Before walking to Bed Two, Mina insisted on checking all twelve wrists one more time as evening settled over the mountain.
It was a habit she had learned from her guild master in the river wards of Oran: never fall so in love with a clever diagnosis that you forget to touch the other patients in the room. Seyun followed half a pace behind her with his Account Book propped against his forearm, updating the pulse entries beside each recovered name. Meanwhile, the oil lamps hissed softly against the damp stone walls.
Halin on Bed One had a quick, reedy pulse. It was strong in spirit, eager to help, yet anatomically young. His inward-closing channels had never carried anything heavier than basic village breathing before the Court wired him. On Bed Three lay Senn, the father of two young children from the lower timber locks. His between-rib vessels were heavily scored by an early fever during his first month on the pillar. That left his rhythm steady enough for short pauses but fragile at the turn. Beds Four, Five, and Six—Maren the lock-rope handler, Vey from the herb-drying sheds, and quiet Tov the quarry mason’s apprentice—all showed clean lower-belly resilience. Even so, none had ever circulated breath around a major spirit vein blocked path on their own.
