The journey back was a silent, grueling testament to the razor's edge between life and death. Every step was an agony for Aurelia. Her own Qi-depleted body screamed in protest, her arms burning from the strain of carrying Irelion's dead weight. He was unnaturally light, as if the force of the demon's grip had crushed the very substance out of him, leaving only a fragile shell of bone and grit.
She didn't dare look down at his face. She focused on the path, on the rhythmic, pained breathing of Li Wei behind her, on the near-silent, traumatized footsteps of Zhang Min. But her mind, usually a serene landscape of logic and order, was a raging storm. The puzzle of Irelion Vance consumed her.
His impossible tactics. The crude but terrifyingly effective bombs. The way he had known, with absolute certainty, the intimate flaw in her clan's sacred technique. The delirious, pain-wracked whispers of names she had never heard. Nyx. Evangeline. And the pouch. The small leather bag of seven broken sword shards that he carried over his heart like a tombstone.
Each piece of the puzzle contradicted the last. He was a master tactician who chose to be a failed disciple. He was a warrior of impossible skill who wielded a cheap, useless blade. He was a boy with the eyes of an old man who carried the grief of a thousand lifetimes. Her logical world was being torn apart by this illogical, impossible boy.
They broke through the treeline as the sun began its descent, painting the sky in strokes of orange and blood-red. The two disciples guarding the sect's main gate saw them first. Their casual, bored expressions dissolved into masks of pure shock.
"By the heavens! It's Senior Sister Aurelia!" one of them shouted, his voice cracking with alarm.
The other stared at the blood-soaked, grime-covered state of the party, his eyes widening at the sight of the unconscious Irelion cradled in Aurelia's arms. He blew a piercing whistle, the signal for a medical emergency.
Word spread through the sect like a wildfire. An Inner Sect prodigy, wounded and exhausted, carrying a broken outer disciple back from a simple patrol. It was a scandal. It was a mystery. It was the most exciting thing to happen in months. Disciples began to gather, their whispers a rising tide of speculation.
Aurelia ignored them all. She walked with a single-minded, unyielding purpose, her gaze fixed on the distant, pagoda-like roof of the sect infirmary. Her face was a mask of cold fury, a silent warning to anyone who dared get in her way.
The head physician was an elderly woman named Elder Mei, her face a roadmap of wrinkles, her eyes sharp and discerning. She took one look at the scene—at Aurelia's exhaustion, at Li Wei's bleeding arm, at Zhang Min's catatonic stare, and finally at the still, broken form of Irelion—and her expression became grim.
"Bring him in. Lay him on the table. Now," she commanded, her voice thin but wiry as steel. "The rest of you, out. This is a hall of healing, not a marketplace for gossip."
Her assistants gently took Irelion from Aurelia's numb arms. The moment his weight was gone, a wave of dizziness washed over her, and she had to brace herself against the doorframe.
Elder Mei's gnarled hands moved over Irelion's body with a lifetime of experience. She felt his ribs, her brow furrowing deeper with each gentle probe. She checked his pulse, his Qi flow, the state of his meridians. After a long, tense silence, she turned to Aurelia.
"Seven broken ribs. A crushed sternum. His left lung is punctured, and there is significant internal bleeding," she stated, each word a clinical hammer blow. "His right humerus is fractured in three places. The burns from that ichor are deep, and they carry a demonic taint that will be difficult to cleanse. His meridians are strained to the point of tearing."
She looked Aurelia dead in the eye. "It is a miracle he is not already dead. In fact, by all rights, he should be. What in the name of the nine hells did you fight?"
"A Felguard," Aurelia said, her voice a hoarse whisper.
Elder Mei's eyes widened. "A Spirit Realm demon? On a simple patrol? Impossible."
"It was there," Aurelia said, leaving no room for argument. "And he is the reason we are not all dead." She pushed herself off the doorframe, her exhaustion replaced by an iron resolve. "Elder Mei, he is to have a private recovery room. You will use the highest-grade Heart-Soothing Pills to stabilize his core. You will apply the Three-Rivers Poultice to his burns. You will spare no expense."
The elder looked taken aback. "Senior Niece, those are resources reserved for Inner Sect elders. This boy is…"
"This boy is under my protection," Aurelia cut her off, her voice dropping to a low, dangerous tone. "His expenses will be paid from my personal contribution points. If they are not enough, they will be paid by my clan. Is that understood?"
Elder Mei stared at the young prodigy, seeing for the first time the unyielding steel of the Frostbane clan matriarchs in her eyes. She gave a slow, respectful nod. "It will be as you say."
Later that night, the infirmary was quiet. Irelion lay on a clean bed in a private room, his chest and arm bound in thick, herb-scented bandages.
Aurelia sat in a simple wooden chair by his bedside, a silent, unmoving sentinel. She hadn't left. She had refused all treatment for her own exhaustion. She simply sat and watched the slow, steady rise and fall of his chest.
His breathing hitched. A low groan escaped his lips. His eyelids fluttered, then opened. They were cloudy, unfocused, staring up at the ceiling. He seemed to look through the roof, through the sky, into a past she could not see.
"Aurelia…" he whispered, his voice a dry, broken rasp.
Her heart leaped. He was awake. He knew her.
But then his gaze drifted, settling on her without truly seeing her. A look of profound, heartbreaking sorrow filled his eyes.
"...your hands," he murmured, his voice thick with a delirium she didn't understand. "Always so cold… even then."
His eyes rolled back, and he slipped back into the depths of unconsciousness, leaving his words hanging in the silent room.
Aurelia sat frozen, his words echoing in her mind. Even then. It was not the statement of a boy she had met a week ago. It was the lament of a man who had known her for a lifetime.
She reached out, her hand trembling slightly, and gently touched his. His skin was cool, but beneath it, there was a faint, stubborn warmth. A spark of life she had helped preserve. An existence that held the key to an impossible truth. An equilibrium had been reached—he saved her, she saved him—but it felt fundamentally unbalanced. An obligation had been forged in the clearing, and it was now hers to bear.
I will protect you, she vowed in the silence of her own heart. And I will have my answers. It was no longer a threat. It was a promise.