28

Michael spent an uninterrupted week in the tomb. He very quickly realized that the reason that the sun was able to shine through the top was to give those trapped inside an exact idea of how much time was passing. If there’d been no sunlight, no way to tell how much time had passed, then it would’ve passed much more quickly. With sunlight he was acutely aware of exactly how long he had been there. He would shiver his way through the nights, clutching his hands that he spent a large chunk of the day shattering, then he’d wake up and heal them before he ate breakfast. Once he was done eating, it would be several hours of exercises that included push-ups, sit-ups, pull-ups at the small slats, squats, and just running back and forth bouncing off the walls for a while. After lunch he’d switch to practicing magic and trying to refine his spell. With so much time to devote to it and little distraction, he was able to create a solid wall of shimmering force in front of his fists and slam them into the wall at full force. Unfortunately, he had difficulty knowing at what point the spell would fail. It was usually after a particularly hard impact against the wall, which resulted in a tremendous amount of pain. Once his magicka was drained, he’d focus on just conditioning his fists, hitting the walls with as much force as he could before feeling like he’d need to heal them. Then at night he would curl around his painful knuckles and shiver against the cold until he fell asleep.

At the end of the first week, while he was dead asleep, the door to his cell suddenly opened. Two soldiers appeared at the doorway, and one of them splashed a bucket of cold water on him. He gasped as the shock of it hit him and quickly scrambled to the corner of the cell with his hands up. He hadn’t been expecting a beating, especially a week in, but he quickly moved to cover his vitals.

A bundle of cloth struck him in the face, making him flinch.

“Dry,” said one.

He looked, realizing at that moment that both men were holding candles. They looked older and more grizzled than the guards he was used to seeing around the academy. He had caught a towel. He quickly dried himself off, and they tossed another bundle to him. This time it was clothes. He recognized a fixed stitch on the shoulder—it was his uniform.

“Dress, and dress well.”

He considered asking why, but any reason to get out of the tomb was likely a good one. He guessed it was either additional questions about the murder or something to do with his healing. Maybe an instructor got hurt, or a student managed to get kicked in the head by a horse. The games were over, so the healer from the capital should’ve left. He’d hoped to see them work, to maybe glean some insight from them, but it looked as if that was not to be.

He put on the uniform, being as thorough as he could by candlelight. When he was done, one of the soldiers approached him and made a number of small adjustments to how he was dressed, smoothing wrinkles and buttoning a clasp he’d missed in his haste. He nodded when he was satisfied and pointed to the other soldier.

“Follow him.”

Michael nodded and started walking behind the other soldier. He wanted to take a moment to appreciate the night sky that he’d only been able to glimpse at by doing pull-ups up to the small slits at the top of the tomb, but the soldier’s pace gave him no time to dawdle. They didn’t head into the nearest building, where he’d been interrogated regarding Xiu’s escape attempt. That meant he was probably going to have to heal someone. When they began to move toward the infirmary, his suspicion was confirmed. They made their way through the dark and into the building. It was mostly dark aside from a few small lanterns lit around one of the beds. The rest of them were clear, and he could see only one medic walking to gather some supplies.

They reached the lit bed, and the soldier guiding him pulled aside the curtain. There were two more soldiers there, as well as a large man with thinning hair and glasses. He had an angry circular red scar under his right eye, and his uniform had the marking of a general that had been heavily decorated. His face shape and the gray of his eyes told Michael that he was Lance’s father, though he wore no concern in his expression for the state of his son. Michael hadn’t put it together before, given the drama of the moment, but he must be the General Kreg that the investigating soldier had mentioned wouldn’t want the games stopped because of the murder in the woods.

In the bed itself was Lance, his leg elevated and wrapped and a serious expression on his face that was very unlike the charismatic smile that he’d been wearing when leading the blacks in battle.

Michael didn’t even think about it. He just started to focus, activating his Blessing and causing his hand to glow gold and radiate heat. He pressed it gently against Lance’s leg and felt his broken leg mend quickly. It was a bad break, the kind that with regular healing would have left him with a limp or weak stride for the rest of his life.

The general regarded him with a stare. “Soldiers aren’t meant to act until they receive their orders.”

Michael smiled politely. “I’m still training.”

Lance chuckled a bit at that, catching himself and forcing a cough to cover it as he bent his leg, testing it. He put it over the side of the bed and put some weight on it, nodding as he found it completely repaired.

The general watched him closely, nodding as well when it seemed he was okay.

“You will not always have a healer available to correct your mistakes. There are very few on the front, and their abilities are often lesser than this.”

“Yes, Father,” responded Lance, his eyes downcast.

“The victory of your blacks was already assured. A final battle led by you was an unnecessary risk. Your brothers would’ve known that. Do not let a hunger for glory put you and yours at risk.”

“Yes, Father.”

“The astrologers anticipate that there will be another Festival of Blades soon. Do not disappoint me.”

“Yes, Father.”

The general turned his harsh gaze to Michael, but while it could make a young soldier or a veteran shudder, Michael was an old man who’d met a dozen men like the general. He simply met his gaze.

“Your service is appreciated. In the morning you will be discharged from the tomb.”

“Thank you, sir.”

The general nodded at his soldiers, and they gestured for him to move. He complied, and they led him back to his tomb, locking him back inside without a word. He removed the coat of his uniform and folded it into something approximating a pillow, lying down. He was surprised to find part of himself disappointed that he would be ending his sentence early. He hadn’t had a room to himself since he’d gotten there, and he hadn’t yet perfected his new spell. He could manage it for nearly five straight punches, but that was against a wall; it was possible his focus would be much more limited in an actual fight. His hands themselves felt sturdier and stronger than they had before, and he’d managed to put on a bit more muscle with his frequent exercise, but he wondered how much more progress another week would’ve gotten him. Though those gains would’ve eaten into the progress he’d be missing in his other classes, which was likely more practical.

He chuckled a bit to himself. He was enjoying getting stronger, being physical. Even the fighting he’d done during the training exercise had been fun. He’d never explored that in his old life, he hadn’t had to, it was possible to live a long life without needing to be strong or violent back home. He didn’t regret missing out on it the first time around, but he wondered what his family would think of this new part of himself. He imagined his children would be amused. Sara might not be surprised—she’d never seemed too surprised by anything he did, her intuition had seen through any hidden depths he’d had long before he’d revealed them for himself.

He took a deep breath. He needed to get some rest before morning and likely had only two hours before the sun rose. He highly doubted everyone would be given a day off after the exercise, it was more likely they’d be allowed a single night of rest and then be sent right back to it. He closed his eyes and found it much easier to fall asleep wearing clothes with something soft to lie on, even if those layers were thin and the buttons of his jacket dug into his face.