Chapter 30: The Price of Victory

Consciousness returns slowly, like wading through thick fog. Giroud’s eyes flutter open to find himself in an unfamiliar room, lying on a narrow bed. Sunlight streams through a small window, casting warm patches across worn wooden floorboards. His gaze finds Aya seated beside him, her face tight with worry despite the relieved smile that breaks across it when she sees him awake.

He attempts to push himself up, but firm hands press against his shoulders, easing him back down. An elderly man with a lined face and silver hair stands over him, his expression stern.

“You’ve got severe internal injuries. Moving will only make them worse.” The man’s voice carries the weight of authority. “You need complete bed rest until they heal properly.”

“Who are you?” Giroud’s voice comes out rough, his throat dry.

“He’s the healer in Tidehaven,” Aya explains, reaching for a cup of water on the bedside table.

Giroud’s interest peaks. “A mage healer?”

“I am,” the old man nods, “though I’m afraid my powers aren’t nearly sufficient to heal injuries as severe as yours. The internal damage is ... extensive. You lost a lot of blood and are lucky to be alive.”

Giroud’s eyes meet Aya’s. He catches her subtle head shake, understanding her reluctance to reveal her magical abilities. But desperation outweighs caution.

“You may not be sufficiently powerful, but she is,” Giroud says firmly, ignoring Aya’s widening eyes. “Could you teach her what to do?”

The healer turns to study Aya, his expression shifting from surprise to disbelief as he takes in her youth. “Teach her? Impossible. The complexity of internal healing magic...” He shakes his head. “You’d heal naturally before I could teach her the basics.”

“She doesn’t need the basics, just something to memorize to heal this specific wound.” Giroud winces with the exertion of the conversation.

“Giroud, maybe I—” starts Aya, her voice laced with doubt, when the healer interrupts her.

“Not specific wound. Multiple wounds.” The healer shakes his head. “It is not so simple. She would have to be able to send her magic beneath your skin and do in less than a minute what your body would do in weeks. This requires her to understand what the internal anatomy should look like and identify those structures through her magic without seeing them with her eyes, in their current damaged state.”

“What’s the worst that could happen if she tries?” Giroud presses.

The old man’s face grows grave. “If the healing isn’t perfect - and it wouldn’t be without years of study, starting with basic biology - the magic would fill the damaged areas with scar tissue. You could lose control of affected muscles permanently. The flesh wouldn’t heal properly. If blood can’t move freely through the healed areas that flesh would die.” He gestures at Giroud’s torso. “And the surface scarring ... it could be horrific.”

“We must travel to Whitespire immediately. Either you do it or she does it.”

The healer shakes his head. “I am sorry. It is not possible.”

Aya leans in to whisper in Giroud’s ear. His eyes widening at her suggestion.

“You can do that?”

“I think so,” she whispers.

“You have enough magic to see my injuries?” Giroud says to the healer.

“That I can do.”

“Let her watch your mind as you do that. Show her what needs to be done.”

The healer’s mouth falls open as he takes two nervous steps backward. “You cannot be strong enough to read minds!?”

Aya smiles sheepishly at him before offering a small wave awkwardly, unsure how to calm the man’s fears.

“You can do that, right?” Giroud repeats to the healer.

He nods rigidly, his mouth still agape.

“Come, we must leave as soon as possible.” Giroud beckons the healer to his bedside.

Aya goes to her pack to fetch the dark tome, tracing the sigil required for the spell in the air as she practices.

Giroud watches the healer shift uncomfortably from foot to foot beside the bed, his weathered hands clasped tightly in front of him. The old man’s eyes dart between Aya and the door, as if contemplating escape.

Aya emerges from behind her pack, the dark tome tucked safely away. Her fingers move through the air, practicing the complex patterns of the sigil one final time. She nods, ready.

Moving with deliberate grace, she positions herself behind the healer. The old man’s shoulders tense as she raises her hand to his back. Her fingertip traces invisible lines across his robes, following the intricate pattern she’s memorized.

Giroud’s breath catches as her eyes begin to glow, burning like hot coals in the dim room. The sight still unnerves him, despite having witnessed her powers before. Her palm presses flat against the completed sigil on the healer’s back.

The change is instant and striking. The crimson glow vanishes from her eyes, replaced by a brilliant azure - an exact mirror of the healer’s own eyes. Not just the color, but every detail down to the slight cloudiness of age in his irises. Two identical pairs of eyes now stare down at Giroud.

“Begin,” Giroud commands, suppressing a shiver at the uncanny sight.

The healer’s hands move to hover over Giroud’s torso as he begins to mumble an incantation. An unerring shimmer faintly visible below his palms as he slowly passes them across the wounds. Aya’s eyes track every movement, absorbing the healer’s knowledge and insight through her connection to his mind.

Giroud watches as Aya’s borrowed azure eyes widen, her face draining of color. Whatever she is seeing through the healer’s magical sight clearly disturbs her. Her free hand moves unconsciously to her own side, mirroring where his worst wounds lay.

When Aya removes her hand from the healer’s back, her eyes revert to their familiar warm brown.

Giroud watches Aya intently, searching her face for any sign of confidence after witnessing the extent of his injuries through the healer’s eyes. Her slight tremor and uncertain expression make his stomach clench. He’s never seen her this hesitant about using her abilities before.

“You should have told me it was this bad,” she whispers, her voice thick with emotion.

He manages a weak smile. “Would it have changed anything?”

She shakes her head, and he watches the familiar transformation - shock giving way to steel in her expression. It still amazes him how quickly she can master her emotions when duty called.

“I have seen the wounds,” she says, her voice wavering in a way that sends a chill down his spine. “And I have seen how it should look. But how do I fix it?” She turns to the healer, desperation clear in her expression.

Without a word, the old man shuffles out of the room. Aya looks back at Giroud, uncertainty written across her features. “Should I follow?”

Giroud shakes his head, gritting his teeth against a fresh wave of pain. Before he can speak, the healer returns clutching a banana. The old man methodically peels the fruit, drops it unceremoniously on the bedside table, and holds out the empty skin to Aya.

“You need to push the blood away, fix the tissue, and do so before the tissue begins to die,” the healer explains, his voice taking on a teacher’s patient tone. “Practice fixing this banana skin.”

He pulls a weathered scroll from his robes and passes it to Aya. As she unfurls it, Giroud catches glimpses of complex incantations written in flowing script. His chest tightens - not from pain this time, but from watching Aya’s brow furrow in concentration as she studies the scroll’s contents.

Giroud watches as Aya’s hands tremble slightly while holding the scroll. Her face pales at the healer’s words.

“This will send blood away from a large area of his body,” she says, looking at the healer nervously.

The old man’s weathered face remains grave. “Yes. With the required magical power. And all of that tissue is at risk, so speed is imperative. You have a minute at most.”

A sharp pain shoots through Giroud’s side as he shifts, but he keeps his expression neutral. He can’t show weakness now - not when Aya needs his confidence. Her eyes meet his, filled with uncertainty.

“Are you sure?” she asks.

Despite the fire burning in his wounds, Giroud manages a weak smile. “How else are we going to save the kingdom?”

He sees the familiar steel return to her gaze at his words.

Giroud watches intently as Aya places her delicate fingers on the discarded banana peel. The familiar crimson glow fills her eyes before she closes them, her lips moving in silent recitation of the healing incantation. The air grows heavy with unseen power, making the hair on his arms stand on end.

A sharp intake of breath from the healer draws Giroud’s attention. The old man’s face has gone slack with astonishment, his eyes fixed on the banana peel beneath Aya’s hands.

When she opens her eyes, Aya lifts the peel for inspection. Where moments ago it had been a limp, separated skin, now it appears pristine and whole - as if the fruit inside had simply vanished, leaving behind a perfect, unblemished shell. Even the natural waxy sheen has been restored.

The transformation in Aya’s demeanor strikes Giroud just as dramatically as the banana’s change. Gone is the nervous uncertainty from moments before. Her chin lifts slightly, shoulders squaring with newfound assurance. When she meets his gaze, he sees the quiet confidence he’s come to recognize before their most challenging missions.