The healer had his work cut out for him.
Venden's state when Fate had rescued him was horrid, but stable. Helga wouldn't have left him like that if he was going to die during her sleep.
But the running and sneaking had changed a possibility into a certainty, opening his wounds further and breaking the scabs off to tides of blood. If he wasn't treated soon, he would die.
But while difficult, it wasn't due to Venden's condition, or at least, not in the way one would think.
The real trouble lay in the sheer number of wounds across Venden's body.
The healer was a Master. Sealing up a wound or two on a mere Journeyman was mere child's play. But with the way his Skill worked, he couldn't treat more than two injuries at once.
So he had to go from stab wound to burn to bruise, healing them one at a time while concentrating so hard that sweat fell from his brow like rain. He needed to keep every minute detail of human anatomy at the forefront of his mind, or else his "help" would be fatal.
Venden blearily opened his eyes, finding the familiar faces of his father and Fate, along with more surprising faces like Kathrin and Kravoss. The Dracok was sitting on the table beside Venden's legs, using a low-pressure water beam to wash off the dried blood on the emancipated noble.
"Look away, all of you," Venden said as he swung his legs off the table, scratching his forehead.
His sister didn't need to see him naked, for Empress' sake.
"So you're alive after all," Fate said with a grin. "Good to know you feel well enough to worry about shit like that."
Venden cast about for some clothes, accepting a pair from his father and slipping them on before asking "where'd the healer go?"
"He needs to rest after a life-saving procedure like this," Terry said.
His words still lacked that strange emotional resonance from before, so Fate decided to ask him about it.
"Every Arch-Mage at my Sub Stage has this power," Terry explained, his voice as monotone as usual. "And they put their all into getting into under control as soon as possible."
"But why don't you use it all the time?" Fate asked. He had to admit that it made the man much more intimidating.
"Why should I broadcast my emotions for the world to see?" Terry replied. "I only used it before because I have a hard time expressing myself through words and looks. Sometimes it's necessary, but Arch-Mages refrain when they can help it.
"It undermines your own arguments and gives your opponent an unnecessary advantage. In this case, I judged my intentions to be important enough to convey to my wife."
"I still can't believe my mother would do such a thing," Kathrin said morosely. "She was always nice to us. It was father that whipped and rebuked us."
"From what I've seen, dad was saving us from our mother," Venden said, now fully clothed. "It's clear at a glance that her punishments are infinitely worse than father's."
"Yeah, no offense, but your mother is crazy," Fate said. "I don't know how you didn't see it."
"No child wants to see their parents in a bad light," Terry droned. "And Helga did well to hide it."
"Did you know, father?" Venden asked. "Did you know what she was capable of?"
A deep sigh came from Terry, and Fate was reminded that despite all of his power, he was still human, and had just sent the love of his life off to prison.
"I did," Terry admitted. "But in my hubris, I thought I could control it. And when that failed, I thought to contain it, doling out punishments to stay her hand. But it was all for nothing."
"At least now, it's over," Kathrin said. "We can put the past behind us and move on with our lives."
"Well said," Terry nodded. He turned to Fate, emerald green eyes meeting Fate's dark gaze without even a shred of fear. "As for you, young man. You have done me and my family a great service. Name a reward, and if it is in my power, I shall grant it to you."
Fate rubbed the back of his neck, somewhat embarrassed and unused to being praised. When that faded, he squinted as he seriously considered the question.
He wasn't going to refuse a gift, obviously. His mother always said it was rude to do so.
But the more he thought, the more he was stumped.
He already had a well-paying job, got free food from the Academy, and had an entire two months' worth of food stocked in his ring. He had a weapon that fit his current Stage, an avenue for training with that sword, and books on dozens of topics and detailing hundreds of stories from Alessandra, many of which he hadn't even touched yet.
Speaking of which, he really should take the brother of the sergeant, Freyn Grevenich, up on his offer of sword training.
But regardless, of all the things he could think of, more knowledge was the only one that didn't feel excessive.
"Do you have anything on my Facet?" Fate asked after thinking about it. The only thing he couldn't find anywhere was knowledge on his Facet. It was as if it had just spontaneously appeared within him from nothing, but that wasn't possible.
Every Facet came from the blood of one of eight Nine Races mixed with the blood of the ninth, the Nephilim. Except for the Power Facets, which were from the Nephilim and the Nephilim alone. One of these two held true for every recorded Facet to date, which meant Fate had to have SOME kind of bloodline flowing through his veins.
But no matter how hard he searched, whether in the Royal Mage Academy's digital library, physical library, or even from surfing the Magiweb, he found nothing. It was a complete unknown, and it was, quite frankly, very frustrating.
"Your Facet?" Terry frowned. "We have a little bit of everything in our library. Which Facet do you have? Your eyes suggest it's Hate, but I wouldn't be surprised if it was Fear."
"Negativity, sir. Although if I had one of those, my life would be easier."
"Negativity?" Terry's frown deepened, his eyes flashing with a peculiar light. "I've not heard of that one. A few scientific studies and folk tales come to mind that might have some correlation, but not a direct mention."
"May I see those books, by any chance?" Fate asked. Any lead he could get was one he needed to take if he hoped to continue progressing without constant epiphanies.