Surprisingly, the trek felt shorter than Notch had expected—even with his fractured core sending jolts of pain through his chest with every step.

  Maybe it was shock. Maybe it was Sly's constant healing sapping his awareness. Or maybe suffering just had a way of making time slip sideways, minutes bleeding together into a haze of one-foot-in-front-of-the-other until suddenly you'd arrived without remembering the journey.

  "Well, here we are."

  Lord Roger's voice pulled Notch back to the present. The nobleman gestured vaguely ahead, blonde hair catching the late afternoon sun.

  Harrowfen.

  A quaint town tucked away at the mountain's base, built in layers against the slope like a child's stacking toy. Stone buildings with slate roofs climbed upward in terraced rows, smoke rising from chimneys, the warm glow of hearth fires already visible through windows. It looked peaceful. Prosperous, even—nothing like Draymoor's desperate poverty.

  As they passed through the imposingly tall wooden gates—reinforced with iron bands, watchtowers on either side—a figure approached.

  Tall, fair-skinned, wearing immaculate corporate attire that seemed deliberately out of place in a medieval fantasy setting. Most likely in his sixties, with silver hair combed back precisely and posture that spoke of decades of service. He bowed slightly to Roger, movements economical and practiced.

  "Welcome back, my Lord." His voice was cultured, accent suggesting education far beyond what most servants received.

  "Svenn." Roger swung down from his destrier, already working at the buckles of his armor. The older man moved to help immediately, fingers deftly loosening straps. "These are the Draymoor trainees. Bit of trouble on the road, as you can see."

  Svenn's gaze swept across the ragged, blood-spattered children without visible reaction. He'd clearly seen worse.

  Roger addressed the group while Svenn worked. "This is Svenn. You'll follow him to the shelter home." He paused, that light chuckle returning. "Obey all his instructions, or you won't get much food. Trust me on that one."

  The tone suggested personal experience—perhaps Roger himself had once been a wayward child under Svenn's care, testing boundaries and learning consequences.

  All the children nodded. Even the injured ones managed some acknowledgment, though their responses were sluggish with pain and exhaustion.

  Roger strode off toward the mansion dominating Harrowfen's northern district—a sprawling estate of white stone and arched windows, easily four times the size of any other building. The kind of residence that announced wealth and power without needing to shout.

  Svenn waited until Roger disappeared from view, then turned to his charges.

  "Follow me."

  They cut through cobblestone streets still warm from the day's sun. Townspeople paused in their evening routines to stare—not hostile, just curious about the bedraggled procession. Children in bloodstained clothes being herded by the Lord's personal attendant. Harrowfen probably didn't see much excitement.

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  The hostel was massive, three stories of sturdy construction with multiple wings. More dormitory than inn, designed to house groups rather than individuals. Practical. Military-adjacent in its efficiency.

  Svenn stopped at the entrance, hand on the door.

  "All injured should follow me into the next room." He motioned calmly toward a door on the right side of the building. "The rest, go that way and make yourselves at home." His other hand indicated the left corridor.

  Notch hesitated.

  Following meant examination. Examination meant someone might realize his core was fractured—and worse, that he'd done it to himself through deliberate restriction. What would they think? What would they do?

  But not following meant the damage might worsen. Might become permanent.

  "Too bad you wyverns are only capable of actively healing yourselves." He stroked Sly's scales gently, feeling her exhaustion through the faint trembling in her coils. "Seems pretty selfish of the game mechanics, if you ask me."

  She'd been draining her own mana to keep his core from shattering completely. Hours of passive healing, holding him together through sheer stubborn will.

  "Hey, Notch?"

  Crystal's voice came from behind him, tentative but insistent.

  "Go with Mr. Svenn so he can help you."

  Notch turned, forcing a smile that probably looked more like a grimace. "Oh, yeah. Yeah, of course."

  The two groups separated—the injured and the merely traumatized. Aelira, predictably, went with the latter despite clearly being exhausted. Pride wouldn't let her show weakness.

  Notch scampered to join the three injured medium-grades—two boys and a girl, all sporting varying degrees of damage from the ambush. One boy clutched his wrapped shoulder. The other moved gingerly, probably dealing with cracked ribs. The girl's arm was splinted, set at an angle that suggested professional work done quickly.

  Svenn opened the door.

  The room beyond was chaos.

  Injured soldiers lay on cots arranged in neat rows, some bandaged, others waiting for treatment. Doctors and healers swarmed between them—the doctors in practical leather aprons, the healers identifiable by the soft glow emanating from their hands as they worked. The air smelled of blood, antiseptic herbs, and the particular metallic tang of active healing magic.

  This wasn't a hostel infirmary. This was a field hospital.

  "Sit on these chairs." Svenn pointed to four stools tucked in one corner, away from the worst of the activity. "I'll get the med kit."

  He walked toward a supply table while the children found their seats, navigating carefully between occupied cots.

  Notch stared at the organized chaos, fascinated despite his pain.

  "I wonder if he'll freak out when he sees you," he murmured to Sly, who had gone noticeably limp around his shoulders. The constant healing had drained her significantly.

  "Sorry, girl. You can rest now."

  He gently encouraged her to leave his chest, and she slid up to his shoulder properly, coiling there with visible relief. Her scales had lost some of their iridescent sheen—exhaustion written in dimmed color.

  A couple minutes later, Svenn returned carrying a worn leather bag bulging with supplies.

  This surprised Notch. He'd assumed all medical practice in the game was limited to healing magic—clerics casting restoration spells, potions providing instant recovery. But here was mundane medicine, bandages and ointments and what looked like surgical tools.

  "Wow, that's cool," he said to himself, watching Svenn wrap one boy's hand with practiced efficiency before administering what looked like painkillers to the kid who'd been knocked unconscious earlier.

  The movements were precise, professional. Svenn had done this hundreds of times.

  Finally, he turned to Notch.

  "And what's wrong with you?" The words came out as an audible grumble, tired authority. "I mean, other than the dried blood on your mouth."

  Notch thought carefully, weighing options. Lying seemed pointless—Svenn clearly had medical training, would see through obvious deception.

  "I think I used a spell that took more mana than I had to give." He kept his voice small, genuinely uncertain. "Now my chest hurts."

  Svenn's hand stopped moving in the med kit.

  He looked directly at Notch, expression shifting from tired irritation to sharp concern.

  "You mean you could have fractured your mana core?"

  The temperature in the corner seemed to drop several degrees.

  Notch instantly regretted his honesty, but he was too deep now to backtrack. "Y-yeah?" He flinched as he spoke, shoulders hunching defensively.

  "That's not something to take lightly." Svenn's tone went cold, clinical. "You could have been seriously hurt. Or worse—killed."

  The way he said 'killed' was matter-of-fact, like discussing weather. No sugar-coating, no gentle euphemisms. Just the blunt reality that children could die from magical mistakes.

  Notch wondered what kind of adult talked about death with a child like it was nothing. Then again, this was a world where twelve-year-olds were conscripted for military training. Maybe soft words were considered a disservice.

  "It was an accident," Notch tried to clarify, though he suspected that made things worse rather than better.

  Svenn studied him for a long moment, weighing the statement against what his experience told him. Then he reached out and patted Notch's shoulder—not unkindly, but with the firm pressure of someone delivering bad news.

  "Sit tight. I'll get a healer."

  He stood and walked toward a cluster of glowing-handed practitioners, leaving Notch alone with his thoughts and his mistakes and the distant sounds of soldiers groaning in pain.

  Sly nuzzled against his neck, exhausted but present.

  And Notch sat on his stool in the corner of a field hospital in a town he'd never heard of, waiting for someone to examine the damage he'd done to himself in pursuit of staying hidden, and wondered if hiding was even possible anymore.