Page 28 of Cage of Starlight

As the haziness fades, he finds the sun is, in fact, still setting, the ground is solid, and his cheek is squished against the buttons of Sena Vantaras’ uniform.

“Now . Can you stand by yourself?”

That’s Hasra’s question. Hasra—glitter smeared over her cheekbones, pipe-smoke spice, and lullabies murmured when she thinks he’s asleep. His chest aches, deeper than the pain from bruised ribs, and he remembers her eyes when he left her behind for the second time.

The hands under his arms hike him up higher. “I’ll be taking you to Mrs. Jeffra. If you feel confident in your ability to make it there without assistance, I’d be happy to leave you here.”

“Ankle,” Tory mumbles. The grass under his feet sags, gray-brown and trampled. “Can’t put weight on it.”

Vantaras looks down to where Tory’s right foot hovers over the ground. “All right, then.” He moves to Tory’s right side, then positions one arm around his shoulder, tugging one of Tory’s arms across his back. “This will have to do. Tell me when you’re ready to move.”

“Just move.”

“You’ll get yourself killed like this.”

Tory is uniquely skilled at not dying, thanks very much, it’s just that Vantaras ruined his lifetime record of avoiding unfortunate run-ins with authority figures, so really it’s his fault that Tory ended up like this, isn’t it?

Vantaras gives Tory a second to get used to standing before he takes a step. Tory follows, nearly landing them on their faces. A few more tries, and their steps are more coordinated.

“Do you know who did this?”

“Five of them,” Tory says.

Vantaras takes the news with as much emotion as he takes anything. “If you know their names or recognize their faces, I can warn them that such behavior won’t be tolerated.”

Tory snorts. “Like that’d help.”

“You’d be surprised what privileges we’re allowed to revoke. They’d get the message.”

Tory shakes his head. “Gonna be out on the battlefield soon. No point.”

“If that’s what you want.”

Another wave of dizziness forces them to stop, and before they continue, Vantaras speaks up, quieter and tentative.

“It might be humiliating, but when they’re serious about causing harm, it’s best to curl up on the ground to protect your head and core—prevent serious injury as well as you can.”

Bitterness floods Tory’s mouth. Another commandment to add to the ugly scriptures of staying alive. Don’t make waves, hide the tattoos, keep your head down.

Curl up tight so they don’t kill you. “More of your advice ?”

Vantaras breathes out a noisy sigh. “I can’t control their actions and cannot discipline your attackers if you refuse to tell me their names. I meant to say, as someone who has been in your position, I know what to do when people are intent on hurting you.”

“ You ?” The upbringing Tory imagined for him was all money and faceless cronies smiling deferentially and . . . riding, or whatever rich people do in and out of their dreary gray fortresses. Parties with faceted glasses and very nice cake.

Sena stops, gives Tory his full attention.

It’s . . . a lot. He’s too dizzy for this.

“More often when I was young. My mother gave birth a few weeks early. I was slow to hit my growth spurt, slow to make friends. My health was . . . an issue, and I was clearly different from my peers. I was an almost laughably perfect target.”

“Was?” Tory smirks. He finds him a perfectly satisfying target now.

Sena looks away. “You wanted to know about my Seed? I destroy things. My Seed blossomed when I was nine. A boy . . . lost a leg. It ensured my attackers would think twice before targeting me again. Since then, my physical health has been near flawless.”

“Braggart.” It should be illegal to be rich and healthy. Tory is too tired to get irritated, but he manages a weak scowl in Sena’s direction.

They’re silent the rest of the way, until Sena extends his free hand to rap on the infirmary door. “Room for one more, Healer Jeffra?”

Tory hears bustling from inside, and a heavy-set older woman opens the door.

She’s somewhere between Tory’s height and Sena’s, salt-and-pepper curls held back with a bright yellow headband.

She’s dressed in the usual uniform, except she has a huge yellow apron tied over the top, with vials and papers and pads tucked into the multitudes of pockets.

“Well, if it isn’t Sena. I don’t see you around here often enough.

” Her warm gaze travels to Tory. “And you , son. Didn’t we just discharge you after you did a runner? ”

Tory winces.

Sena lugs him over to a reclined seat. “He was attacked by a few Seeds from his unit. Concussion, sprained or fractured ankle as far as I can tell. Probably bruising on his torso. Think you can fix him up?”

The older woman gives Sena a mock-withering look.

“What, you think I can’t?” She waves over at the corner, and only then does Tory notice the Healer from the other day with the scar on her cheek—thankfully no longer covered in blood—sprawled over a chair.

“Niela, dear, I thought I told you to see to the slice wound in the rec room. You need practice on stimulating the body to produce more blood.”

“C’mon, Ma . . .”

“I’ll tell your young man where to find you if he drops in. Go.”

Jeffra strides over to Tory as soon as Niela leaves. “Lift up your shirt, then. Let me assess the damage so I know where to focus.”

When Tory isn’t fast enough, she does it herself, clucking and tutting.

“Need to eat more,” she says.

He can’t keep the bite from his voice when he retorts, “I eat plenty.”

“Don’t sass me,” Jeffra warns. “You like having regular bowel movements?”

Tory stares.

“Do you?” She pushes him back onto the chair, elevating his legs.

He blinks at her, not sure what she expects him to say.

“I thought so,” she huffs. “No backtalk.”

Sena snorts out a laugh.

“And you, kiddo, need to keep your distance if you want me to be able to do my job.”

Sena takes a few long steps back until Jeffra nods.

“All right, then. Let’s start with your head. I daresay Sena was right. It looks like you took a real good hit.”

Tory shifts on the seat, but Jeffra stops him. “Relax and close your eyes. Don’t wiggle. Don’t talk.”

Tory obeys, though he’s sure that sound is Sena snickering from his place by the door.

Warmth envelops him, and the ache in his head fades.

The focus of the warmth shifts gradually downward, erasing the pain in his ribs and the bruises from training until she gets to his ankle.

It’s weird being on the other side of this.

Weird to sense, without really trying, how different the energy of a true Healer is, how differently it works.

Tory works backward, toward the body’s memory of wholeness pre-injury.

Jeffra works forward, toward repair. A Healer’s energy is .

. . warm, expansive. Like sunlight on stone.

He recognizes the sharp edges of his body’s natural healing energies, but they’re softer and larger in her hands. It’s nice.

He’s almost asleep when it fades.

“No napping in the infirmary.” Jeffra tugs him to a sitting position. She peers into both of his eyes, one at a time, nodding at whatever she finds. “You still hurting anywhere?”

“No.” He feels amazing, actually, buzzing with energy. “Uh . . . thank you.”

Jeffra nods firmly. “’Least he remembers his manners,” she quips at no one in particular.

Tory stands and bends to brush dirt from his clothes.

“Whoa there! Wait up!”

He stops, hands frozen two inches from the clump of mud on his pants. “Uh . . .?”

“You wanna clean my floor?”

He shakes his head, seeking Sena’s eyes. He gets only an amused shrug.

“Then don’t primp yourself in here. You can shake off that filth on the Grand General’s bedsheets for all I care, but don’t you make a mess in my infirmary.”

Sena snorts.

Jeffra slants a guilty glance at him. “I trust you won’t tell your father I said that.”

“Not a word, ma’am.”

She laughs. “Good! You get on out of here, then, both of you. For your sake, I hope I never see you again.”

That seems to be the end of it.

Sena spares him having to walk around the entire building and leads him through the officers’ quarters and around the front, past Intake, until they reach the mess hall. “Most of the stations are closed down, but you may be able to get some leftovers. I’ll speak to the head cook.”

In the end, he manages a sandwich and some still-warm soup, and Sena sits opposite him in the dimly lit room. Only the faint illumination from the kitchen reaches them.

“Are you ready for tomorrow?” Sena asks.

The food goes down heavy.

That’s right.

Tomorrow morning, they depart.