Kezra Venn sat on the edge of the check bunk. She held the folded linen blindfold in her lap, her fingers tracing the hem of the rough cloth.
In the quiet of the shaded cart, the reality of Paxa’s words settled into the marrow of her bones.
“How long?” Kezra asked, her voice quiet, steady, and free of dramatic despair. “When the seventy-two-hour cooldown lock expires, Paxa... How many days before the low note comes back?”
Paxa Sel stood by the deal table, carefully wrapping her three instruments in their oiled calfskin roll. She didn’t look away, and she didn’t offer the soothing, non-committal reassurances that lesser healers gave to dying soldiers.
“It won’t come back, Kezra,” Paxa answered flatly.
The words fell like dressed stones mortised into a foundation wall.
“The acute swelling behind your ear will subside over the next three days,” Paxa continued. She sat on the stool opposite her. “The dull, throbbing pressure behind your temple will fade. Your midrange hearing on the left will improve slightly. You’ll be able to hear a friend speaking on your left flank if she raises her voice. You’ll hear high-pitched whistles, bird calls, and the ring of iron tools.”
