to get you started."

He managed a weak smile, his lips cracked and dry. Even the simple act of lifting the spoon seemed to take every ounce of his remaining strength. I held the bowl steady, guiding it to his lips.

"We had to get a bit creative," I explained softly, watching him swallow with difficulty. "There weren't any herbs left for proper poultices, so Isaac used crushed leaves and moss to pack the wound. Not ideal, but it seems to be doing the trick."

A flicker of surprise crossed his features, then a slow nod. He mouthed a silent "thank you," his voice still too weak to project.

"Don't worry about that," I replied, squeezing his arm gently. "We'll get you back on your feet, one watery porridge spoonful at a time."

Another morning, as Isaac cleaned his wound, Caleb managed a raspy whisper. The words came out weak, barely audible. "Thank you," he rasped.

A concerned crease etched on Isaac's face. "Whoa there, easy," Isaac cautioned, his voice gentle. "Don't try to talk yet. You took a nasty blow, but you're a fighter, Caleb. Took the antidote like a champ."

But a sliver of worry remained, sharp and persistent. Across the cot from Caleb, Elyse lay still, her white hair a stark contrast against the dark fur beneath her. No matter how many times I checked, her breathing remained shallow and even, a stark contrast to the ragged gasps escaping Caleb's lips.

A million questions swirled in my head. Would she wake up? Was the poison, for some reason, lingering in her system too, undetected and silently wreaking havoc? The silence from her bed was a constant pressure, a stark reminder of our precarious situation, of Caleb’s absence and his return, battered and broken.

Taking a deep breath, I gathered my courage. "Caleb," I began, my voice barely above a whisper. He turned towards me, a flicker of surprise crossing his features.

"I…" I stumbled, the words suddenly heavy on my tongue. "I realized…" Frustration bubbled up, but I forced it down. Honesty was more important.

"I realized I haven't been the best teammate," I confessed, my voice filled with remorse. "You've done so much for us, and I… I acted like a child when you left."

A flicker of understanding softened his features. "It's alright," he said, his voice hoarse. "This fight… it takes its toll on everyone."

But his words did little to ease the weight on my chest. "No," I insisted, my gaze locking with his. "It's not alright. You deserve better."

He held my gaze for a long moment, then a small smile tugged at the corner of his lips. "We all have moments of weakness, Kira. That's what makes us human."

His words were a comfort, a balm to my guilt. But they also served as a challenge. I wouldn't be weak anymore. Not when Caleb, and everyone else we fought for, needed me to be strong.

"Sitting here feels useless. I'm going back to train with Kass until you're back on your feet," I said.

He opened his mouth to protest, but I cut him off. "No arguments, Caleb. This is the least I can do. Besides, you wouldn't want us getting sloppy while you're playing hero, would you?"

A flicker of his usual playful spirit returned to his eyes. "Alright," he conceded, the weariness evident in his voice. "But promise me you won't overdo it."

"Scout's honor," I said, extending my pinky finger towards him. He chuckled weakly, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

I quickly fed Caleb his porridge, the worry about Elyse a constant undercurrent. Once he was settled, I rose, a familiar itch in my muscles. Four days of quiet had frayed my nerves. I needed to move.

Slipping out into the cavernous main hall, I found Kass, locked in a dance of blades with a worn practice dummy. She moved with a lethal precision, her borrowed sword a blur of silver against the dim light.

Kass glanced up at me, a wry smile playing on her lips. "Ready for training again?" she asked, her voice a low rumble.

"Always," I replied, the familiar thrill of combat sparking within me. Our sessions were a chaotic mix of what I’d gleaned from the books in the library and the practical knowledge we'd picked up from Caleb, Finn and Marcus.

The clash of metal against wood echoed through the chamber as we sparred, a welcome counterpoint to the silence that clung to Elyse. Sweat beaded on my forehead, a satisfying burn that momentarily eclipsed my worries. For a stolen hour, I was lost in the rhythm of the fight, my body a well-oiled machine reacting on instinct.

When exhaustion finally forced us apart, Kass grinned, her earlier seriousness replaced by an easy camaraderie. "You're getting better."

I laughed, wiping sweat from my brow. "Thanks. Though maybe 'less likely to get myself killed' would be a better bar."

A shadow crossed her face, a reminder of the dangers that lurked just beyond the ground walls. But before we could delve into that darkness, the aroma of roasting meat wafted from the direction of the kitchen.

"Speaking of not getting killed," I said, a wry smile pulling at my lips. "Marcus is probably starting to worry we'll starve to death before anything else gets us."

Kass snorted. "Lead the way. My stomach growls louder than any beast."

We found the rest of the group gathered around the table in the common room, the scent of roasting boar filling the air. Marcus looked up, smiling, from sharpening a hunting knife as we entered.

A small smile tugged at my lips. Marcus' gruff demeanor often hid a surprising well of kindness. Across from him, Finn scooted over with his chair, making room for me.

"How are Caleb and Elyse doing?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

I forced a smile, pushing down the worry that gnawed at me. "Caleb's getting stronger," I said, offering Finn a reassuring pat on the head. "He's still weak, but he's talking a little."

My smile faltered slightly. "Elyse is still asleep," I admitted. "But Isaac says it's not unusual for her after she exerts herself using powerful magic. Apparently, it takes a toll, and deep sleep is her body's way of recovering. He said she should be awake in a day or two, at most."

But before his wide eyes could fully absorb the news, the heavy oak door of the common room slammed open with a bang.