The Royal Medical Wing was far better than the Academy's infirmary, which smelled of
crushed herbs, the palace infirmary smelled of nothing. The air was scrubbed clean by silver-etched ventilation shafts, chilled to a temperature that discouraged blood flow and encouraged compliance.
Elias sat on the edge of a high, slate-topped table. He was bare to the waist, the cold air raising goosebumps on skin that had once been flushed with the heat of the Annex.
"Breathe in," a healer commanded.
Elias inhaled. He didn't rush the breath. He didn't hold it. He followed the rhythm the man demanded.
Three healers moved around him like ghosts in white linen. One held a resonance crystal to his temple; another tracked the neural strain via a series of glass needles that barely skimmed the surface of his skin; the third, a senior man with a face like crumpled parchment, monitored the blood-magic readings.
