Barnaby hoisted the unconscious swordsman over his massive shoulder, his heavy work boots churning through the gravel terrace.
“Two full days of bed rest,” Barnaby grunted, spitting blood-tinged saliva into the mud. “If that stubborn old fool tries to touch a sword hilt before forty-eight hours are up, I’m tying him to his cot with hemp rigging.”
Sera tightened the leather straps of her armored vambraces, her amber eyes burning with fierce resolve.
She turned and marched briskly up the steps to Cold-Spring Grotto.
Inside the quiet cave, Kaelen had finally emerged from his mountain of blankets, his beeswax plugs sitting in an empty saucer on the table.
He was sipping a freshly brewed bowl of roasted barley tea, looking thoroughly annoyed by the morning’s commotion.
“Sterling broke his foundation again, didn’t he?” Kaelen asked, not looking up from his cup.
“The Severance glyph,” Sera said, planting her Storm-Pike on the stone floor. “His sword-heart reacted before he could look away. He’s coughing black core-blood.”
