The woman blinked slowly, pursing her lips.

  "My lady, I couldn't properly disinfect the wound—the wine is gone... but I've applied basic measures to stop the bleeding," Ivan said, still avoiding her pale violet gaze. "You have other injuries as well. Allow me to treat those too."

  "Will they scar?" she inquired suddenly.

  "I'm afraid so," the knight admitted honestly. (And they might be quite unsightly...) But he kept that thought to himself.

  "Ugly scars, too?" she muttered with resignation. "How vexing. It seems I'll have to curry favor with Aurelia again."

  "Who?"

  "Nothing of consequence," she replied. "Continue."

  The raven-haired woman surrendered herself to his ministrations. "Your companions—was it the elderly man and that one with the longsword? The verbose one with the unkempt beard? Your complete opposite."

  "You're remarkably well-informed," Ivan noted, surprised not only by her query. He observed that the wounds on her thigh and chest, though unhealed, had nearly stopped bleeding. (Even the fresh arrow wound is clotting unnaturally fast...) "Who are you?" he asked, brow furrowing. "I still don't know your name, my lady."

  "Because you never asked," she replied with the hint of a smile. Her thin, small lips, which had earlier seemed severe and cutting, now appeared almost charming.

  "Then who are you?" Ivan Northes raised his head, meeting her violet eyes directly.

  "Lostya," she stated simply.

  The elite knight froze, momentarily stunned. "Lostya!? You're the esteemed Lostya Huggins?"

  Lostya's lips curled into a sardonic smile. "I expected you'd call me 'the Wind of Catoria.'"

  "...That title is certainly renowned, my lady."

  "And thoroughly absurd," the sorceress scoffed. "Every time I hear it, it sounds like some kind of natural disaster."

  Ivan chuckled softly. "But why are you here? Shouldn't you be in the Kingdom of Crividsylvan at present?"

  "For details, consult your enigmatic Duke," she said, raising her left arm to facilitate his bandaging. "Everything transpired under his directives."

  "But our instructions were explicit—to deliver all messages directly to you," the elite knight said, confused.

  Lostya closed her eyes and remained silent. Ivan thought she had drifted to sleep. "My lady..."

  "Hush..." The sorceress gestured for silence. "I need to focus, or I can't draw Source."

  The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

  Ivan recalled from his education that all sorcerers needed to extract Primal Source from their surroundings to use and cast spells. Most carried enchanted items to store Source, enabling spellcasting even in Source-deficient areas. Only now did he notice the necklace adorning Lostya's throat—a chain of what appeared to be pure silver, with a star-shaped pendant housing a prismatic diamond from Aelnea. The rare gem pulsed with seven distinct flowing colors.

  "Insufficient," Lostya sighed softly. "The ambient Source here is too weak—barely enough to initiate healing." She coughed twice, and Ivan Northes hastily supported her into a sitting position. "Am I pretty?" she asked suddenly.

  Her eyes captured his, refusing to release him from their hold. Only now did he truly observe her features: a delicate face, a nose neither too prominent nor too subtle but perfectly proportioned. Long lashes framed her eyes, while unexpectedly thin eyebrows and lips created an aura of cold inapproachability. (An ice queen.) The thought formed unbidden.

  "What troubles you?" The sorceress frowned. "Do I look awful now?"

  "No... you're exquisite."

  "Ah, 'ice queen'—I'll accept the compliment." She appeared satisfied. "I am indeed proud, but I appreciate male admiration—whether of my face or my form. You've rendered judgment on my face, and as for my body..." She glanced meaningfully toward Ivan's lower half. "You've already provided quite the response."

  Ivan Northes flushed crimson, mortified beyond words. "Please, I'm hardly some innocent maiden. I've encountered men of your ilk before. Now, help me stand." She extended her left hand toward the knight.

  Just as Ivan reached forward, she withdrew her hand. "Kiss it first. Have you no chivalric courtesy?"

  She presented her hand once more. The knight gently pressed his lips to it while she maintained an expression of smug triumph. Once upright, pain visibly spread across her pallid features.

  "What next?" Ivan inquired.

  "We adhere to our original plan and proceed to Crivi. Where is your mount?" She glanced around expectantly. "Please don't tell me you've lost it."

  "Lost her," Ivan corrected, indicating Black Lily's direction. "Lost her quite permanently—straight to the heavens."

  The sorceress's face blanched. "Dead? She's dead?" She clutched at Ivan's tunic collar. "How precisely are we to depart? You surely don't expect me to amble through this forest on foot!"

  "Can't you... I mean..." The knight stammered awkwardly. "Transform back into a raptor of some kind?"

  Lostya rolled her eyes with dramatic exasperation. "Gods above, knight. If I could resume my White Wyvern-Heigel form, would I have required your crude medical attention?" She clutched at the pendant resting against her chest. "This accursed place is utterly devoid of usable Source!"

  Ivan Northes examined the diamond in her pendant, now colorless and dull. He shrugged resignedly. "In truth, I never anticipated surviving Wymar Forest. Without a mount, escaping this place borders on mythical fantasy."

  "On that, we agree," she conceded, wrapping her arms around herself as she shivered visibly. The elite knight removed his hooded cloak and draped it protectively around her shoulders. "I have one question, my lady. Why assume the form of Duke Dear's eagle? Or have you been his pet all along?"

  "Whose pet?" Lostya lifted her chin imperiously, her eyes flashing dangerously. "That ascetic already possesses an eagle, but it remains in Crivi. I transformed at his request only. I had no desire to incur imperial displeasure."

  "So this, too, was an element of his strategy?"

  "He perpetually shrouds himself in mystery," the sorceress remarked, adjusting the hood to cover her delicate features. "If you're curious, I can share what information I possess—but not now. We cannot idle here awaiting death. We must devise some means of escape..."

  "Such as? A portal, perhaps?" Ivan suggested hopefully.

  "Beyond my capabilities," the sorceress admitted frankly. "An elven spellcaster might manage it, but I cannot. Long-distance teleportation requires vast Source reserves and exceptional physical constitution. Moreover, we lack a defined destination point. Spellcraft isn't the simplistic affair you imagine, knight. Most magic requires strict adherence to fundamental principles—much as your arrows must obey the laws of flight. And teleportation happens to lie outside my particular expertise."