The healer made his way toward Atlas, his hands moving with a calm confidence as he reached for the edge of the bandages wrapped tightly around him.
Atlas, however, wasn't about to let him work in silence. "At least tell me your name first," he muttered, raising an eyebrow.
The healer froze, his eyes widening comically as he blinked down at Atlas.
'Sucker'
Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Lucas's lips twitching, a ghost of a smile creeping across his otherwise stoic face. But when Atlas turned to look, his expression hardened again, he shaked his head in disappointment.
The healer recovered quickly, giving a small, sheepish chuckle. "My apologies, young man. My name is Curate Ambro," he said, his tone warm and polite as he resumed unwrapping the bandages. He paused just long enough to flash a gentle smile. "It's okay to continue now?"
Atlas tilted his head, letting the moment drag out just a little longer before nodding. "Good to meet you, Curate. My name's Atlas."
Ambro let out a soft laugh at that, shaking his head. "Oh, I know who you are, Atlas. And for the record, Curate's not my name, it's my title."
Atlas frowned, curiosity piqued. "Title? What do you mean by that?"
Ambro paused, looking up briefly. "I'm a Lightblade," he explained. "Curate is my rank. It's my position within the order."
Atlas's eyebrows lifted slightly, though he kept his expression neutral. He knew about the Lightblades and Nightblades, everyone did, but the ranks? That was new to him. He thought about pressing further, but before he could ask another question, Ambro moved to the last few layers of bandages.
"Now, hold still," Ambro said, his tone light. "We'll talk more after I've seen the full extent of—"
The words died in his throat as he pulled away the final layer of fabric.
Ambro froze, his hands hovering over Atlas's exposed skin, his expression twisting into something caught between shock and anger. He stared at the wounds crisscrossing Atlas's torso—deep, jagged gashes, poorly stitched together with uneven threads. Burns that had barely begun to heal marked his sides, and fresh cuts were inflamed and raw.
"This…" Ambro muttered, his voice low and tense. "This is…"
His head snapped toward Lucas, his gentle demeanor vanishing in an instant. His voice rose, sharp and demanding. "What is this? How in the gods' names did you let him walk in here like this?"
Lucas frowned, stepping forward to get a closer look. His jaw tightened as his gaze swept over Atlas's injuries. Even he seemed caught off guard by the extent of the damage.
"I hadn't seen them uncovered," Lucas admitted, his voice carrying a rare note of hesitation. "He was already bandaged when he was given to me to handle."
Ambro's anger didn't waver. He gestured at the makeshift stitches holding Atlas's wounds together. "Bandaged? You call this bandaged? This is a disaster! Who treated him? Was it a butcher?"
Atlas shifted uncomfortably under their scrutiny, his ribs protesting the movement. "Hey, I'm right here," he said, trying to inject some levity into the situation. "And for the record, I'm not dead, so whoever did it couldn't have been that bad."
Ambro's eyes snapped back to him, his anger softening slightly but his concern still evident. "You shouldn't be alive, Atlas," he said firmly. "These wounds… They're beyond what any untrained hand should have been able to manage. The fact that you're even sitting here…"
He trailed off, shaking his head as if the words wouldn't come.
Lucas crossed his arms, his sharp gaze flicking between Ambro and Atlas. "We'll fix him up now," he said, his tone brooking no argument. "Just do what needs to be done, Curate."
Ambro hesitated for a moment before nodding, though his frustration lingered. "Fine," he said, his voice tight. "But this will take more than simple healing. These wounds are layered with mana trauma. It's no wonder he's in this state."
Atlas blinked, his confusion growing. "Mana trauma? What does that mean?"
Ambro didn't answer right away. Instead, he began to move with renewed urgency, gathering supplies from a nearby tray as he muttered under his breath.
Ambro moved back over to Atlas, setting a syringe on the table before pulling out a vial filled with a clear liquid. He carefully filled the syringe, tapping it lightly to ensure there were no air bubbles.
"This is just going to take the edge off the pain while I heal you, understand?" he said, his tone firm but not unkind.
Atlas nodded absentmindedly, his focus shifting to the exposed wounds crisscrossing his torso. The sight hit him like a punch to the gut.
When the bandages were still in place, it was easier to ignore, easier to pretend it wasn't as bad as it felt. Sure, the pain had been unbearable, keeping him awake for endless nights, but this, seeing the extent of the damage, was something else entirely.
His eyes went wide, his mouth dry as his mind raced.
'That bitch cut me to ribbons'
He didn't even notice the needle piercing the vein on his wrist until the sharp sting brought him back to the moment. The effect was immediate. A wave of bliss washed over him, dulling the pain to nothingness. For the first time in days, maybe longer, his body felt… good.
No, better than good. He felt amazing. His mind swam in a foggy euphoria, the world around him losing its sharp edges. A lazy grin tugged at the corners of his mouth, and he exhaled deeply, sinking into the sensation.
Ambro gestured for him to lie down. "Lay down."
Atlas nodded eagerly, still riding the high. His thoughts floated.
'My core awakened. I'm going to the academy. Everything is perfect. This is the best I've ever felt.'
He stretched out on the table as instructed, his gaze flitting up to the ceiling. When Ambro leaned over him, the healer's voice was low, almost reverent as he murmured, "Healing Art—Greater Release."
A soft, golden glow enveloped Ambro's hands, illuminating the dim space with a faint, soothing light. He placed his glowing hands on Atlas's chest, and warmth immediately spread through Atlas's body like sunlight chasing away a cold morning.
The combination of the warmth and the drugs made Atlas feel like he was on cloud nine. His head lolled slightly to the side as a goofy grin spread across his face. "This is amazing," he muttered, his voice slightly slurred. He thought the words stayed in his head, but Lucas's smirk told him otherwise.
"How are you doing that?" Atlas asked, his curiosity cutting through the haze of euphoria.
Ambro's response was quick and curt. "Be quiet."
But it was hard to stay quiet. The feeling was unlike anything Atlas had ever experienced. He watched in awe as the gashes on his body slowly began to knit themselves together under the healer's glowing hands. It was magic, seeing it work up close was something else entirely.
He didn't even notice the strain it put on Ambro until the glow began to dim. The healer pulled his hands away, his face pale and his breathing labored. Beads of sweat clung to his brow, and his shoulders slumped as though he had just run a marathon.
The euphoria began to fade as quickly as it had come. Atlas's body came back into sharp focus, and with it, the dull throb of lingering pain. He winced, a low hiss escaping through his teeth. He hadn't realized how much he had relied on the drugs masking the pain.
Ambro straightened slowly, still catching his breath. "I've closed the wounds and removed the infections," he said, his voice steady but noticeably weaker. "But I can't do anything about the lingering pain. Your body still needs time to heal properly. If you push yourself, you'll risk reopening the wounds."
Atlas nodded, his grin fading as the reality of his condition set back in. The brief moment of relief had been glorious, but it hadn't lasted nearly long enough.
"Thanks," he muttered, his voice low.
Lucas glanced at the healer. "Can you spare the boy some clothes?" he asked.
Ambro paused, his eyes drifting over Atlas, who was sitting awkwardly on the edge of the examination table. With the bandages removed, he had nothing but a pair of tattered pants to his name. His ribs were faintly visible through his pale skin and he would be lying if he said he hadn't been freezing.
Ambro sighed, shaking his head. "Of course. Give me a moment. We should have something that fits."
Atlas watched as the healer left the room, a flicker of hope sparking in his chest. For the first time in a while, he might have proper clothes, something not stitched together by granny Lucy's desperation and worn beyond recognition. He shifted uncomfortably, trying not to let the cold metal table bite too much into his skin while he waited.
It wasn't long before Ambro returned, carrying a neatly folded bundle of clothes. "Here," he said, setting them down beside Atlas. "I believe these should fit well enough."
Atlas grabbed the bundle, his fingers brushing over the fabric. The material was soft but sturdy, a far cry from the scratchy, worn things he'd been used to. The jacket on top, in particular, caught his attention. It was dark brown, thick, and looked like it could actually keep him warm—practical, but nice enough that it wouldn't look out of place in Uppertown.
For a brief moment, his mood soured. This jacket was just as nice as the one he had risked his life to steal. The thought made him scowl internally. The entire mess that had led to his current situation could have been avoided if someone had just handed him something like this from the start.
Lucas raised an eyebrow at the expression on Atlas's face. "Problem?" he asked.
Atlas quickly shook his head and forced a half-smile. "No. Just… thinking."
He started to put on the clothes, sliding into the shirt first. It was a perfect fit, and the jacket was the cherry on top.
"Thank you," Atlas said, glancing at Ambro. The healer waved him off with a tired but genuine smile.
"Take care of yourself, boy," Ambro said. "And try not to end up in another mess like this."
Lucas, who had been leaning against the wall, pushed himself off with a nod toward the door. "Come on. Time to move."
Atlas hesitated for just a second, looking back at Ambro. There was something about the healer's exhausted but kind expression that struck him. He gave him a quick nod of gratitude before following Lucas out.
The jacket felt heavy on his shoulders, but not in a bad way. It was warm, comforting, a reminder that maybe things were finally turning around. As they stepped into the cold air outside, Atlas pulled the collar up, shielding his neck from the wind. For the first time in a long while, he didn't feel like the cold owned him. It was a small victory, but one that made him smirk quietly to himself as he followed Lucas.