In the walled herb garden behind the hospice, white frost was melting off the woody stems of the winter sage. Ilyra walked down the gravel path and sat beside Seyun on the low limestone bench. Mina had just finished her morning pulse round in the ward. She confirmed that five days of strict spirit vein rest had allowed the blistered lining of Seyun’s return paths to seal cleanly. Even so, his left arm still rested in its canvas sling to protect the healing shoulder capsule.
Without ceremony, Ilyra unrolled the copper-and-charcoal fire tallies across his uninjured knee. She laid the Oran storehouse docket and the signed findings of Masters Bren, Yul, and Joren on top.
“We finished cross-checking the third-watch swinging weight marks against your original winter entries an hour ago,” Ilyra said, her gray eyes clear in the morning light. “Joren attested the exact breath when the borrowed spirit’s collar inverted inside his chest, and Bren and Yul measured the twelve-breath interval before your intervention. The investigation I began when I stopped you at the burial-road shrine is complete, Seyun.”
Seyun looked down at the charcoal teeth on the copper-stained parchment. The physical trace of the winter afternoon that had cost him eleven years of sect service, his rooms. The healing herb share he had saved for Mina.
