His first reaction was to blink.

A searing pain tore through his eyeballs and eyelids while the magician's flames were eating the flesh of his cheekbones. He clutched his hands to his face as he fell down to the ground, rolling and writhing, screaming with a force he didn't know he had.

She had hit him. The Fire Magician had hit him!

Around him, chaos reigned. Men stumbled over his legs, their swords swooshing and clanking. Iron met flesh. Bones cracked. Female shrieks mimicked his own, then died.

Bee must have been one of them, but he no longer cared. He was all alone with this flaring pain that didn't stop no matter how hard he pressed his palms to his face. Minutes, hours, days—he didn't know he long he kept on tossing and turning, screaming.

How had Abby endured this? She had been strong in a way that he could not be. He wanted it to end, needed it to end. He couldn't take it any longer.

Yet he continued burning.

He had begun to pray to the Gods to relieve him from his misery as two hands scooped him up, the fire radiated through the rest of his body and fried his brain. 

"Make it stop! Make it stop!" was the only sentence he managed to repeat.

"...o... yo... ey..."

Deaf and blind to his surroundings, he was placed on a hard wooden surface, a bench or a table. His armour was stripped off. Men pulled at his bare arms, but he kicked and jerked his elbows around. He didn't let go of his eyes; he couldn't. It hurt too much.

Voices circled around him, yet without a face to see, they were foreign.

"... Healer..."

"Make it stop! Make it stop!" he yelled at them.

"... restrain..."

"Make it stop! Make it stop!"

A force blocked his knees, his legs bound by a coarse snake that bit into his flesh and seized all possible movement to his waist. It fed the flames.

"Make it stop! Make it stop!"

Four different pairs of hands grabbed his arms and pushed them to the wood.

He squeezed his eyes like he had never squeezed them before, his throat raw but his heart not done screaming. "Make it—"

Something was crammed into his mouth. It was a type of cloth, smooth yet hard, and tasted of smoked meat. He clenched his teeth around it, but when it did nothing to stop the terrible burn, he bit it so hard he tasted the blood of his own gums.

"This man is a young Lieutenant, no Healer." The General's voice was the first he recognised; it was relentless. "What happened to Healer Ronald? Why isn't he here?"

Captain Frank replied, "The good man is sadly no longer among us. I don't know what happened. He woke up with a swollen gut one morning, about two moons ago. Three hours later he was dead."

"And you failed to report this to me, why?"

"I wrote a note, asking for a replacement. But it was the dead of winter—Guess that pigeon didn't find its way back to Sunstone Castle."

The General huffed, the tone he used when he knew someone was lying to his face. Nick didn't care who tended to him, as long as someone ended his suffering.

"Nicolas. Your name is Nicolas, isn't it?" asked a nasal voice.

Nick groaned.

"A Fire Magician attacked you. You were hit in the face."

He groaned louder. He was dying, not a muttonhead.

"I need you to open your eyes."

He moaned in protest, flopping his head from side to side.

"Nicolas, this is your General speaking," the General said firmly. "You must obey. If you have the courage to disturb an execution, then you can allow Lieutenant Raymond to tend your wounds. Show us your eyes."

Nick spat out the strange cloth. "I can't."

"You must." As the General spoke, a fresh piece was pushed into his mouth. "Bite the leather. And... err... think of your favourite story."

Through the pain and the taste of someone's old shoe, a small part of his mind wandered to the afternoon he and Princess Lana had spent on the King's couch in his office, stuffing their faces with biscuits and reading the hilarious tale of Lucas and his noble steed, Rupert, who had clumsily united the Horse Lords to fight for one true King of The Greenlands. 

Billy, too, had loved that story. And he loved Billy.

For Billy, he could be brave.

Yet as he tried opening his eyes, he was physically unable to do so. His eyelids were plastered to his eyeballs that any attempt sent a lightning bolt through him. 

He twisted and wriggled at the mercy of the Gods.

"I'll do it for him."

Two fingers yanked his right eye open, bringing forth the fresh storm of pain. Ice cold water stung his eyes, a thousand ice shards piercing the flames. In the brief intervals between two pourings, everything remained an eerie, burning white.

Eyes open or closed, he saw just as much.

Nothing.

His body convulsed, the shaking controlled by the men holding him and the rough snakes biting him. He spewed out the leather as bile rose in his throat, but came no further than a retch.

"I can't see anything!" he wailed. "Why can't I see anything?"

"The iris is still there, but it has lost all colour. The rest is bloodred, which is better than black," said Lieutenant Raymond, ignoring him. "I'm going to check the left one. Keep pouring water."

"No, stop!" Nick cried out."I can't see!"

"Here." The owner of the friendly, low voice he vaguely recognised grabbed his hand. "Squeeze as hard as you can."

And that he did as the burning light tore him apart, his nails digging into the man's skin, his teeth grinding each other. He was crying, sobbing even, but instead of tears, there was just more fire.

"Black iris, Lieutenant. What does this mean?" the General demanded.

Lieutenant Raymond inhaled sharply. "I don't..."

"This is what you get when you don't have a proper Healer, Frank!" the General barked.

Captain Frank remained calm. "The boy should not have intervened. This happened on your watch, General."

"I know." The General's voice had softened. "But it happened—it's done now. Do what you can to help him."

"I'm afraid that all we can do is wait."

"Explain."

"Burn wounds, General," Lieutenant Raymond began. "The real wound and the severity, especially regarding eyes, doesn't become visible until hours—maybe a day—after an incident. At this stage, it's simply too early to tell."

Nick spluttered. A day was far too long. "No, I can't take it! I've learnt my lesson now. Help me!"

"Can you give him something?" the General asked.

"A good knock on the head?" the Lieutenant muttered, then added in an even lower tone. "We ran out of poppy seeds a moon ago."

"What kind of base is this, Frank? You harbour all these magicians, and you neither have a proper Healer nor the necessary supplies."

"Winter—"

"Stop using that pathetic excuse! Is there anything else—rosemary, cat's claw, bark of the white willow, oil from a ratfish's gut for all I care. What do you usually do when someone gets hurt?"

Silence fell.

"For Temperance's sake, don't tell me you bargain with magicians," the General uttered in disbelief.

When no answer came, a fourth voice spoke up. "Healer Ronald always kept some bark on his shelf. I don't know if it's willow bark..."

"Try it. If it's on a Healer's shelf, it must be good for something," the General said.

"Yes, General, I shall prepare the tea. I will also get more water—his eyes must remain moist," Lieutenant Raymond instructed.

Nick remained in snake-like chains, their bites dulling to the cutting of ropes on his skin. With each cup that was poured onto his forehead, he winced and crushed the bony flesh of the friendly, soothing hand.

What had he dreamed to achieve? Standing between a magician and her burning hand, he might as well have thrown himself in front of a firing cannon or into the jaw of a rabid wolf. How could he have been so foolish? It was something that Fox would have done, but not him; never him.

After the tea, which tasted of dirt and rotten leaves, and—ironically—burnt his tongue, his ropes were loosened and he was picked up by the man whose hand he had crushed. He didn't know it was Lieutenant Michael until the General addressed him, ordering the man to stay in the cabin with him.

Nick was laid on the bed, his head resting against the wall. A wet cloth was pressed to his face, the water not as cold as the one they had poured over him. It brought some relief to the stinging and throbbing, though only minimal.

"Let me." He placed his hand over Lieutenant Michael's. "I'm not completely useless."

The man retreated his hand. "Fine, give it back to me when it's drying up. There's enough water here."

"How much?"

"Three buckets."

"I wish I could see them. Do you think I'll get my sight back?" Nick asked, his voice full of hope.

"I'm no Healer but..." Lieutenant Michael shuffled on his chair, the wood cracking under his weight.

"Tell me what you think—I need to know."

"It looks bad. I've only ever seen the dead with eyes like yours."

Nick swallowed, then gasped for the air that had suddenly become too thin. "Do you think I'll die? Be honest."

"Everyone dies, Nick. The Gods give and take—I can't foresee what plans they have for you. I'm no Priest and no Healer."

"I wish you could."

"Yeah." There came a prolonged sigh. "If only we could see what the future would hold for us."

"See," Nick mused.

"But we can't."

"No, I can't."

His clouded mind flashed to his last images his eyes had captured. Bee, beautiful Bee, with her snow-like hair and full cherry lips that made her round face pop. In a flash, the Scorian woman with her mahogany skin and deep, dark gaze. The green of her flame had ambushed him, its copper smell scorching his nostrils first, then his sight.

"Is she dead?" Nick asked. He flinched as he ripped the cloth off his face, bits of it sticking to the wounds on his cheek.

Stretching his arm, he handed it to Michael.

The man took the cloth. He dipped it into the bucket, the water gushing and then dripping back to the surface as he took it out and wrung it. It made a squeaky sound; something Nick would have never noticed before.

"She is," Michael said as he pushed the cloth against Nick's hand. It was precisely the right amount of wet: no longer leaking, yet still refreshing. "Both of them are, and two of Captain Frank's. Looks like the General was right—a Neck can be killed. All you need is the Seven Hells unleashed, the right amount of chaos, and enough people to care for the muttonhead of a boy who threw his life away to save a magician."

Guilt settled on his shoulders. Four people were dead because of him; four lives destroyed because he had let Pride convince him he could make a difference.

"I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault." The man patted his upper arm. "She was a Neck—it's what they do. They play tricks, make you believe all sorts of wacky ideas. Your beliefs are noble, Nick, but magicians are dangerous and unpredictable. I hope you see that now—why we must fight and kill them. They don't deserve to live among us. They're an abomination—"

"—created by the Gods of Sin." 

He had heard it so often, but not believed, not even after Laneby. That had been a political act, the work of a King, executed by a magician who had been blamed afterwards. But now, he wasn't so sure anymore. Fox had been a clumsy oaf; was it a miracle that his fire games had made no victims?

The effects of the willow bark tea were insignificant. Though Michael assured him he had no fever, he grew feverish and weak, like had been struck down by seven cases of Belly Fever simultaneously. He couldn't sleep, eat, or think straight. The wall was too hard, his bed too soft.

"Just give me that knock on the head," he begged when the cloth needed moistening for the umptieth time. "Anything to make this stop."

Lieutenant Michael didn't respond. The door swung open, a harsh wind entering the cabin along with the steady footsteps that halted by his bedside.

"How is he?" the General asked, as though he wasn't with them in the room.

"Not well," Lieutenant Michael said truthfully. "He's in a lot of pain."

The General hummed. "I talked to the men. There's a Healer in Lowdale, but they fear him. He's a butcher. The next one would take us to Greenridge, but then we're just half a day's ride from Sundale and Healer Mark. Him I know and trust. Take Nicolas home."

Back to the castle. He hadn't left the best of impressions when he was last there, and the God of Wrath still bubbled up each time he remembered Seb sending Alex and Billy to the far edge of the world, but he had no better place to go.

"General, if I'm not mistaken, His Majesty sent Healer Mark away on retirement."

That Nick didn't know, but the General immediately countered the argument. "The man is not dead, is he? I'll send His Majesty a pigeon, explaining the situation. If he won't come around, talk to Her Majesty or involve Lady Alana. They'll know what to do."

"Are you not coming with us, General?" the Lieutenant asked.

"No, but don't let that stop you from taking the carriage. I'm gonna be here for a while. The base needs a proper spring cleaning, and I can't do that with my bottom sitting on a chair in Sunstone Castle."

"Excuse my boldness, but I don't think it's a good idea, General," Lieutenant Michael turned his voice to a whisper. "I don't trust Captain Frank. You'll only have Wallace left to protect you."

"Don't be daft, Lieutenant." The General chuckled. "Me and old Frank go way back. Our paths simply strayed a little since we last shared the same tent."

"It would ease my mind if I could send reinforcements."

"Agreed, we need new men here. Discuss it with Jonathan... oh, and cancel the army camp for the senior patrols. I need Jonathan in Sundale, permanently." The General left a pause. "For His Majesty's sake, and mine too."

"Aye, General."

What seemed like hours passed—the time it took to groom the horses, prepare the carriage, pack enough food for the journey home. Nick was approached by Lieutenant Raymond, who wished to examine his eyes again, but since the man couldn't keep his lantern close enough without Nick screaming and cursing all the Gods' names, he was left to lie in the carriage, the cloth still pressed to his face.

The Jarvey yelled, his whip lashing at the horses and off the carriage went, thundering and clattering down the mountain roads, every bump more agonising than the one before. There was no way to pass the time. He was bored, and sick, and in pain.

On the way up, he devoured book after book. Now he wondered if he would ever be able to read again.