5
When Kamira entered, Master Tijhran was sitting in his library as if nothing had happened. Yet his leg was stretched before him, and in the aroma of salves and herbs in the air, she smelled a more pungent odor in the mix. The bandages looked fresh and clean, but the small patch of red told her the wound still bled. Her teacher’s gray hair was in disarray, and he wore an outfit more suitable for staying in bed than arcanist work. Never in her years of studies had she seen him so disheveled. It must have cost him a great effort to even make it to the library.
“What a pleasant surprise,” he said, even though he must have heard her voice as she spoke with the servant downstairs, a man that Tijhran had to employ recently—she’d guessed only because of the injury. Her teacher never bothered w
