Cloud pressed her palm against his cheek—clammy. His skin was too cold and too hot at once.
A fever was already setting in, likely from the strain, maybe from the burst of whatever power he'd used.
Mana didn't behave like that. And Cal wasn't supposed to have it.
She let out a slow breath. "Idiot."
Then, without another word, she slung her pack forward, adjusted her stance, and hoisted him up.
He was heavier than he looked—muscle built from weeks of training, weight from exhaustion and blood loss—but she carried him anyway, one arm under his knees, the other behind his shoulders.
"You really had to collapse in the middle of a field," she muttered.
Cal didn't answer, of course. His head lolled against her shoulder, his breaths shallow and uneven.
She shifted his weight slightly, dug in her heels, and started walking.
As she trudged forward through the tall, golden grass, she muttered under her breath, more to herself than anyone else, "What day has come that the Sect Master carries a half-dead boy on her back like a pack mule…"
The wind brushed against her cloak, warm with summer and silent judgment.
"Should've let him fall flat on his face," she grumbled.
But she didn't stop.
The grass brushed her knees, sun-warmed and soft. The trees behind them faded with each step, the shadows of the forest no longer nipping at their heels. The wind carried the scent of wildflowers now, not rot.
Cloud kept her pace steady, eyes forward.
Hours passed.
She didn't stop.
Not when the sun climbed higher.
It wasn't until the sun began its slow descent that she saw it—like a miracle.
A road.
Worn, cracked, but real—cutting across the fields in a wide arc, leading east and north. There were wagon tracks, horse droppings, and the distant sight of a wooden milestone post sticking up from the tall grass.
Cloud nearly laughed.
She tightened her grip on Cal and hurried forward. When she reached the road, she knelt down gently and laid him against her pack, cushioning his head.
She checked his pulse again—sluggish but steady.
"Still breathing. Good."
Then she stood and scanned the road.
In the distance, maybe a half mile ahead, something moved.
A caravan.
Three wagons. Covered. Horses pulling them at a slow, plodding pace. A man rode ahead on horseback, lazily tapping his boot against the flank of his mount. Traders, maybe. Or pilgrims.
She pulled a strip of cloth from her bag, soaked it with water from her flask, and pressed it gently against his forehead.
The fever hadn't worsened. But it would.
She waited there with him until the caravan grew closer.
By the time the lead rider saw her, hand resting on her sword, the sun had begun to dip. He slowed, raising a hand cautiously.
"You lost?" he called out, eyes flicking between her and the unconscious boy on the ground.
Cloud stood slowly. "Not lost. Injured. Heading to Pristan."
The man nodded slowly. "Well, you're on the right road. We're passing through by nightfall—small outpost, healers, fresh water. If you can pay, we can give you a lift."
Cloud didn't hesitate. "How much?"
"Two silver. Each."
She pulled the coins from her pouch and tossed them over.
The man caught them without blinking, then motioned to one of the wagon drivers. "Help her out. Get the boy in gently."
They lifted Cal onto a pile of blankets in the back of the second wagon. Cloud climbed in beside him, her hand never leaving the hilt of her sword.
The caravan started moving again.
Days passed in a haze of motion and heat and dust. Cal didn't wake. His fever rose and fell with the sun, skin slick with sweat by morning, cold and clammy by night.
Cloud stayed beside him the entire time.
She didn't speak to the others. The merchants quickly learned not to bother her. She refused their food, stuck to her own supplies, and only left Cal's side when absolutely necessary.
On the second night, one of the younger drivers—barely older than a boy—tried to ask if Cal was her brother.
Cloud didn't answer. She just looked at him. He never asked again.
The road wound through hills and lowland plains, following old Imperial trade paths.
Occasionally, they passed patrols—Pristan guards clad in deep White and gold, their helms gleaming in the sun—but no one stopped them. A caravan meant coin. Coin meant taxes. No questions needed.
On the fourth morning, the towers came into view.
Pristan.
At the center stood a massive structure, towering over the capital and encircled by high stone walls. From a distance, the city looked beautiful—lush greenery stretching beyond its borders, with a wide river cutting gracefully through its heart.
Cloud said nothing as they approached.
By midday, the caravan rolled through the city gates.
Vendors shouted. Horses whinnied. Bells rang in the temple square.
People jostled past, faces blurring into the noise and light.
None of it touched her.
The caravan pulled into a shaded courtyard near the market district—a trade hub with stables, rest houses, and porters waiting with open hands. The lead merchant dismounted and began barking orders, signaling the end of the road.
As the others began unloading crates, she was already moving—fast, quiet.
She scooped Cal up again, slower this time, more deliberate, and slipped down the far end of the courtyard, weaving between carts and walls. No one noticed.
Within minutes, they were gone from the caravan, lost to the maze of side streets and stone alleys that crisscrossed Pristan's lower quarter.
Through narrow alleys where laundry lines fluttered above like banners, past crumbling shrines and closed storefronts with sun-faded signs.
Cloud found what she was looking for near the edge of the Tanners' Row. A crooked house tucked between a closed dye shop and an herbalist's stall. Two floors, old stone base, upper walls of dark wood, shutters closed tight.
She knocked twice.
A narrow slit opened at eye level.
A woman peered out—greying hair, sharp gaze, a cigarette perched at the corner of her mouth.
"I don't rent to drunkards. Or cultists. Or mages who make things explode."
Cloud reached into her pouch and pulled out three silver coins, holding them up between two fingers.
"Room. Two weeks."
The woman's gaze flicked to the unconscious boy in her arms. "He contagious?"
"No."
"You trouble?"
Cloud met her eyes evenly. "If I was, you wouldn't be asking."
The woman snorted. "Fair enough."
The door creaked open.
Inside, the air was heavy with dust and lavender oil. The walls were stained in places, but the floor was swept. A faded rug stretched down the hall toward a steep staircase.
"Top of the stairs, last door on the left," the woman said, already walking back toward her kitchen. "Water comes up once a day. Don't steal the blankets."
Cloud said nothing.
She carried Cal up the stairs carefully. Her legs ached with every step, but she didn't stop until she reached the room. The door creaked open to a space just big enough for a bed, a small table, and a shuttered window cracked open for air.
She laid Cal down gently, pulled off his cloak, and propped his head on a rolled blanket. Then she closed the shutters, bolted the door, and finally—finally—sat down.
The silence felt strange after days of rumbling wheels and the wheeze of wagon horses. Here, there was only the slow creak of old wood and the sound of Cal breathing—shallow.
Cloud leaned back against the wall, eyes half-lidded.