Rain whispered against the cracked shutters. The fire in the hearth burned low, casting soft orange light across the stone floor, flickering against bandages, metal trays, and boot-worn stone. Christofer lay on a cot near the central post, pale and still, his chest rising and falling in shallow rhythm. The trollhide gambeson clung to him like armor. His right arm, wrapped in stained linen and strapped, the wounds pulsing with a sickly green light beneath the fabric.

  A kettle hissed in the back room. Somewhere near the staircase, a bowl shattered, followed by Frank’s frustrated voice — “If that was the last clean one, I swear I’ll—”

  Coughs echoed from behind makeshift curtains. Someone groaned softly in a corner. Another muttered in fevered sleep. A row of occupied cots stretched the length of the room, screened off by threadbare curtains and damp wool blankets pinned to rafters. Somewhere near the back, a man coughed wetly into his chest. Closer to the doorway, a soldier muttered a prayer under his breath while cradling his bandaged leg like a dying child. The place reeked of boiled rootwater, blood, and wet leather. Christofer stirred, but he didn’t quite wake up. The gecko slithered out of his shoulder.

  ‘My brain feels like it has too many tabs open and I can't figure out which one is playing the damn music,’ he thought in his mind, ‘Gecko, help me.’

  “Emotions are a thing of the soul, not of the spirit. I can’t help you there.” the gecko replied.

  ‘Well, damn.’

  The gecko stopped, its big unblinking eyes glancing around for a moment before sinking back down beneath Christofer’s skin and disappearing from view like a shadow being illuminated by a light. In the far corner, a rat inside a metal cage squealed. It had crept too close. Its fur caught fire and it exploded with a quiet fssst. Gerard didn’t flinch. He simply leaned over and shut the cage with a mild frown.

  “That’s the fourth today,” He muttered, shaking ash from his sleeve. “I think it’s attracted to the residual bleed. Or maybe the hum. Rats have terrible impulse control. Fascinating, really.”

  Bootsteps sloshed outside. The front door creaked open, gusting wet air through the room. The Captain stepped in, soaked to the shoulders, dripping under his cloak, boots squelching. Ike followed, wincing slightly as he adjusted the brace across his ribs.

  “We move him before midday.”

  Gerard didn’t look up. “You’re interrupting something delicate.”

  “He’s glowing through his bandages, Gerard. You want to explain that to the Order?”

  “No, but I’d like to study it first. His heart rate spikes when the rain intensifies. That might be sympathetic discharge, or it could be a reaction to barometric pressure. Or—” Gerard finally glanced up, “—something older.”

  The Captain didn’t flinch. “My scouts saw movement on the ridge of that mountain. Templars in travel formation. They’ve got eyes on the iron shape that lit it up.”

  “I’m not surprised,” Gerard said, wiping his fingers on a stained rag. “They see a strange hulking slab of iron light up the mountain side, and suddenly it’s Revelation Time.”

  “They think it’s divine.”

  “They always do. I pour blue smoke out of a jar and someone in robes starts talking about omens.” He crossed the room with his cane and checked the bandages on Christofer’s chest.

  “The good news is, he hasn’t cracked any ribs in his sleep lately. Although they seem to have formed a habit of snapping back by themselves. Curious really. The bad news is, the glow’s leaking through the stitches.”

  “Is he not stable now?”

  “No.” Gerard snapped the cork off a dark bottle, sniffed, recoiled slightly, then nodded to himself and returned it to a leather pouch. “He’s quiet. That’s different. If you don’t poke him or jostle him or—Gods forbid—ask him to breathe deeply.”

  “You said the gambeson is holding.”

  “It’s holding,” Gerard said, wiping his hands on a rag with a red smear that might have been ink. “Like a pressure lid on a kettle. You can hold a flask of fire too. Until you shake it.”

  The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  Gerard’s cane clacked into the floor again as he moved back to Christofer’s side and adjusted a strap on the gambeson. The glow under the bandages flared slightly, then dimmed again.

  “I’d sedate him further,” Gerard muttered, “but I’m not sure how much more his blood will take before it starts reacting with itself in ways that do not heal.”

  A soldier burst through the door, rain cascading from his cloak. He hurriedly approached, leaned in and whispered something urgent into the Captain’s ear.

  The Captain’s jaw tightened. “The Order’s moving.” he closed the distance between them. “Gerard. I’m not asking. He moves within the hour.”

  The old man looked at the Captain for the first time. Really looked. “Then understand this: If his pulse shifts, if that glow starts climbing past the clavicle, you don’t pray. You run.”

  Gerard stepped back and folded his arms.

  “Move him if you must. But if the light bleeds mid-transit… Out there, it’s a cautionary tale, In here he’s far less likely to spontaneously immolate and turn your men into soup.”

  A rumble and wooden groan outside signaled the wagon's arrival, punctuating the silence. The wagon creaked to a halt just beyond the threshold, its wheels catching in the churned mud. Rain came down harder now, slicing sideways across the courtyard. The canopy snapped in protest as two soldiers wrestled the frame into place, the fabric already soaked and sagging. Their movements were deliberate. Not reverent. Cautious — like priests preparing a body they didn’t trust to stay dead. The gecko patted Christofer on the shoulder.

  “Rest now… Imagine yourself floating in a beautiful sky, the aggressive badgers of the land do not bother you here at all. Todd from HR doesn't try to make small talk with you in this place, nor does he try to invite you to his kid's wrestling tournament that is being held at a school 90 minutes away. The coyote-lizards of your night terrors do not roam here, and you can clearly read the expiration dates on all your packages. Notably the apple juice, but even the hand soap. Why does the hand soap have an expiration date? It matters not.”

  The faint green glow under his bandages pulsed in slow rhythm. His breath, shallow and irregular, fogged the air just barely. He calmed himself slightly, no longer tensing to move, letting go, trying to rest. The gambeson crinkled slightly with each rise and fall of his chest. The Captain leaned a hand against the window frame, watching the rain twist in sheets off the edge of the overhang. Jack stumbled in, his brown monk robe clinging to his face as he got out of the rain, closing the door behind him.

  “Are they briefed?” the Captain looked to Jack, who glanced to Gerard and then back to the Captain, then nodded.

  “Told them not to breathe funny.”

  “Seriously.”

  “I’m always serious. It’s my bedside manner that lacks polish.”

  The Captain massaged his temples with a free hand. He stepped to the door and pulled it open. The cold slapped through the threshold, followed by the smell of wet leather and horse sweat. The captain stepped outside, his voice muffled by the weather. For a moment, all that could be heard was rain and the distant bark of him shouting orders.

  Rain came down in sheets now, slicking leather and flooding boots. The canopy snapped in the wind as the captain’s soldiers reassembled the frame to keep the worst of it off the patient. Their gestures were careful, choreographed. Puddles began plinking around them as the rainfall became heavier. They pulled ropes and tied them to the frame, raising a temporary roof once again. A wall of rain moved over the lands and the drops were drumming against the canopy. The temporary roof of the carriage danced with spray and splatter of rain. So much rain was falling that the sound blurred into one long, whirring noise. Numerous crows cried out over their heads.

  The soldiers entered the building without a word. Their wet boots slapping against the floor as the walked up to Christofer. One of them muttered something beneath his breath and touched two fingers to his collarbone. Not a ward. Just a habit. The other rolled his sleeves and moved to Christofer’s side.

  “No talking,” Gerard said, without turning around. “No jokes. And if he twitches, let go.”

  The Captain glanced sharply at him. Gerard raised a brow.

  “Trust me. Letting go is better than following him into detonation.”

  They lifted Christofer like blacksmiths handling molten glass — firm, sure, and with no unnecessary movement. The gambeson flexed under the weight, the seams holding, but not without protest. The green light flared once, then retreated under the leather. One of the soldiers inhaled too sharply.

  “Relax,” Gerard said flatly. “He’s worse when you're nervous.”

  As they moved him toward the door, boots outside shifted. A group of spears instinctively raised, and then with effort, lowered. They weren’t aiming. Just bracing. The wagon bed was lined with cloth and shaped timber, hastily reinforced with iron bracing. One of the wheels still creaked unevenly. The canopy above sagged slightly, a hollow drumbeat of rain tapping across its surface. The soldiers lowered Christofer inside and stepped back quickly. One wiped his palms on his tunic. The other wouldn’t meet Gerard’s eye. Gerard stepped up, adjusted the cloak over Christofer’s chest, then tugged at a strap along the gambeson’s shoulder. Christofer suck in a breath. The glow didn’t react. Not yet. Gerard nodded once to the Captain, who answered with a silent glance. Ike mounted his horse and took position at the head of the column. The Captain swung into the saddle beside him. Rain trickled down his collar as he gave a curt gesture toward the trail.

  “Move out.”

  The wagon lurched forward, wheels dragging through the muck. Horses fell in around it, hooves muffled in soaked ground. They moved slow, not from caution, but from tension. Beneath the gambeson, the glow pulsed with each heartbeat.