Knife wounds are a bitch.

You know. He's kind of an expert at this. Mind you, you've dealt with plenty and taken more than your share. So you know a bad situation when you see one, and you're not just saying that because of the searing pain, but this one could have really finished you.

But then again, you've always been a bit of an oddball. It's just the cards you were dealt. You didn't ask to be brought back with a flaming fish. Hell, fire and ice shouldn't mix, you know. Yet here you are, an ice user, cradled by the flames like a dragon waiting to be reborn from hell. But you've always been an outsider, haven't you? Always the anomaly. You could taste the smoke burning your lungs, just as you could feel your flesh stretch, knit, and itch, the gaping gash in your throat closing as if it had never been there.

Eight.

Seven.

Six…

You count the seconds until the healing is complete.

You've turned recovery from near-death into an art, you see? A science, actually. You've determined the time it takes for your wounds to heal, for the bones to regrow and the skin to close without leaving a scar. You can define the timeline with nearly 97% accuracy and incorporate the process into your meticulous plans.

And as soon as your last wounds close, just when the enemy thinks you're off the battlefield and is more intent on harassing the front line, you launch a direct attack on the lead warship's mainframe, seize control of its defenses, and disable all shields not belonging to your allies.

The plan was to minimize casualties on both sides. The distraction would allow the remaining allies to gain the upper hand. They were supposed to overwhelm the others and force a surrender.

But Viole has a habit of derailing your strategies, no matter how much you try to justify his variability. And yes, it seems he saw you fall, but didn't realize you were back. Your calculations didn't include Viole getting angry enough to simply destroy all the enemy warships. This is the worst tantrum you've ever seen him throw.

To think you went through all this effort.

And it's a little annoying, too, because Viole is there now, looking quite murderous and quickly zooming in on your location.

"You died." An accusation.

It takes you a moment to find your voice. You clear your throat as hard as you can, certain the grainy bits of ash there need more than the remnants of your saliva to dissipate.

"I didn't. People don't come back from the dead." You hate how high-pitched your voice is, sounding like a teenager on hormones. Still, you're doing your best to train your new vocal cords, so a little break would be very welcome.

"You had a hole right here! You were bleeding!" Everything is shaking. Even your vision, and it's making you dizzy. Actually, it's Viole being your own personal mini-earthquake as she clutches your arms, anger and frustration flaring fiercely in her golden eyes. "You were—! Tell me this wasn't part of the plan! Tell me..."

That I'm not risking my life? You would have let out a huff, but you kept quiet, or you'd just bite your tongue and bear the brunt of being shaken like a sheaf of grain too green to be harvested. What were you supposed to say, anyway? It was a gamble. And you're fine. Sure, there were a few near misses, but in the end, everything worked out.

And you can't blame Viole for her little hysterical display, with your blood still wet on the floor where she's standing, slick under her shoes.

"I thought... I thought I'd lost you." And there it is—the relief—Viole's whisper so incongruent with the emotions that vibrated beneath her skin and made the air heavy with fear.