the angels hidden blade

TWENTY FIVE

The air in the dimly lit room was thick with the scent of herbs and the smoky residue of recently extinguished candles. 

Nefeli lay on a hard, cold surface, her body a canvas of agony. 

The searing pain in her side pulsed rhythmically, like a malevolent heartbeat. 

The room was alive with the murmur of hushed voices and the faint clinking of vials and metal instruments.

Her senses struggled to pierce through the fog of pain, but she could discern the distant buzz of voices and snippets of conversations that danced on the periphery of her consciousness like elusive spectres. 

The world beyond her closed eyelids seemed distant, surreal.

It was then that she felt the gentle pressure of a hand on her shoulder, a touch as delicate as a breath of wind. 

A voice, soft yet laden with an undertone of authority, reached her ears.

"Don't move, Cursed One, you were badly injured. We thought you might bleed out before we even got you back."

The voice belonged to a man, his tone carrying a blend of concern and detachment. 

Nefeli struggled to open her eyes, but the pain held her in its merciless grip, a vice tightening around her senses. 

She managed a low groan, the sound escaping from deep within her as if wrested from the core of her being.

The gentle hand on her shoulder guided her back onto the hard surface, its touch a paradoxical blend of strength and tenderness. 

The surface beneath her was hard, and unforgiving, yet offered a welcome reprieve from the chaos of her burning skin.

As her eyelids fluttered in a feeble attempt to reveal the world around her, Nefeli caught a glimpse of the room. 

Dim candlelight played on the stone walls, casting dancing shadows that whispered secrets only the night could fathom. 

Shelves adorned with vials and herbs lined the space, a testament to the alchemical expertise that dwelled within these walls.

The soft voice spoke again, closer now, the words like a balm over her panic.

"Easy now. We've done what we can to mend your wounds, but the healing will take time."

Nefeli's vision gradually adjusted to the dim illumination, revealing the figure of a man, his features obscured by the low light. 

He wore scattered attire as if his clothes had been stitched together from many other garments.

His hands moved with purpose, and the clinking of metal instruments resumed as he continued his work.

"You took a nasty hit," he explained, his hands deftly tending to the bandages that enveloped Nefeli's torso. 

"Venomous, no less. Nasty stuff."

Nefeli winced, the pain resurging with the recollection.

"You're lucky we found you when we did," the healer continued his voice a steady cadence against the backdrop of Nefeli's discomfort. 

"A few hours more, and it might have been a different story."

Nefeli managed a weak nod, gratitude mingling with the pain.

Nefeli felt the sensation of fabric being wound tightly around her ribs. 

Each movement, no matter how delicate, sent tendrils of pain coursing through her body, making her muscles tense involuntarily.