“Hmm… this one.” The doctor studied the report like reading ripples on a pond, then eyed Hedi’s swollen right foot, a bruised moon. “Not just soft-tissue damage. Micro-fractures too.”

“Sounds like surgery.”

“We can operate. Or treat with alchemical powder,” his voice steady as a slow drumbeat.

Hedi paused, the worry rising like fog. “Will powder mean a slow recovery?”

“If you follow the rehab plan, check in regularly, and do physical therapy, you’ll get a good outcome,” he said, calm as winter rain.

“That’s not what I’m asking,” she breathed, her tone a thin blade.

He drew a long breath, like pulling wind into a bellows. “I can’t give you a precise timeline, for two reasons. First, everyone heals at a different pace, bodies like different seasons. Second, this hospital had disputes over estimates before, storms we won’t repeat. So we evaluate step by step, by your actual progress.”

Hedi nodded, weighing risks and benefits like stones in two hands, then chose a brace with alchemical powder, a quiet path through the thicket.

The doctor bent to his desk, his pen tapping like a woodpecker. He wrote a list for soft-tissue damage and fractures, special powder for each, and marked two applications a day.

“I’ll grab the medicine.” Selina snatched the slip and strode out, swift as a hawk.

Silence pooled in the room like ink. Only the tiny pocket difference engine clicked, gears whispering as he organized Hedi’s case and her personal details for the archive.

“Dark Magic?” he asked suddenly, eyes still on the brass keys, voice cool as iron.

Hedi sat on the round stool, quiet as a stone under water. She didn’t ask how he knew; a professional reads wounds like tracks in fresh snow.

“If you don’t want to say, fine. But report it to the Witch-Capture Brigade,” his tone a steady lantern.

“Mm,” Hedi answered, a soft ember.

“A witch injuring someone isn’t small,” he said, weight like a millstone.

“Why didn’t you ask earlier?” Her gaze flicked up, a sparrow’s wing.

“Your sister looked unaware. So I—”

“I’m the older sister. Just short,” she cut in, a willow with a hidden root.

The door pushed open. Selina entered with a bag of powder, rustling like dry leaves. The doctor took it, dusted Hedi’s ankle with careful strokes, frost-white against bruised night, then wound bandages in patient circles.

“Watch my wrapping steps,” he said while tightening the bandage, his hands steady as bamboo. “Powder on. Twice a day.”

Selina etched every motion into memory, then thanked him and scooped Hedi up, holding her like a warm bundle against the wind.

For the next week, she carried Hedi everywhere, a steadfast mountain under a small cloud.

At first, under the students’ curious stares, Hedi wore her usual chill like a winter mask. Day by day, that frost thinned; silence softened, like ice thawing into spring water. She even dozed on Selina’s back, a cat in a sunbeam.

Even when the bell rang, copper-bright and insistent, Hedi no longer fought the wall for balance. She lifted her arms high toward Selina, almost pleading like a child, asking to be gathered like a bird to a nest.

Selina cared with her whole heart, a river pouring into a garden. Meals, day by day. Outfits, piece by piece. She chose little dresses like petals and braided odd buns, strange yet tender, a pair of nesting swallows.

Hedi nibbled like a tiny hamster. Selina stroked the slight curve of her belly, listening to the gut’s quiet engine. After each dressing change, she kissed Hedi’s sole, warmth sinking like tea into clay.

Motherhood spilled free, like fragrance in rain. A whole week, bright and unabashed.

After school, Hedi set up a sword trial for Selina. Raynor accepted without complaint and chose the gym, wide as an empty field. They strapped on gear and faced off, two flags in a steady wind.

Throughout the trial, Raynor never attacked. He held defense like a shielded moon, maybe from a gentleman’s vow not to strike women. Yet his rhythm looked a touch heavy, his steps a bit off, like a drum out of time.

Smack!

Raynor swept wide, his wooden sword cracking Selina’s blade skyward. He dipped and lunged, the point a cold star, stopping at the soft hollow of her throat.

“Trial’s over.” Raynor lowered the sword, voice like a closed book. “Your swing speed is fast. I almost couldn’t react.”

“Still didn’t win…” Selina muttered, heat flaring like a spark.

“Don’t rush,” he said, calm as an old pine.

Selina went to the locker room for a towel, steam and linen scent trailing like a small cloud.

Raynor approached Hedi, his shadow long on the floor.

“How does she feel?” Hedi asked, the question a thin string pulled taut.

“Good reactions. Very fast,” he said, eyes on his palm as if reading scars. “But I can’t teach her sword.”

“Why?” Hedi’s gaze lifted, cool water meeting iron.

“At the start, her arm trembled,” he said, searching memory like sifting ash.

“Afraid?”

“That can cause a tremor. But Viola… excited or holding back, it wasn’t fear,” his words a knot he couldn’t untie.

“You mean once she starts, she can’t control herself?” Hedi asked, voice a needle.

“More like she doesn’t care about her life. That doesn’t suit one-strike swordsmanship,” he said, blunt as a stone.

Hedi nodded, the thought settling like dust. Swordwork is probing, waiting for the right breath. In the trial, Selina ignored defense, attacked like a river breaking banks; in a real fight, that flood drowns you first.

“Any way to change it?” Hedi pressed, voice a steady drum. “Make her understand defense.”

“Knock her down again and again,” he said, rain on rock. “But I won’t use violence on women.”

“It’s just training,” she said, cool as shade.

“No.” Raynor’s tone hardened like forged steel. “Viola can’t hold back. Training with her means being ready to get hurt. Right now, only I fit. But I have students. Even if I carve out time, a few drops a day won’t reshape an attack-first mind.”

“Mm.” The sound sat like a small stone.

“How about guns?” he offered, eyes lifting like dawn. “Hit the bullseye at the range. No one gets hurt. The future belongs to firearms and magic; swordplay is a reed in a storm.”

“I’ll ask,” Hedi said, thought flickering like a lantern.

“Enough of that. How’d you hurt your foot?” he asked, tone softening like dusk.

Hedi propped her chin, a cat watching a window. “Now you ask?”

“Never found the chance,” he said with a half-smile, a dry leaf turning.

“Twisted it on the stairs,” she said, simple as a bare branch.

“Looks serious.”

“Yes,” she answered, the word a single pebble.

“Mm… you and Viola are—” He slid the sword into its sheath, the sound a quiet river, then shifted. “Be careful next time.”

“Thanks for agreeing to the trial. I’ll treat you to dinner,” she said, courtesy like tea steam.

“Honored,” he replied, and walked toward the gym doors, his back a straight line.

Selina called, her voice like a bell. Hedi turned, helped her out of the gear, and wiped sweat from her face, gentle as silk.

“What did you two talk about?” Selina asked, eyes bright as lanterns.

“Your trial level,” Hedi said, her tone smooth as jade.

“How was it?”

“Good,” Hedi answered, a small nod like a leaf twitch.

“I can do better,” Selina pouted, stubborn as a sprout pushing stone.

“Sure, sure,” Hedi lifted her arms, waiting to be scooped, a quiet temple bell. “Want to try firearms? Hit some bullseyes at the range.”

“No more sword?”

“Try everything. Learn what truly fits,” she said, steady as a path through bamboo.

“Mm. I’ll listen.”

Hedi sprawled on Selina’s back, fingers catching her hair like reins. Like a mech pilot in a cockpit, she gave the order with a grin: “Forward! Target—home!”