Stoneford rose from the riverbank in gray stone and timber, its wall throwing long shadows across the road. Evening light caught the watch-helms on the gate. Brennar did not slow. He had Rowan over his shoulder like a sack of grain, one big hand clamped around the boy's legs to keep him steady. Ari walked ahead, bow in hand, eyes on every dark pocket where trouble could hide.
"Halt!" a guard shouted from the parapet. Spears tilted down. "Name your business!"
Brennar didn't waste breath. "Healer!" he roared. His voice carried like a drumbeat. "The boy's falling to pieces. Open!"
"State if he's corrupted!" another voice called. "We won't bring rot inside the walls."
Ari lifted her head. "If he were corrupted," she said, flat as a blade, "your wall wouldn't matter."
A murmur ran along the top of the gate. Brennar took two more steps, breath rough, sweat soaking the sling at his shoulder. Blood had seeped through the cloth and dried to a dark patch. He kept walking.
A steward appeared on the wall-walk and peered down. He stared at Rowan—pale, limp, lips cracked—and then at Brennar's ruined shoulder. "Open!" he snapped. "Open now!"
The doors groaned aside. Brennar carried Rowan through as if the weight meant nothing. Inside, the air smelled of smoke, iron, and boiled herbs. Stoneford was busy even at dusk—cart wheels, trader voices, a child chasing a dog—but people moved away from Brennar when they saw the boy over his shoulder. Some crossed themselves. Some just stared. Ari's gaze met theirs once, and the staring slowed.
"This way," a runner panted, waving them toward a low building with a painted sign of a threaded needle. "Healers' hall!"
Brennar shouldered through the doorway and laid Rowan on the closest cot. The room was warm and bright. Shelves of jars lined the walls. Bundles of dried leaves hung upside down from the rafters. A brazier hissed under a kettle.
A young woman in an apron moved from another bed and reached them in three strides. Hair braided and tucked away, sleeves rolled, eyes steady. "On his back," she said, already checking Rowan's pulse, then his eyes. "What happened?"
"Fight on the river," Brennar said. He tried to straighten, then swayed a little. "He saved us and spent himself doing it."
"Name?" she asked, never stopping her hands.
"Rowan," Brennar said. "I'm Brennar. That's Ari."
"Lyra," she said. "Don't move him again." She turned her head and called without looking, "Hot water. Two bowls. Clean cloth. Turn the brazier up." Two apprentices scrambled to obey.
Brennar took a breath like he meant to leave—to fetch something, to watch the door, to do anything but sit—and turned away from the cot.
Lyra stepped into his path and planted a small hand against his chest. "No."
"I've got work," he said, trying to brush past.
"You've got a hole where a shoulder should be," Lyra said. "If you walk back out like that, you won't walk back in." She did not raise her voice. She did not need to.
Brennar met her eyes. For a heartbeat he looked ready to argue. Then his knees unlocked, and he sat, hard, on the next cot. Ari's mouth twitched at the corner, almost a smile.
Lyra bent over Rowan again. She wiped dust from his face. As the cloth passed over his throat and collarbone, something faint moved beneath the skin—like riverlight seen through glass. Lyra paused, fingers resting lightly at the base of his neck. The glow faded, then slid along a vein and was gone.
Ari saw her look. "What is it?" she asked.
Lyra kept working. "Water," she said. "Clinging where it shouldn't. He's Awakened?"
Brennar snorted softly. "The river decided that for him."
Lyra nodded once, more to herself than to them. She checked Rowan's breath, counted, and felt along his ribs for breaks. "He's stable. Exhausted and burned inside by the pull of what he used. I need to cool him, then feed him in sips when he wakes." She glanced at the mark on his palm. Rope burn, angry red. "And clean these."
She flicked her eyes to Ari. "You. Put that kettle by me. Keep the cloths warm, not scalding." Ari did as told without comment.
Lyra moved to Brennar and peeled back the blood-stuck sling. The wound under it was ugly: a long, deep slice that had been bandaged in a hurry and bled through twice. He grunted once, more from annoyance than pain.
"Hold still," Lyra said. She opened a small jar and dabbed a thick green paste along the cut. The smell bit like pine and bitter tea. "Threadbinder salve," she explained, more for Ari than for Brennar. "Draws the edges together before the stitch."
"You're bossy," Brennar said, teeth set.
"You're alive," Lyra said, threading a curved needle with thin, pale cord. The cord glimmered faintly when it caught the light. "And you'll stay that way if you let me work."
She stitched with fast, even motion, the cord sinking into flesh and leaving a tidy line. Brennar watched her hands with grudging respect. "You sew like a smith swings," he said. "True and straight."
Lyra didn't answer. She finished the line, tied it off, and wound clean cloth tight around his shoulder. "Don't lift anything heavier than a loaf," she said.
"What about a boy?" Brennar asked, jerking his chin toward Rowan.
Lyra's look was dry. "Heavier than you think."
Brennar huffed a laugh and then winced for laughing.
Rowan stirred. His head rolled on the thin pillow, lips moving without sound. Lyra was there in a heartbeat, a hand on his chest to keep him from straining. His eyes fluttered. "River," he whispered, voice ragged. "Too loud… can't—"
"Easy," Lyra said, voice low. "You're safe. Breathe." She dipped a cloth in cool water and laid it across his brow. The faint shimmer under his skin answered the touch and settled, like a tide drawing back.
Ari watched that, and then watched Lyra. "You've seen this kind of thing," she said. Not a question.
Lyra kept her eyes on Rowan's face. "Not often. But enough." She chose her words with care. "Some Awakened learn to carry what woke them. Some don't. When they fail, it twists them. They stop being themselves. We call that corruption."
Brennar's jaw tightened. "He's not turning."
"Not today," Lyra said. "But if he keeps pulling like he did on that bridge without learning to shape it, he'll drown standing up." She looked at Ari. "You train him. I can keep his body from breaking while he learns. That's all."
Ari inclined her head, accepting the terms. "He'll learn."
Rowan sank back into stillness. Lyra mixed a thin broth with herbs and set it within reach. She cleaned the rope burns on his palms, working the grit from the cuts with gentle, stubborn fingers. When he flinched, she paused until the tension left his jaw and then continued. "You'll keep those covered three days," she told him, though he might not hear. "Then we start again."
Brennar watched her like a man measuring a new axe head. "You're young for someone who orders me around," he said finally.
"You're old for someone who needs it," Lyra said, not unkindly. She rinsed her hands, wiped them dry, and checked the bandage on his shoulder a second time, thumb testing the knot. Satisfied, she moved back to Rowan and adjusted the cloth on his brow.
Outside, the last light bled from the street. Voices went softer. Somewhere a hammer gave a final, tired tap. The hall took on the quiet that comes after busy hours. The two apprentices settled other patients, then drifted to their stools with mortars in their laps, grinding leaves to paste.
Ari stood and stretched the stiffness from her back. "We'll take turns," she said. "Watching him."
"You'll do it here," Lyra said. "I'm not sending him back out tonight."
Brennar shifted, making room on his cot and trying to pretend that didn't hurt. "I sleep like a stone," he warned.
"I've noticed," Ari said.
Rowan breathed evenly now, the worst heat gone from his skin. His fingers twitched once, as if testing the air. Lyra set a cup of water by the bed and checked the pulse in his wrist one more time. Satisfied, she sat on the stool between their cots, elbows on knees, hands loosely clasped.
Ari studied her in the quiet. "You plan to keep ordering us," she said.
"If you keep needing it," Lyra said without looking up.
Brennar smiled with half his mouth. "We do."
Silence returned. The brazier hissed. A moth bumped the shutter and fell away. Somewhere in the city, a bell tolled a single note for the closing of the gate.
Lyra drew a slow breath and finally looked from Rowan to the two who had brought him this far. "I don't pretend to understand where you're headed," she said. "But I know what I saw on that bridge. And I know what the road does to people like him if they walk it alone."
She tied off the last of Brennar's bandage, pulled it snug, and sat back. Her voice was calm and certain when she added, "It looks like the path you three are taking… my gifts might be needed."
Brennar's answer was a tired grin. Ari gave a single, small nod. On the cot, Rowan slept on, unaware that their number had grown by one. Outside, the river kept its steady talk, and Stoneford drew in the night.