"Heal him! You heal him, do you hear?" Jean was begging Leander, all traces of his pride gone. The platoon had come back with various scratches and cuts. Dorian's cut on his arm going as far as the bone and looking vicious.
But Leander was having the platoon wait. Because Andors was by far worse than them. His eye was missing, just as Borik had said. His wound was infected. Jean had turned him into a pincushion before escaping into the burial chamber. And every single wound was infected.
Leander concentrated on his A rank spell. Doing his best to knit the flesh together, having cleaned the wounds with great effort. The eye he had not dared to touch. It was too delicate an organ, and his knowledge had never included eyes. Something he would fix if he ever got out of this tomb.
Then, much to Leander's horror, Andors heartbeat quickened. Too much, like he was having a heart attack.
