The medical pavilion smelled like burnt herbs and iron.
Lan Yue sat on a wooden bench outside the treatment room, her elbows on her knees, staring at the floor. Inside, healers worked on Wen Hao. She could hear them through the thin walls. Murmured instructions, the hum of spiritual energy being channeled through damaged meridians, and beneath all of it, the wet, rasping sound of a boy trying to breathe through lungs that no longer worked properly.
He was seventeen. She had checked. Seventeen years old, a third year disciple from a minor family with no political connections, chosen specifically because no one would ask too many questions if something went wrong.
And something had gone very wrong.
Zhao Lingxi stood at the far end of the corridor, alone. She had not spoken since leaving the arena. She had not wiped the blood from her face. She stood with her back against the wall, her arms at her sides, her eyes fixed on nothing.
