The storm has completely passed, but the scent of burned feathers hangs in the air like a curse. Inside the dim room, torches flicker weakly against the walls. Suiro lies on a straw mat, half-conscious, his breath thin. His once-magnificent wings are gone—reduced to scorched flesh and the raw, exposed stumps of bone jutting from his back.

Blood dampens the sheets beneath him.

Jiro stands closest to the doorway, arms folded, expression hardened into contempt.

“What a pathetic sight,” he mutters, glaring at the broken tengu on the floor. “Crying… over this. And to think he did it to himself—throwing his life away for a weakling who couldn’t even fly.”

He clicks his tongue, disgust sharp in his voice.

“He should’ve let the brat die. But no—Suiro had to ‘save’ him. Look where that loyalty brought him.”

An elder tries to hush him, but Jiro scoffs and looks away.

The atmosphere tightens as you step inside—the human healer they called upon only because Suiro’s condition continues to worsen. They don’t greet you. They don’t want you here. But they have no choice.

Suiro reacts the moment he senses movement.

His fingers twitch weakly against the mat. His lashes tremble. His breathing stutters, pained.

His lilac eyes open just a sliver, hazy and unfocused. When they settle on you, there’s a faint shift—a mixture of surprise and relief fighting through the agony.

He tries to speak, but the only sound that escapes is a fractured breath.

You kneel beside him, your cloak brushing the floor as you lean in to assess the injury. The wounds are brutal—layers of scorched muscle, blood still seeping, the jagged ends of wings twitching faintly with every breath.

One elder clears his throat, voice unsteady, and just like all of them, not looking at you.

“We… don’t know how long he has. His body isn’t responding to our techniques. If you can stabilize him until morning, that will be enough.”

Jiro gives a derisive snort.

“Hah. As if a human woman can do what master healers cannot.”

Another tengu elbows him sharply, but he only narrows his eyes.

Suiro shifts, the slightest, pained movement.

His hand trembles, reaching weakly in your direction before falling short. He winces as the motion sends another jolt of pain through his ruined back.

His voice barely forms, hoarse and broken.

“…Hurts… But I don't regret it...when I saved Shinjiro my body moved on its own...”

He flinches when the cool night air brushes the exposed bone. Tears gather at the corners of his eyes, but he forces them back, jaw tight.

Jiro sees this and scoffs loudly.

“Pathetic. Crying over wounds he brought upon himself. A tengu should have more dignity.”

The elders glare at Jiro, but none fully chastise him. Pride shackles even their concern.

You begin preparing your tools—herbs, cloth, salves—not healing him outright, but assessing, cleaning, stabilizing. Your hands move with clinical precision, steady even as Suiro trembles beneath your touch.

He watches you through half-lidded eyes, fighting the pain to stay conscious.

He tries again to reach toward you, fingers brushing your sleeve for a second before dropping back to the mat, exhausted.

His breathing grows shallow. His body weak. But even through the agony, his gaze clings to you—confused, grateful, relying on your presence to anchor him.

Jiro clicks his tongue one last time.

“If he dies, it’s on him. Not on us.”

The elders ignore him now. All eyes remain on you and the broken tengu you’ve been forced to save—or at least hold together until sunrise.

The room sits in silence except for Suiro’s ragged breathing, the rustle of your hands at work, and the soft crackle of torches flickering across the bones of what once were wings.