“…Yes, sir, of course.” A faint voice echoed in Khazmine’s head, somewhere in the space between dreaming and waking. Her eyes remained shut, but sounds of infrequent movement and the sterile, chemical scent of a healer's hovel tickled the outcast's senses. “I'd say anytime now. She's taken plenty of infusions, and readily accepts ether, so I shouldn’t be surprised if she wakes up soon.”

Still weary and aching, Khazmine struggled in vain to open her eyes, but it would be another hour before strength returned to her again. In the quiet solitude of her fine feather bed, Khazmine’s thoughts conjured images of the old days, laughing and playing outside the ivy-covered manor house, of bramble jam cookies, and the far north’s autumn festivals. That’s all they were, really—ancient memories of a long-lost place of warmth and comfort she couldn’t quite recall.

At present, there was only the antiseptic odor of the hovel, the numbed, throbbing sensations coursing through her veins, and a pervasive loneliness that came from dredging up old memories best left forgotten. Khazmine finally managed to pry her eyelids open, only to jolt at the surprising sight of strange tubes and glass devices scattered all over her body, seeping unknown fluids into her blackened, bruised arms.

“No-no-no, miss! Please, don’t move,” a sun-kissed man wearing a long, royal-blue healer’s coat insisted as Khazmine attempted to rise. His scrawny arms had unexpected strength in them, despite rattling around in his overly-long sleeves. This healer pressed firmly to prevent the outcast from dislodging the sensitive glass instruments attached to her body. “Be still, please. You’re all right.”

“Wh-who are you?” Khazmine rasped with a dried mouth at this unusual healer. He was not so rich a caramel color as little Pavocinis, but still had the distinct, dark skin of a southerner, and locks of thick, black hair to match. A pair of tired, golden eyes locked onto Khazmine’s, and he gazed back at her until she calmed down.

“My name is <unpronounceable D’jabarese>,” the healer pressed a hand to his chest and introduced himself. Khazmine stared blankly at him, visibly confused about the foreigner’s bizarre name. Sensing her uncertainty, he tried again, this time with his name sounding something like “Dorian Radlant.” His accent was impossible to parse between his native tongue and the local speech, and he ultimately smirked in resignation. “The fellas all call me ‘Rida,’ like reed-uh.”

Khazmine snorted at the name and immediately regretted doing so. Her torso ached as the outcast chuckled, and she was reminded that her rib had been broken only a short time ago. “I’m so s-sorry, sir,” Khazmine sputtered to try and contain her laughter with minimal success.

“Yeah, yeah, go ahead and laugh, it’s fine,” Rida smirked and waved with a friendly nonchalance of his calloused hand. He had to admit, it was a funny nickname. The Solanai warriors who’d given it to him had a particularly cutting sense of humor, naming their physician after the legendary gambler who was said to have “cheated Death over a game of cards” ten times over. It was especially funny that this figure of folklore was also a handsome woman, and a pale, mint-green Outsider to boot. “I get that a lot around here, so no worries.”

“Oh, it hurts. It hurts to laugh,” Khazmine doubled over, fully forgetting the glass implements and various tubes sticking out of her body. It had been years since the outcast had laughed so hard and openly. “I really am sorry, but you don’t look a thing like her.”

“More’s the pity, I suppose,” Rida shrugged and began carefully extricating Khazmine from her medical imprisonment. The clear tubes and apparatus appeared to be empty now, having done their job of supplying Khazmine with nutrients and medicine to bring her back to life. “But do be careful not to overdo it. I don’t want to re-injure that rib now, especially after all that trouble your superior went through to get you here before it punctured your insides.”

“My superior?” Khazmine tilted her head with renewed confusion. The outcast had remembered pain, then a bracing hug on all sides, but nothing after that. How strange it was that she couldn’t remember the act of losing consciousness, only the brief foray into dreams that led to wakefulness.

“Yeah, you know—Ah, sir, you’re back,” Rida turned his head to meet the eager arrival of Lieutenant Mevralls, who came to the room in casual garb, bearing freshly-cut orange wyrbloom stems to decorate Khazmine’s recovery room. A florist in Merchant’s Quarter swore by wyrblooms to bring health and vitality back to the sick or injured, and he’d fallen for her sales tactic. The lieutenant handed Rida the armful of blossoms and knelt by Khazmine’s bed to get a better look at her. “She’s awake, as you see.”

“Thank you, <Dorian>,” Lieutenant Mevralls said to the healer a before his attention fixed back on Khazmine. His bare hand moved delicately to shift her unkempt bangs away from the outcast’s forehead and Mevralls squinted at the blackened bruises all over her face, neck, and exposed limbs. “So, you’ve decided to stay with us then.”

“Sir?”

“It’s been four days, miss,” Mevralls explained. It was only then that Khazmine noticed the drained look on his narrow face, accompanied by a pair of darkened purple eye bags, and what must have been several days of beard stubble. “We almost lost—”

“I haven’t told her yet, sir,” Rida interrupted. “Perhaps it’s best to wait…”

“Told me what?” Khazmine pressed. “What happened?”

Rida frowned, but ultimately decided to inform his patient of the events that had transpired. “You were brought in after an incident in the training circle, miss. You were bleeding internally and had, well, a slim chance of survival. Your friends took turns providing ether infusions and stayed by your side off and on until this morning. I’d say you should be fit enough to leave this very day, if you’re feeling up to it.”

“Really?” Khazmine sat up straight in her bed and shoved off her covers, much to the bewilderment of Lieutenant Mevralls, who turned away out of modesty. To her surprise, Khazmine felt as strong as she’d ever been, perhaps stronger, and was able to get out of bed with only mild discomfort in her ribs. “Then these bruises—?”

“They probably look much worse than they feel,” Rida chimed in. “Ether infusions and medicine take much longer to heal skin than you’d think. Those should clear up in a few weeks. But do come back if you feel any lingering pain or discomfort, yes?”

“Of course, Rida,” Khazmine shook the healer’s one free hand hard enough to jostle the wyrbloom stems in his other hand with her restored vigor. There was a brief pause in her speech as Khazmine carefully phrased her next words. “How many, that is, how much do I owe you for my stay here?”

“Nothing,” Rida shrugged. “Your bill’s been paid in full by a fellow called ‘Hallem,’ I believe.”

Khazmine raised a brow at the unlikely event of her balance being paid by the man who’d beaten her half to death. But before she could ask anything about it, Lieutenant Mevralls ushered the outcast out of the recovery room and back towards the Solanai camp. “Thank you, Rida” was the last thing Khazmine could say before being whisked away to Solanai territory.

“Now that you’re well again, how would you like to start working?” Lieutenant Mevralls stated curiously, as if it were more of a request than a question. “I can get you started in the kitchen, the stables, the barracks, or—”

“Please, sir. What happened with Mister Hallem?” Khazmine stopped in front of the commissary and waited for his response. Her darkened, pie-bald bruising drew the eyes of every Solanai soldier and initiate in the area, yet their stares failed to bother the outcast this afternoon.

“He’s… He’s been moved to an off-site facility for his injuries,” Mevralls admitted as he scratched the back of his head.

“Injuries? But I didn’t hit him that hard,” Khazmine said, puzzled.

“Well, that’s true. You didn’t, but…”

Whispers and murmurs spread among the onlookers in the commissary. Before long, practically everyone inside was either staring or pointing at Khazmine, only to pretend not to if she glanced their way. The camp was half-filled with Solanai who wanted to get rid of the outcast, and the rest feared her wherever she went. It wouldn’t be until much later that Khazmine learned the reason for their anxiety, and how justified their fears had been. In the meantime, most everyone gave the outcast a wide berth, especially when she was in the presence of one of the Solanai officers.

“On second thought, maybe it’s best if we take it easy on work for a little while longer,” Mevralls guided the outcast away from the commissary and towards the training circle instead. A thick tension hung in the muggy air as Khazmine glanced back at the Solanai who openly stared at their backs as the pair strode away. She couldn’t figure out exactly what had happened for them to take such an interest, but it couldn’t be good, whatever it was.

The outcast’s mind wandered as the pair approached the training circle, and Khazmine let her thoughts drift to all the other miserable lords and vassals outside the camp that wanted nothing to do with the half-breed. Lords Skelfrig and Farthing, their horrible house knights, the Grand Cathedral’s Star Guard, even his holiness, lord Vythorne… So many people wanted her dead and gone that Khazmine’s ears drooped at how few people cared about some pathetic outcast with no fortune nor future.

“Lieutenant?” Khazmine asked with her head still lowered and unable to meet his gaze. Even if everyone inside the camp wanted nothing to do with her, there were people outside who might tolerate her presence. It was worth taking a chance on an errant hope for connection. As far as Khazmine could tell, she still didn’t have much to lose. “When I’m finished with training today, may I go outside? There’s something I need to do.”

“Of course, that’d be fine,” Mevralls replied as he slackened his stance and tried to get a read on Khazmine’s distraught expression. “You’ll want to return to your room anyway, I imagine… We’ll start nice and slow, with ether practice, okay?”

Khazmine offered a nod to indicate she understood. She sat in a half-lotus pose at the center of the training circle and listened patiently as Mevralls explained what to do. His voice had a soothing pleasantness to it, which Khazmine found herself nodding off to. For reasons outside of her understanding, Khazmine experienced profound fatigue and discomfort localized in her chest. She jerked awake and tried to listen harder until Mevralls found a good place to demonstrate.

“…which allows you finer control. Did you get all that?” he concluded.

“I don’t think I understand, sir,” Khazmine confessed with ears pulled back regretfully.

“That’s all right. It is rather a lot to absorb. Here, stand in front of me,” Mevralls encouraged as he reached out a hand to Khazmine, who stood shakily, nestled against the lieutenant.

This new position pointed Khazmine directly across from the Challenge Rack, or it would have, if the rack were still there. A pointed sharpness in her vision told the outcast that the rack hadn’t been removed carefully. Instead, jagged bits of metal still attached to the rack pole showed signs of being torn from its station. Whoever had done it must have been incredibly strong…

“There, that’s it,” Mevralls balanced his hands on Khazmine’s shoulders and pressed his thumbs gently into the outcast’s shoulder blades, forcing her arms back. “Now, take a deep breath and activate your ether core.”

“I-I can’t,” Khazmine lowered her head. “I gave everything I had during the fight, sir. There’s… nothing left.”

“You can, trust me,” Mevralls insisted. “Come on, Khazmine. Do it.”

The wary outcast closed her eyes and took great pains to slowly pry open her ether core near her heart. The discomfort she experienced moments ago seemed to blossom as she struggled to do so. Khazmine half-expected Lieutenant Mevralls to be disappointed when she failed, but he grasped onto the half-breed’s shoulders instead, holding her steady. “Keep going!”

High overhead on the observation deck, Major Barshaw uncrossed her arms and leaned over the railing to see her two subordinates down below. Something rather odd was taking place at the center of the training circle, which piqued the major’s interest enough for her to descend the wooden staircase for a closer look.

A cloud of clear, rippling ether swirled around Khazmine and Mevralls in a tight spiral that began wobbling as it picked up speed with each pass. On a hunch, Major Barshaw raised the heavy outer doors that surrounded the training facilities on the slim chance that something unexpected was about to happen, and blocked off other Solanai from coming in.

Without warning, a strange, alien scent like an imminent thunderstorm wafted out in all directions, causing the major’s pupils to dilate. It’s potency threw Major Barshaw for a loop and she knew at once that something was terribly wrong.