The newcomer still had his face buried in the cushion, groaning so theatrically that Luna took a step back. Francis looked him over from head to toe.
"I'd worry more about your leg, Blake," he said, rolling his chair to the wall of bottles. Luna followed his gaze to the man's calf—wrapped so tightly in bandages it looked like a smoked ham.
Too tightly.
Blake glanced down too and shrugged. "Got it from last night's mission. Not even sore."
Trey sat up, eyes bright. "What mission—ham-making competition?"
"Say one more word, Lancaster," the ham manufacturer growled, lifting his head enough to menace. Trey ignored him and hopped off the bed, brushing off his hands.
"Fine, I'll unwrap it."
"Try me. Creek! You coming?"
"Hey, I can do it. I'm the doctor's apprentice," Trey protested.
"No, you're not. And you'll never be," Francis said flatly, crossing the room in three long strides to intercept the 'intern.'
"You'll live, Blake. Sit up—and make room for the lady."
He nudged the patient, who writhed like a snake across the sofa. Blake obeyed, dropping a glance at Luna that lingered a fraction too long.
"Who's this?"
"Luna Atkins. Pine Hollow's newest inmate. Don't frighten her," Trey said, folding his arms and propping a hip against his desk, already exiled by Francis from the patient's orbit.
"What's scarier than living with you?" Blake shot back, then nodded once to Luna.
Francis knelt and began unwrapping the bandages, jaw set. "Too tight. No circulation. No wonder you 'don't feel pain.' Keep this on longer and we'll start measuring for a peg."
Blake hissed when Francis pressed around the inflamed, swelling gash. "It was dark."
"Then wait till dawn."
"I was bleeding out. 'Wait till dawn' means 'bleed till none.'"
"Better dead than limbless," the house medic muttered— quiet, but not softly.
Luna blinked. A moment ago he was snapping at Trey; now he sat silent under Francis's voice.
Trey leaned over as Francis selected a jar of salve. He squinted at the label. "What does that say? Infestation?"
"Infection," Francis snapped. A pulse throbbed at his temple. What crime did I commit to live with this idiot? And—fine—his handwriting was atrocious. Even he sometimes — most of the time— picked them by color and smell.
But no way in hell was he letting that fake apprentice know it.
The moment the lid popped, a stench rolled out. Luna choked. It smelled like—
"Ugh. Like pus. Though I suppose that suits Blake's rotting—"
"Lancaster!" Blake barked.
Francis smeared the salve along the wound. Blake's fist clenched, then eased. The re-bandaging was swift and precise—elegant, even—worlds better than the original wrap.
"Shirt off," Francis said. "Let me see the shoulder."
Blake grunted and peeled his shirt over his head. Luna backed toward the far side of Trey's bed, cheeks on fire.
"You'll never be a doctor's apprentice with that attitude," Trey said, pointing at her scarlet ears.
Luna opened her mouth to retort, but Francis cut in, irritated. "You are not a doctor's apprentice, Trey."
"Why not? I've saved tons of patients!"
"Patients I then had to save from you. Go back to your sword practice," Francis said, deadpan.
Trey clutched his chest as though stabbed. Francis finished at Blake's shoulder and turn toward Luna.
"Your turn."
"I'm fine—"
He shook his head. "Sit."
His fingers found her pulse and counted, then pressed lightly along her neck. His hand trembled—just once—before a cool sensation rippled through her, the same ease she'd felt when he healed her hand before. Then he checked her pupils and ears.
When he stepped back, his brows knitted, puzzled.
This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.
"Something wrong?" Trey asked, wearing the same frown.
"Nothing at all. No ruptures, normal rhythm. Only low muscle mass," Francis said. He pulled a bottle from the shelf. "Nutrition tonic. Drink it— And eat. A lot."
Luna hesitated at the cork, then a mild scent of honey and herbs drifted out. Her frown softened. "Not bad."
"As it should be," Francis said.
Trey leaned in for a sniff and recoiled like he'd been stabbed for real. "Why is hers sweetened? You never put honey in mine."
"Because you don't deserve it," Francis said, still not looking up. He handed Luna a small tin next—this one so pungent it stung the air as he opened it.
"For bruises," he said, offering it to her. "Arms... and elsewhere."
Luna froze, blinking. "You... know?"
Before Francis could answer, Trey did—cheerfully. "He's Francis." A slanted grin. "Also, rumors say your old house doubled as a boxing ring."
Her breath snagged. She hugged the tin to her chest, throat tight. Francis didn't meet her eyes—just scribbled in his notebook. "No need to explain. Use it twice daily. It will sting at first, then it won't."
Heat rose to her eyes anyway, but her mouth tipped into a small smile. "Thank you," she whispered.
He only nodded, as if it were routine. "Follow-up in three days."
Trey was still scrunching his nose. "How come a brilliant doctor like you insists on torturing the rest of us with your potion smells?"
Herbs on herbs—he was coated in them, dust in his hair, scent in his clothes. And strangely, he smelled... nice. Cool mint, rosemary, chamomile—calming, even.
So why does every remedy he brews attack my nostrils?
"Speaking of doctors," Luna said, eager to change the subject, "how are you running an underground clinic up here?"
"It's only illegal if we charge," Francis said, mouth quirking faintly. Trey flopped onto his bed and added:
"Besides, we never force anyone. They just barge in. Do you have any idea how good it feels to hear someone actually knock?"
Blake snorted, rolling his shoulder experimentally. "This is easier. Creek's gentler than the infirmary staff."
The door cracked open. Reid appeared, balancing a large tray. Blake braced the door for her with his good leg.
"See?" Trey said, folding his arms and jerking his chin that way. "Never knocks."
"Do I look like I have a free hand?" Reid said dryly. "Thanks, Blake. I didn't know you were here—I brought three. You can eat Trey's."
"Hey!" Trey protested. Reid's look suggested be useful or stay quiet.
Blake sniffed the air, and his face lit instantly.
"He's back?"
"Abel? Yeah," Reid replied.
Blake vanished down the hall so fast the sofa cushions hadn't recovered their shape. Trey blinked.
"Wasn't his leg injured?"
"Food heals faster than medicine," Francis replied. Reid rolled her eyes and set the tray on the only clean desk—which, bafflingly, was Trey's.
"I figured you'd be a while, so I brought dinner up."
When she lifted the lids, the room filled with the rich scent of roasted meat and herbs, glazed carrots, and buttery bread. Not just survival food. Abel Whitmore never did anything halfway. Even Francis— who usually lived on dried fruit and broth—stared like a starving cat.
Luna's stomach howled. She thanked Reid and reached for the nearest plate. Reid's glance flicked to the bottle in Luna's other hand.
"Why the nutrition tonic?" she asked.
Trey, mouth full of bread, feigned outrage. "You can read his labels?"
"Tragic, that his only apprentice can't," She snapped.
"Hey!"
"He is not my apprentice," Francis said, already sliding a plate to himself and rolling back to his desk. The food was quiet perfection. If not for the rotating kitchen schedule, they'd chain Abel to the oven.
Reid perched on the bed beside Francis's desk. He didn't comment—just pulled his legs in to give her more room to swing her feet.
Fifteen minutes later, not a crumb remained. Trey sprawled and rubbed his stomach in bliss. Francis began clearing a pile of herb stalks. Reid shot up, nudged a stray scroll aside with her foot, and said:
"Library, now. Let's test what you know."
"Why not tutor here?" Trey demanded, affronted.
"Go be somewhere else, Lancaster." Reid said without glancing back.
"Fine, fine. I'll come with you," he said, grinning.
"Trey—"
"I'm coming."
Luna gave him a daggered look for souring her teacher's mood; Trey, being Trey, didn't notice, or didn't care. He trailed them down to the second tier of Ermin's library and—thankfully—flung himself on a sofa while the girls took a table.
Ink, paper, candles and wood scented the quiet. Reid sat opposite and began.
"Reading and writing?"
"I can do both," Luna said.
"What about maths?"
"I know addition, and subtraction. That's it."
"Good. We start there."
Reid dictated words for Luna to copy, then had her read and moved through the four operations. The results were better than Luna had feared.
When Luna returned to her room, her head still ran with the history lesson— the armored knight, the storms without cause, and the king who tried to make sense of them.
Centuries ago, Sir Coldus Merrow had roamed the outlands, stumbling upon impossible phenomena: fire without tinder, rivers freezing in midsummer, tempests with no front. King Alaric the Just had ordered an inquiry and found one thread running through them all— humans, carrying something inside them.
He called it Quanta.
Soon after came the chaos: Quanta users fighting, others hunting power, towns torn apart. Alaric gathered them, trained them, hid them. From that decree rose Elderwatch— a force meant to guide and contain what the world wasn't ready to see.
Later, Elkington and Starshade Guild were born to support that work.
It only made sense to her now why the Elderwatch inspired both reverence and dread— a blurred beginning, but a clear authority.
She opened the wooden chest at the foot of her bed to tuck away the homework scrolls–
– and froze at the bulging burlap sack stuffed inside.
Francis's sack. The one he'd hauled out of the Thompsons' orphanage.
She sat on the mattress and unpacked it, item by item. The more she pulled, the deeper her frown carved.
Shirts—some hers. Trash. A battered storybook. A chipped porcelain cup.
What did he even take? None of this was really hers. And this frayed scarf—it was Noel's.
A wave broke inside her at the name. Noel—the younger boy from the orphanage. The scarf had been used until its threads were nearly see-through.
Luna let out a small, helpless laugh and thought of that night three years ago.
She had crept into the back garden at night, crouched by the wash barrel, crying into her knees. The cold hadn't helped the lash-welts on her thighs heal any faster.
She'd scooped water over the sting until her fingers went numb and stiff—until warmth settled over her shoulders.
"Noel..."
The boy—three years younger than her, quiet as snowfall—had come up behind her and wrapped his old scarf over her. His innocent eyes were pools of worry.
He wasn't rowdy. He barely spoke. Since he'd arrived, she could count his words on one hand.
"Warm," he had said—his first and only word to her. Even when she'd returned the scarf, he'd stood silent, watching.
Luna sighed, rolled the scarf carefully and hid it at the bottom of the chest—tucking the memory of that night into the deepest fold of her heart.
Who do you think Trey annoys the most?
