Chapter 27 Concern

The Weight of a Promise

The moment I saw him emerge from that horrifying passage, bloodied and weary but alive, a wave of relief so profound it almost buckled my knees washed over me. He was bruised, his uniform torn, and the raw elemental energy still humming faintly around him spoke of the brutal fight he'd just endured. My relief was a potent hum in my veins.

After Jain and the others had gently led the children away, their small voices whispering "Thank you" in the cold night air, Professor Thorne simply turned, his gaze meeting mine. His eyes, usually so sharp and unreadable, held a deep exhaustion, yet also a flicker of grim satisfaction. He merely nodded, a silent acknowledgment, before turning towards the academy's main buildings.

I followed him silently, my steps light, my heart pounding a rhythm of relief and apprehension. The adrenaline that had surged through me earlier now receded, replaced by a growing awareness of his injuries. The angry slash across his chest, visible through the torn fabric, looked deep. His injured hand was already swelling. Each step he took seemed to cost him, though he maintained his usual stoic stride.

He reached the secluded entrance to his private quarters in the North Wing, his movements precise despite the obvious pain. He paused, his hand on the door handle, and then, without turning fully, spoke.

"Lyra," his voice was low, tired, "you don't need to come further. Go to your own quarters. Rest."

I stopped a few paces behind him, my heart clenching at the subtle slump of his shoulders, the faint tremble in his injured hand. "Professor," I said, my voice soft but firm, "you are hurt. And you just faced... them. Alone. You truly think I'd just turn around and go to bed?"

He finally turned, a faint frown creasing his brow. "My injuries are minor. And my quarters are private."

My eyes stung, not from tears of sadness, but from the sheer relief that he was alive and the need to care for him. "Minor?" I countered, my voice thick with emotion as I took a step closer. "Professor, your hand looks like it wrestled a griffin, and your chest is bleeding through your uniform!" I took another step, my voice softening as I allowed some playful defiance to seep in.

"And anyway," I added, channeling my inner Lyra-the-tease, "as your fiancée, I believe it's my right to ensure your well-being after such a... taxing engagement".

He stared at me, his gaze unblinking. The hint of exasperation, the ghost of a smile, flickered in his eyes. He let out a soft sigh, a sound of weary resignation. "Fine, Lyra," he conceded, pushing open the door to his quarters. "But quietly and quickly."

I didn't need a second invitation. I swept past him, stepping into the familiar scent of herbs, old parchment, and something clean and academic. The room was Spartan but held a quiet warmth. Without a word, I moved to his small, practical medical kit, grabbing sterile bandages, a pot of soothing balm, and potent disinfectant.

"Off with the coat," I instructed, my voice firm as I prepared the supplies. "And your shirt. Let's see the damage properly."

He hesitated for a moment, then, with a weary sigh, began to unbutton his uniform.

The sight of his bare chest, stark against the flickering lamplight, made the slash across his ribs look even more grievous. His hand throbbed visibly.

I carefully, gently, began to clean the wound on his chest, dabbing away the blood, my touch steady despite the tremor in my own hands. "This is deep," I murmured, my brow furrowed with concern. "You were lucky."

He grunted in acknowledgment, his gaze fixed on some distant point, though I could feel the subtle tension in his muscles. I applied the balm, a cool, soothing sensation, then deftly wrapped the wound.

Next, I turned to his hand, cleaning the lacerations and bruised skin with meticulous care, my fingers brushing against his. His skin was warm beneath my touch, a stark contrast to the coldness of the night.

"There," I said softly, stepping back once I had finished, the small kit neatly reassembled. "That should hold for now. But you need proper rest and nourishment." I met his gaze, my concern raw and open.

"Come to my quarters tomorrow morning, after my first class. I'll change the bandages and prepare a medicinal soup. A proper one, to help with healing and stamina. You'll need it."

He looked at his bandaged hand, then at me. A long moment of silence stretched between us. He didn't argue. He simply nodded, a slow, deliberate movement.

"Thank you, Lyra." His voice was quiet, almost a whisper, but the gratitude in it was unmistakable.

As I stepped out into the silent corridor, the heavy door closing softly behind me, the academy felt less like a place of looming shadows and more like a home. He was safe, for now. And I would ensure he stayed that way. The thought of the steaming, nourishing soup I would prepare for him tomorrow brought a quiet sense of purpose, a promise made not just to a mission, but to the person beneath the Professor's stoic mask.