Temple of the Promised - Mountain Monastery, Afternoon
Helena's hands were covered in John's blood—sticky, cooling, coating her fingers up to the wrists as she pressed torn fabric against the wound where Soren's blade had punched through his left side. The entry wound was maybe four centimeters wide, edges ragged where the sword had torn rather than cut cleanly. The exit wound on his back was worse—larger, more irregular, the kind of damage that suggested internal organs had been compromised.
John's consciousness flickered—eyes that couldn't see rolling beneath closed lids, breath coming in shallow gasps, his body in shock from blood loss and trauma. But before the darkness took him completely, his hand found Helena's wrist with surprising strength.
"Even if I die—" His voice was barely audible, blood bubbling at the corner of his mouth. "—I'll come back. I refuse... to die like this..."
Then his hand went slack. His breathing became more labored. Helena felt his mana signature dimming, life force ebbing like tide retreating from shore.
"No," she whispered. "No, you don't get to make dramatic pronouncements and then die. Stay with us. Stay."
But John didn't respond. His chest still rose and fell—barely, irregularly—but consciousness was gone.
Father Matthias appeared beside her, having finished organizing the other students. His face was grim, assessing the wound with experienced eye. He'd seen combat injuries before, back when he'd been soldier rather than monk, and he understood immediately what Helena was thinking: This boy needs more help than we can provide.
"The medical supplies here won't be enough," Matthias said quietly. "That blade went through clean, but there's internal damage. Bleeding we can't see, organs that might be compromised. He needs a real surgeon. Professional equipment."
"Westhaven," Helena said immediately. "The city has doctors. Proper medical facilities. If we move fast—"
"It's three hours down the mountain on foot. He might not have three hours."
"Then we run faster." Helena's voice carried steel that surprised even herself. "Get a stretcher. Get volunteers to carry him. We leave now."
Matthias hesitated only a second before nodding. "Kiran can travel?"
The boy was sitting against the wall nearby, back in human form, his torso wrapped in makeshift bandages that were already soaking through with blood from the lacerations Kael had inflicted. His face was pale, eyes unfocused with pain and shock, but when he heard John's name he forced himself to attention.
"I can travel," Kiran said, voice hoarse. "I'm going wherever he goes."
"You need medical attention too—"
"I said I'm going."
No time to argue. Matthias began issuing orders—two students constructing stretcher from training posts and rope, four more preparing to carry it in rotating shifts, others gathering what medical supplies they had. The monastery descended into controlled chaos, everyone moving with desperate purpose.
They loaded John onto the stretcher—carefully, trying not to jostle injuries, though his unconscious state meant he didn't react to movement. His face was bloodless, lips taking on bluish tint that meant oxygen wasn't circulating properly. Helena pressed fresh cloth against his wounds, maintaining pressure during transport.
"Move!" Matthias commanded, and they did.
The descent was nightmare rendered physical reality.
Mountain paths that normally required careful navigation became obstacle course traversed at near-running pace. The four carriers—all young men with strength-enhancement or endurance Uncos—rotated every ten minutes, fresh pair taking over when the previous became exhausted. Helena ran alongside the stretcher, maintaining pressure on wounds, monitoring John's increasingly shallow breathing.
Kiran kept pace despite his injuries, wolf instincts pushing him past what human physiology should have allowed. Blood from his lacerations left trail down the mountain path. He didn't slow.
Forty minutes into descent, John stopped breathing entirely.
"No!" Helena's scream was involuntary, primal. She dropped beside the stretcher, pressed ear to his chest. Faint heartbeat—irregular, weakening, but present. Just not strong enough to pull air into lungs anymore.
"CPR," Matthias said, already moving into position. "I'll do compressions, you handle breathing."
They worked in tandem—Matthias's hands stacked on John's sternum, rhythmic compressions that pushed blood through failing circulatory system. Helena tilted John's head back, pinched his nose, sealed her mouth over his and breathed for him. Thirty compressions, two breaths. Repeat. The stretcher rocked with their efforts.
After ninety seconds, John gasped. Coughed. Began breathing again on his own—barely, weakly, but breathing.
"Keep moving!" Matthias ordered the carriers, and they resumed descent.
It happened twice more during the journey—John's respiration failing, requiring manual intervention to restart. Each time took longer to revive him. Each time his mana signature dimmed further.
Two hours and forty-seven minutes after leaving the monastery, they reached Westhaven's lower gates.
The guards saw them coming—group of blood-soaked monks carrying stretcher, running at full speed, trailing red footprints. They moved to intercept, hands on weapons, trained responses to potential threats.
"Medical emergency!" Helena shouted before they could issue challenge. "Critical injury—we need doctor immediately!"
The guards assessed rapidly: monks weren't typically threats, the blood appeared genuine, the boy on the stretcher was obviously dying. One guard pointed toward the city's medical district. "Three blocks north, then east. Blue building, healer's sign. Doctor Yann Mercier—best surgeon in the lower city. Go!"
They ran. Through streets that were crowded with afternoon commerce, people scattering as blood-soaked monks charged past carrying stretcher. Some shouted complaints. Others saw the boy's condition and cleared path voluntarily. The city's flow parted around them like water around stone.
The medical clinic was exactly where directed—three-story building painted pale blue, wooden sign above door showing stylized hand with glowing palm indicating healing services available. Helena kicked the door open rather than wasting time knocking.
"We need help! Critical wound—internal bleeding—he's dying!"
The clinic's waiting area held maybe eight people with various minor ailments. All of them turned to stare at the spectacle: blood-covered monks, unconscious boy, the desperate urgency radiating from the group.
A woman emerged from interior room—mid-thirties, wearing practical dress with apron already stained from earlier patients, dark hair tied back severely. Her eyes assessed the situation instantly, medical training overriding surprise.
"Through here. Now." She led them down corridor to surgical room—clean space with examination table, glass cabinets containing instruments, the smell of antiseptic and herbs. "Put him on the table. Gently."
They transferred John from stretcher to table. The woman—a nurse, Helena realized—was already cutting away his blood-soaked robe to expose the wounds.
"Puncture through left side," Helena explained rapidly. "Blade went clean through, exited posterior. He's stopped breathing three times during transport. Internal damage unknown but likely severe."
The nurse didn't acknowledge the information verbally, just continued examining. She pressed fingers against John's neck, checking pulse. Leaned close to his chest, listening to breathing. Her expression remained professionally neutral but Helena saw something tighten around her eyes.
"Doctor Mercier!" the nurse called toward interior door. "Critical trauma—need you immediately!"
The doctor who emerged was man in his fifties—Montic descent based on features and accent, graying beard precisely trimmed, wearing surgical apron over fine clothes that suggested prosperity. His hands were already clean—protocol demanded constant washing between patients. He moved to the table without preamble.
"Talk to me," he said, hands beginning examination even as he spoke.
"Sword through left side," the nurse reported. "Clean puncture, no foreign material in wound. Patient has arrested three times during transport, requiring manual resuscitation. Pulse is fifty-two and dropping. Breathing is shallow and irregular. Blood loss significant but not immediately fatal."
Doctor Mercier lifted John's eyelids, checking pupil response with practiced efficiency. Pressed fingers against various points on John's abdomen, watching for pain reactions even in unconscious state. His hands moved with absolute certainty, decades of experience compressed into seconds of examination.
"Punctured kidney," he said. "Maybe liver involvement. Definitely internal bleeding—you can see the distension here." He indicated John's abdomen, which was indeed slightly swollen on the injured side. "He needs surgery. Immediately. No time for transport to better facilities."
He turned to his nurse. "Prepare surgical field. I need my full kit. And get Catherine—I'll need second pair of hands for this."
The nurse moved instantly. Began laying out instruments from glass cabinet—scalpels, clamps, suturing needles, all arranged on clean cloth with practiced precision. Another woman appeared—younger nurse, probably mid-twenties, already washing her hands in preparation for assisting.
"His Uncos?" Doctor Mercier asked while beginning his own surgical preparation—washing hands thoroughly, putting on clean apron over his existing one.
"Light emission," Helena said. "Elemental type."
"Good. Means his mana circulation is standard pathway—makes internal work easier." He began mixing something in small bowl—crushed herbs and clear liquid that produced sharp medicinal smell. "This is pain suppressor with minor anesthetic properties. Won't keep him unconscious but will prevent shock if he wakes during surgery."
He applied the mixture to the wound site while his nurses finished preparation. Then positioned himself at the table, scalpel in hand, expression shifting from concerned doctor to focused surgeon.
"Everyone except medical staff—out. You're contaminating the surgical field and I need concentration."
"But—" Helena started.
"Out. You did well getting him here. Now let me do my job."
Matthias took Helena's arm, gently but firmly guiding her toward the door. She resisted for moment, looking back at John's pale face, his too-still form on the surgical table. Then allowed herself to be led away.
The door closed behind them.
The surgery took three hours and forty-two minutes.
Helena sat in the waiting area, unable to sit still, pacing despite exhaustion and injuries. Her hands were still stained with John's blood—she'd tried washing but the color had soaked too deep into skin creases and nail beds. Every time she looked down, she saw red.
Kiran sat against the wall, having finally allowed another nurse to properly treat his lacerations. The wounds had been cleaned, stitched where necessary, wrapped in clean bandages. He'd been given something for pain—herbal tincture that dulled the worst of it—and should have been resting. Instead he stared at the surgical room door with unblinking intensity, as if force of will could make the doctor emerge with good news.
Other monks filled the waiting area—the ones who'd carried the stretcher down, others who'd followed more slowly, bringing additional wounded. The clinic had become impromptu triage center, nurses moving between patients, treating lacerations and broken bones and concussion symptoms.
The waiting area door opened. More monks entered—but these were older, authority radiating from their bearing despite travel-stained robes. Master Adaeze. Master Shen Wei. Master Björn Eriksson. All three having returned from their resource-acquisition mission to find their monastery destroyed and students injured.
Father Matthias rose immediately, moving to intercept them before they could see full extent of the carnage. "Masters. There's been—"
"We know," Adaeze said, her voice tight with controlled emotion. "We saw the temple. The blood. The bodies." She paused, visibly steadying herself. "How many?"
"Three dead. Fourteen injured, varying severity. John is in surgery—critical condition. Kiran and Helena are stable."
Shen Wei closed his eyes briefly—pain crossing his weathered face. "The attackers?"
"Escaped. Four hunters from Brennick Estate. They were after John specifically."
Björn's massive hands clenched into fists. "And we weren't there to protect our own students."
"You couldn't have known," Matthias said quietly. "No one could have predicted they'd find us. Track us to the monastery itself."
"Doesn't matter what we could have known," Adaeze said. "What matters is what happened. And what we do now." She moved past Matthias toward Helena, who'd turned at sound of familiar voices.
Helena saw her teacher and something broke—the composure she'd maintained through surgery and waiting and fear suddenly crumbling. She took three steps toward Adaeze and then her legs gave out.
Adaeze caught her. Held her while the girl sobbed against her shoulder, all the trauma and terror and grief finding release in ugly, wrenching sounds that shook her whole frame.
"I'm sorry," Helena gasped between sobs. "I'm so sorry—we couldn't protect them, couldn't protect the temple, I tried but—"
"Shh." Adaeze's hand smoothed Helena's hair with maternal gentleness that contrasted sharply with her usual stern teaching demeanor. "You did everything you could. More than should have been asked of you."
"The temple is destroyed—"
"The temple is stone and wood," Adaeze said firmly. "It can be rebuilt. You—all of you—are alive. That's what matters. Buildings don't matter. People matter."
Shen Wei had moved to Kiran, crouching beside the boy despite the action clearly paining his elderly joints. "Your injuries?"
"Ribs. Lacerations. Some muscle damage." Kiran's voice was flat, emotionless. "I fought him. The big one with dragon scales. Lost badly. But I didn't let him reach John until—" His voice cracked. "Until it didn't matter anymore. Until John was already down."
"You fought someone with draconic transformation?" Shen Wei's expression showed surprise mixed with concern. "At your age and experience level, that's—"
"Suicidal, yeah. I know." Kiran looked at his bandaged hands. "Didn't care. Still don't. He was going after John. That was all that mattered."
Shen Wei studied the boy for long moment, seeing something there that made him nod slowly. "Loyalty. Dangerous virtue when taken to extremes, but virtue nonetheless." He placed one weathered hand on Kiran's shoulder. "You honored your pack bond. Your parents may have been cruel, but they taught you one thing correctly: wolves protect their own."
Kiran's throat worked. He nodded without speaking.
The surgical room door opened.
Everyone turned. Doctor Mercier emerged, removing bloodstained surgical apron, his face unreadable in that professional way doctors adopted when delivering news that could be devastating or relieving.
Helena pulled away from Adaeze, stumbling forward. "Is he—"
"Alive," Doctor Mercier said, and the relief that flooded the room was almost tangible. "Stable, for now. The next forty-eight hours will be critical, but I've stopped the internal bleeding and repaired what damage I could."
He gestured them toward a side room—private consultation space away from other patients. Once everyone crowded inside, he continued with clinical precision that made the information easier to process.
"The blade punctured his left kidney—caused significant damage but the organ is salvageable. It also nicked his liver's left lobe, causing hemorrhaging that was the primary threat. I've repaired both injuries using combination of surgical technique and my Uncos."
"Your Uncos?" Adaeze asked.
"Tissue Knitting," Mercier explained. "Allows me to accelerate healing of internal tissues by aligning mana pathways with cellular regeneration. It's not instant healing—can't regrow organs or cure disease—but it makes surgical repairs more effective and speeds recovery significantly."
He pulled out sketched diagram, showing the internal injuries and repairs. "Here, you see the kidney damage. I've removed the compromised section and sealed the remaining tissue. The liver injury was more straightforward—clean nick rather than deep puncture. Both organs will regenerate naturally over next few weeks, assisted by my Uncos enhancement."
"And his recovery?" Helena pressed. "Will he—will there be permanent damage?"
"Physically? No. He'll heal completely if infection doesn't set in. I've given him antibacterial herbs and I'll monitor for sepsis, but the wounds were relatively clean." Mercier paused. "However, recovery will be long. Minimum three weeks before he's mobile. Another month before he can resume physical training. Any strenuous activity before that risks rupturing the repairs."
Three weeks. A month. Helena felt tears threatening again but pushed them back. He was alive. That was what mattered.
"Can we see him?" Kiran asked.
"Not yet. He's still unconscious from the surgery. My nurses are cleaning him up and preparing recovery room. Give them another hour, then immediate family only."
"We're his family," Kiran said flatly. It wasn't request or argument. Just statement of fact.
Mercier studied the boy—saw the protective fierceness there, the bond that transcended blood relation. Nodded. "Then you'll be first to see him. One hour."
He left to attend to other patients, leaving the monks alone with their relief and lingering fear.
Kingdom of Algoria - Royal Palace, Evening
Conrad found his parents in the evening sitting room—informal space where family gathered after formal duties concluded, smaller and more comfortable than state rooms used for official functions. Father sat in his preferred chair near the fireplace, reading dispatches. Mother occupied the sofa, embroidery in her lap though her hands had been still for several minutes, clearly thinking rather than working.
Hans wasn't present—likely in his own study, continuing the endless work of governance that consumed his every waking hour. Elara was already asleep, having been put to bed an hour ago by her nurse.
Conrad entered, hands clasped behind his back to hide their trembling. He'd been rehearsing this conversation for three days, refining arguments, anticipating objections. Now, facing actual moment, his carefully prepared words felt inadequate.
"Father. Mother. I need to speak with you about something."
His father glanced up from dispatches, expression shifting to polite attention that didn't quite mask his distraction. "Yes, Conrad?"
"I want to attend school. Regular school, with other children my age."
The request hung in air for three seconds before his father processed it fully. When he did, his expression shifted to confusion. "School? You already receive education. Your tutors are among finest in kingdom—Master Aldous alone has trained three generations of Ashford nobility. What would school provide that private instruction doesn't?"
Conrad had expected this objection. Had prepared for it. "Experience with peers. Understanding how common people think and learn. Social skills beyond court etiquette. Perspective beyond palace walls."
"You have perspective. You attend state functions, you observe governance—"
"I observe governance from inside the palace, watching Father and Hans make decisions that affect thousands of people I've never spoken to." Conrad kept his voice steady, respectful but firm. "I want to understand how those decisions impact normal people. How students in public schools live, what they think, what concerns them. I can't do that through private tutors."
His mother set down her embroidery, attention now fully engaged. "Conrad, the palace education is far superior to public schools. You'd be learning material you already know, sitting in crowded classrooms with insufficient individual attention—"
"That's the point," Conrad interrupted, then immediately regretted the rudeness. "I apologize for interrupting, Mother. But—that's exactly what I'm trying to explain. I want the crowded classroom. I want to learn alongside students who aren't nobility, who don't have private tutors, who experience education the way ninety-nine percent of Algoria's population experiences it."
His father leaned back, studying Conrad with expression that suggested genuine puzzlement. "Why? What possible benefit could come from that?"
Conrad took breath, gathering courage for honesty he hadn't fully articulated even to himself. "Because Hans is going to rule Algoria. Probably more than Algoria—he's building something larger, something that will reshape how kingdoms function. And I—" He paused, forcing himself to continue. "I'll never be part of that. I'm not brilliant enough, not ambitious enough, not enough in any way that matters for governance."
"Conrad—" his mother started, sympathy in her voice.
"It's true," he said simply. "Hans is exceptional. I'm not. And I've accepted that. But that means I need to find different path—one where I can contribute something meaningful without competing in arena where I'll always lose."
His father's expression had shifted from confusion to something harder to read. "And you believe public school will provide this... different path?"
"I believe understanding common people—truly understanding them, not just observing from distance—will give me perspective Hans doesn't have. He's brilliant at systems and strategy, but he's never sat in classroom with baker's son or farmer's daughter. He's never had friends who worry about whether their families can afford next month's food."
Conrad moved closer, passion overriding nervousness. "You asked me what benefit could come from public school? Here's my answer: empathy. Understanding. The ability to see kingdom's policies from perspective of people they actually affect. Hans can design perfect economic system on paper, but if he doesn't understand how it feels to be student who can't afford textbooks or family who loses home due to tax increases—then his perfect system will still cause suffering he never intended."
Silence. His father's expression was unreadable. His mother looked thoughtful, fingers tapping slowly against embroidery hoop.
"Besides," Conrad continued, pressing what he sensed might be opening, "it's not as if I'll be unprepared academically. Master Aldous says I'm three years ahead of standard curriculum for my age. I'll excel in the coursework without effort—meaning I can focus energy on understanding my classmates rather than struggling with material. It's strategically sound allocation of educational resources."
He'd used Hans's language deliberately—framing request in terms of strategy and resource allocation, speaking Father's dialect of governance and efficiency.
His father's eyebrow raised fractionally. "Strategically sound allocation of educational resources," he repeated slowly. "You've thought about this extensively."
"For three weeks. I've considered objections, anticipated concerns, evaluated long-term benefits against short-term inconveniences. This isn't impulse. It's calculated decision about my future and how I can best serve Algoria in capacity that doesn't compete with Hans's path."
Another silence. Longer this time. Conrad's heart hammered but he forced himself to remain still, to project confidence in his argument even while terrified of rejection.
His mother spoke first. "I think..." She paused, choosing words carefully. "I think this shows maturity we didn't expect. Self-awareness about strengths and limitations. Willingness to forge different path rather than attempting to be something you're not."
She looked at Conrad's father. "Perhaps we should allow it. Not permanently—trial period. One term. If his grades suffer or if experience proves unproductive, he returns to private instruction. But if he thrives..." She left the sentence unfinished, implication clear.
Conrad's father drummed fingers against chair arm, considering. When he finally spoke, his tone was measured. "One condition. You'll maintain private tutoring in evenings for subjects beyond standard curriculum—advanced history, military strategy, diplomatic theory. Public school will provide social education, but you'll not fall behind in academic preparation. Understood?"
"Understood," Conrad said immediately, relief flooding through him so intensely he felt lightheaded.
"And you'll write weekly reports analyzing your observations—how common students think, what their concerns are, how palace policies affect them. If you're going to use this as educational experience, you'll extract maximum value from it."
"Yes, Father."
"Then..." His father nodded slowly. "We'll enroll you for winter term. Beginning of next month. The Royal Academy accepts students of all social classes—provides good education while maintaining enough diversity for your stated purposes."
Conrad couldn't suppress his smile—genuine, unguarded expression of happiness that transformed his usually serious face. "Thank you. Both of you. I promise I'll make the most of this opportunity."
His mother smiled back, warm and approving. "I believe you will."
Conrad excused himself formally, managing to maintain composure until he'd exited the sitting room and crossed two corridors. Then he allowed himself moment of celebration—small fist pump, quiet "yes" exhaled with intense satisfaction.
He'd done it. Argued his case, anticipated objections, secured what he wanted through reason and strategic framing rather than emotional appeal or familial obligation.
For first time in weeks, Conrad felt like he'd accomplished something meaningful entirely on his own merit.
Not Hans's younger brother. Not the king's second son. Just Conrad, making his own decisions about his own future.
It felt extraordinary.