Pain.
It wasn't sharp, like before. It was deep, buried, throbbing, like his whole body had been hollowed out and filled with fire. Luke groaned and forced his eyes open.
The ceiling was stone and vaulted, with dust settled in its corners and faded banners lining the beams. Cold air crept against his skin. He was in a bed, though not a comfortable one. The mattress was thin. The blanket was scratchy. His side felt like it had been stitched with barbed wire.
He moved his head and winced. Beside the bed was a plain wooden table with a chipped bowl of stale broth and a half-spent candle. The faint scent of blood and herbs clung to the air like damp rot.
"So you didn't die after all."
A voice, dry and unimpressed, came from a man at the far end of the room.
He was older, likely in his sixties, dressed in a well-worn but clean robe, neatly fastened at the collar. His sleeves were rolled up to reveal hands that, though marked by years of practice, were steady and precise. The faintest scent of herbs lingered in the air, though there was nothing harsh or unkempt about his appearance. He carried himself with the quiet confidence of someone who had been put in worse situations.
Luke opened his mouth, then coughed hard.
"Try not to rip the stitching," the man muttered, not moving from his mortar. "Took me half a night to close those holes in you. Thought you'd bleed out by yesterday morning. Would've saved me the trouble."
Luke wheezed a laugh. "Charming bedside manner."
The physician turned then, squinting at him like he was a puzzle he didn't like. "You're lucky. If not for the girl, you'd be rotting in the soldier's yard with the other corpses. You're no knight. No noble. Just some gutter-born stray in a commoner's rag. You don't get soft sheets and pillows here."
Luke looked down. His tunic had been replaced by a rough sleeping shirt, and thick bandages wrapped around his middle, dark where they'd soaked through.
"You said... the girl?" Luke murmured.
"Lady Lyra Emberlily." The physician gave him a sidelong glance. "She's the only reason you're in this room instead of being buried under the muck heap. Apparently, you saved her from being defiled. Cutthroats in the alleyway. She's been making quite the noise about it."
Luke winced as he shifted in the bed. "I just... did what anyone would've done."
The old man scoffed. "No. You did what a fool would do. You got yourself stabbed like a pig at the festival and barely lived to regret it."
There was a long silence. Then the physician added, more quietly, "But maybe a noble fool. Those don't last long here."
Luke stared at the ceiling. "What's this place?"
"You're in Emberkeep. The lord's stronghold. Guest quarters, though barely. They didn't know what to do with you. The girl insisted, and the captain backed her up. Thorne, too honorable for his own good sometimes."
Luke's throat was dry. "How long was I out?"
"Two days. Fever nearly took you last night."
Luke closed his eyes. "I didn't think I'd make it."
A pause.
The physician didn't respond at first. Then he muttered, "The only difference between the living and the dead in this world is how long they keep fighting after they should've given up."
Luke turned toward him.
"What's your name, boy?"
"Luke."
The man raised an eyebrow. "Luke?"
He hesitated. "Lucan," he lied. "Everyone keeps calling me that."
"Hmm. Odd one, I've heard Lucan but not Luke." The physician tossed a bloodied cloth into a bowl. "Rest. You'll need strength. Lord Emberlily's requested to speak with you."
Luke blinked. "The lord himself?"
The physician gave him a long look. "You're either being rewarded, questioned, or condemned. You'll find out soon enough."
The door creaked open. Luke's head snapped toward it.
Lady Lyra stepped in, accompanied by a guard in muted mail. She wore a deep red gown now, more formal, though her face looked pale, and her hands clenched at her sides. She dismissed the guard quietly.
Luke tried to sit up again, but she raised a hand.
"No. Please. Don't."
He slumped back, breathing hard.
"You're awake," she said, stepping closer. "I wasn't sure you would be."
He managed a weak smile. "Me neither."
"I told them what you did," Lyra said, her voice softer now. "They didn't believe me. They thought... maybe you were one of the men. Or someone paid to cause the riot."
Luke flinched. "Of course they did."
She looked him over, her eyes briefly on the bandages. "But I saw you. I know what you did. I wouldn't be here without you."
He looked at her, unsure what to say.
"I... I just didn't want to stand by," he said finally.
Lyra nodded. "Whatever your reasons, you acted. Most wouldn't."
A silence passed. Then she said, "My father still wants to see you. But I made sure it wouldn't be until you could walk."
Luke met her gaze. "Do I need to worry?"
Her lips curled slightly. "Depends. Can you survive in a court of words? You seemed to do well with daggers."
He shook his head with a smile.
She straightened. "Rest. I'll come again soon."
With that, she turned and left. The door clicked shut behind her.
Luke stared up at the ceiling once more, the dull ache in his side pulsing like a drum.
So much for dying.