Chapter 10: Infirmary Waking

The infirmary smelled of scorched sage and antiseptic, a sharp, biting aroma that clung to the back of Bima’s throat. His head throbbed with a rhythmic, pulsing pain, and his limbs felt as though they were filled with cold lead. He forced his eyes open, squinting against the dim glow of the moonlight bleeding through the high, narrow window of the infirmary ward.

He wasn't alone.

Sitting in a hard wooden chair beside his cot, shrouded in the shifting shadows of the room, was a figure. Even in the gloom, the sharp, angular profile and the stillness of the man’s posture were unmistakable.

Kirill.

Bima’s heart skipped a beat, his instinct to pull away hampered by the utter exhaustion of his body. "You..." Bima’s voice was a ragged scrape. "What are you doing here?"

Kirill didn't jump. He didn't even look away from the window, his obsidian eyes fixed on the distant, dark silhouette of the academy towers. "You have a penchant for making a mess, little bird. I was nearby, and the sound of your spectacular failure was quite impossible to ignore."

"You were… watching?" Bima managed to push himself up, his muscles screaming in protest. "How did you get in? The wardens were here just a few hours ago. Halloway was standing right where you are."

Kirill turned slowly, his expression smooth, almost unnervingly placid. "Teachers and wardens are remarkably unobservant when they are blinded by their own self-importance. Besides, I am quite good at being where I am not invited."

Bima squinted at him, trying to read the man’s features, but they remained a mask of cool indifference. "You were the voice in the basement, weren't you? The one telling me I was a fool."

Kirill stood up, his movements fluid and silent. He reached out to a small table nearby, poured a glass of cool water from a pewter pitcher, and held it out. "Drink. You are dehydrated, and your mana channels are effectively cauterized. Your internal temperature is erratic."

Bima stared at the water, then at Kirill’s hand. He took it, his fingers brushing against Kirill’s skin. It was cool—unnaturally so—but it felt solid, real. He drank greedily, the liquid soothing the fire in his throat.

"Why help me?" Bima asked, his voice steadier now. "You saw me collapse. You saw the wardens take my book. You’re not just 'passing by.' Nobody just 'passes by' the infirmary at three in the morning."

Kirill took the empty glass, setting it down with a soft click. "Perhaps I was just bored. Watching a student attempt to rewrite the laws of thermodynamics with a broken mana core is at least mildly entertaining."

"It’s not entertainment for me," Bima spat, his frustration flaring. "My sister is dying. I don't have the luxury of being 'bored' or 'amused.'"

Kirill’s gaze sharpened, his eyes darkening like crushed glass. "And do you think death cares about your sense of urgency? You were two seconds away from lobotomizing yourself. If you continue to channel power with such reckless disregard for your own meridians, you won't be saving anyone. You will be a smear of carbon on a library floor."

"Then show me," Bima challenged, his voice trembling. "If you’re so much better at this, if you know how the lines work, why not just teach me? Why hide in the rafters and drop riddles and silk handkerchiefs?"

Kirill chuckled, a low, melodic sound that lacked any real mirth. "Because if I handed you the answers, you would never learn to perceive the questions. You are so desperate to be 'gifted' that you’ve forgotten how to be a student."

"I am a student!" Bima growled. "I’ve been a student for three years, and all I’ve learned is that the instructors are either indifferent or incompetent."

"Precisely," Kirill agreed, stepping closer to the bed. The shadows in the room seemed to bend toward him, wrapping around his boots like loyal hounds. "They teach you to light fires. I am teaching you to understand the fuel. There is a difference."

Bima looked at him, searching for a lie, but found only that unsettling, predatory stillness. "Did you take the book? From the Dean’s office?"

Kirill didn't blink. "Why would I need to steal a book I have already memorized?"

"You're lying," Bima whispered, a sudden, sharp clarity dawning on him. "You want me to think you're just some spectator, some observer. But you're invested in this. You're invested in me."

Kirill leaned in, his face inches from Bima’s. The air between them hummed with a subtle, static tension that made Bima’s skin prickle. "Do not flatter yourself, Bima. I am invested in the outcome. What you choose to do with that information is entirely your own problem."

"What outcome?"

"The one where you stop being the 'Nothing-Ball' boy and start being the person who can actually change the state of your sister’s existence," Kirill said softly. "But that requires you to survive the next week. Which, at your current rate of self-destruction, seems highly unlikely."

Bima looked down at his own hands, resting on the thin infirmary blanket. They were still shaking slightly, but as he focused on his own center, he felt something strange. It wasn't the jagged, chaotic static of his usual mana. It was quiet. It was steady.

He tentatively reached for the core of his power. Usually, it was a battle—a fight to pull a spark from a frozen well. But now, it felt like the water was just... there. Waiting.

"My mana," Bima breathed, his eyes wide as he looked back at Kirill. "It's… it's not burning. It’s calm."

Kirill’s lips twitched upward in the slightest hint of a smile. "You finally stopped trying to force it. The trauma of your little accident has, quite unexpectedly, acted as a reset. Your channels are scarred, yes, but they are also open. For the first time, you are actually holding the resonance, rather than letting it leak out of your pores like sweat."

"Did you do this?" Bima asked, his voice barely a whisper. "When you were here? While I was unconscious?"

Kirill straightened up, turning his back to the cot. "I merely provided the environment for your body to stop screaming at itself. The rest was your own biological desperation. It is a very effective catalyst."

Bima felt a strange sense of gratitude, though it was tangled with a deep, gnawing suspicion. "You’re a difficult person to trust, Kirill."

"Trust is a commodity for those who have the luxury of safety," Kirill replied, walking toward the door. "You, Bima, do not have that luxury. Keep your head down. Stay out of Halloway’s sight for at least forty-eight hours. And for the love of the gods, do not try to cast anything more complex than a candle flame."

"Wait!" Bima called out as Kirill reached the door. "When will I see you again?"

Kirill paused, his hand on the iron latch. The shadow of his coat seemed to stretch, merging with the darkness of the hall outside. "You won't see me until you are ready to stop asking for permission. When you have figured out how to retrieve your own property from the Dean’s office without getting yourself expelled, perhaps then we shall have a proper conversation."

"The Dean’s office is guarded by high-level kinetic wards," Bima pointed out, his brow furrowing. "That's impossible."

Kirill looked back over his shoulder, his obsidian eyes glinting in the pale moonlight. "Only if you believe the walls are actually there, little bird."

And with that, he was gone. There was no sound of a footstep, no creak of the door—just the slight, lingering shift in the air pressure and the faint, unmistakable scent of pine needles and ozone.

Bima sat alone in the infirmary, the silence pressing in on him. He looked at his hand again, clenching it into a fist. The mana hummed within him, a low, steady vibration that felt like a quiet secret. He wasn't the boy who had walked into the library three nights ago. He was something else now.

He didn't know if he could trust Kirill, and he didn't know if he was walking into a trap, but as he felt the stability of his own power, he knew one thing for certain: the 'Nothing-Ball' boy was gone.

He lay back against the lumpy pillow, his mind already mapping the route to the Dean’s office. He wouldn't get expelled. He would get his book back. And then, he would find out exactly what kind of game Kirill was playing.

For the first time in years, Bima didn't feel afraid. He felt like the predator, not the prey. And for a student who had spent his entire life looking for the exit, that was a dangerous, intoxicating feeling.

He closed his eyes, the steady pulse of his own mana lulling him into a sleep that was, for the first time, entirely free of nightmares.