Parchment pages rustled softly in the dim lantern light of the gatehouse infirmary.
Barnaby Holt flipped through three dozen dense pages of root extracts and bone-setting poultices, his thick fingers smudging dried ink across the margins.
Behind him, a raspy, phlegm-filled cough rattled through the narrow room.
Elder Sterling sat upright on his canvas cot, his wool blanket cast aside and his bare feet planted firmly on the cold stone floorboards.
“Put that medical trash away, Barnaby,” Sterling croaked, his voice trembling with feverish urgency. “If I’m going to die of a cracked dantian, I refuse to spend my final hours staring at the lime-wash on the ceiling while drinking bitter burdock root.”
Barnaby spun around, brandishing a wooden medicine ladle like a club.
“Lie back down, you obstinate old mule!” Barnaby roared. “Your Golden Core looks like a shattered teacup! You’re supposed to be resting in total quiet for forty-eight hours!”
“I can’t rest,” Sterling insisted, his bloodshot eyes blazing with fierce, desperate intensity. “The bandit king’s flagship was just boarded by the northern pirate fleet. The female lead was standing on the forecastle with her twin daggers drawn, facing her long-lost betrothed. I need the next five pages of Book Eight right now, or I’ll crawl up to the grotto myself.”
