The medical pavilions behind the arena pulsed like living hearts, each tent glowing gold through the heavy canvas, the air thick with the smell of smoke, herbs, and blood. Inside, it was quieter but not peaceful. The silence there was tight, broken only by groans, whispered prayers, and the hiss of burning magic.
Eight slabs formed a perfect circle at the center of the largest tent. The surviving Eight lay upon them, bodies stripped of armor, skin slick with sweat and streaked in dust and blood.
Around them moved the Flame Menders as they were called, mages of the kingdom, each from a noble family who still carried the blessings of Pyronox, their robes deep orange, threaded with ember-bright veins that seemed to pulse and shimmer as they worked. The air trembled with the weight of their power.
When the Head Mender raised her hands, the others followed in unison.
"Vaer'kath sulai renor."
