Ridoc tasted copper in his mouth as he blinked up at the infirmary’s stone ceiling, the torchlight flickering across its rough-hewn surface. His ribs ached, his right arm burned, and the bandage wrapped around his temple did little to quiet the pounding in his skull.

“Well, that was foolish,” came a voice to his left—dry, unimpressed. He turned his head slightly, wincing as pain flared through his side.

The healer, a younger woman with sharp eyes that was a vast contrast to her softer features, stood beside his cot, arms crossed. “You do realize sparring isn’t supposed to end with you half-dead, don’t you?”

Ridoc exhaled a short, pained laugh. “Tell that to Garren. He fights like he’s got a blood feud with everyone in the training yard.”

The healer huffed, shaking her head as she pressed a fresh cloth against the wound on his arm. “And you, of course, decided to take that challenge head-on.”

He grinned despite the pain. “Wouldn’t be any fun otherwise.”