When Kamira entered her private chambers and headed straight for the bedroom, two students were fussing around Koshmarnyk. One was cleaning his wounds, and the other one insisted on pouring a concoction down his throat, to which the adept adamantly objected, verbally and physically, making the other carer’s work equally difficult with all the jerks and twists. She almost gasped at the state he was in. The patterns of dried blood on his ripped clothes spoke of his injuries, and his face, though calm, betrayed pain in uncontrolled tics when he moved too rapidly.
“I have to stay awake to speak with the archmage,” he argued, unaware of Kamira’s presence. “I’ll drink it later.”
“You won’t speak with anyone if you die of your wounds,” the young woman said. Without waiting for a reply, she made
