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finally he was able to swing a leg over. Once atop the wall, his invisibility shroud failed.
    “Over there!” A woman’s voice screamed.
    Lightning bolts and flame sparks streaked just over his head as he frantically rolled and dropped off on the other side, grabbing the vines there to ease his fall. The speed and force of the trauma was such that he dangled dangerously for only a brief moment before the stems broke and he landed on his feet with a hard thud, clumsily falling backward right after. He got up immediately. His black clothing would just have to conceal him for now. He took the feather out of his mouth and gripped it tightly in his left hand before he started running again.
    Amidst the chaotic sounds of yelling beyond the wall to rally a pursuit, he disappeared swiftly into the night.
     
     
     
     
     
    Chapter IV
     
     
     
    T ry again. Both of you,” he dimly thought he heard a man’s voice say. “This time don’t give up so easy. Give it all you got. He’s almost back, I can feel it.”
    Vincent felt a surge of warmth go through his chest and permeate his entire body. It caused him to open his eyes and mouth while he made a sharp gasp. During the brief time that his eyes were open, he saw the ceiling of the infirmary section of the keep. After that, he saw only darkness. Somehow, much of the blood he knew had been in his breathing passages was already gone though leftovers of the coppery taste were still in his mouth and throat. The smell of clean, dry sheets with the lingering scent of soap as well as balm-like medicines he couldn’t recognize, filled his lungs. He still couldn’t open his eyes again after that one moment and was only faintly conscious.
    “Good,” he heard the voice congratulate. “Good. He’ll probably sleep like that for a while. Eventually he’ll come around. Lay him on his side so he can breathe better.” Vincent heard soft breathing as he felt two gentle pairs of hands grabbing him, one twisting his shoulders and the other pulling his right leg over so he would lay on his left side. The left half of his face was smothered against a pillow.
    The next deep and grating voice he heard shocked him. “When do you think he’ll be ready to submit a report to us?” It came from Grandmaster Treyfon, the old Elf man who was currently the leader of their institution. He recognized it from a public speech Treyfon gave during the promotion of a class of initiates.
    “You must be kidding,” the voice directing the healing admonished. “We’ve only just got him breathing again. He’s been through a lot, can’t it wait?”
    Another voice, old yet not weary-sounding, spoke up. “We would very much like to question him.” He recognized it as belonging to Master Anthony, Dean of Atmomancy. Was the entire council of masters assembled near his bed? He wondered.
    “His body was damaged pretty heavily during the assault on The Crafters’ Vault. It’s taken several treatments just to get him back this far. I don’t know when exactly he’ll wake. It probably won’t be any sooner than by tomorrow though. We’ve done all that the healing arts can allow for someone in his condition; his body needs time to recuperate from both traumas and come back the rest of the way on its own. Only time can help him right now. I’m sorry.”
    “Keep us posted,” Treyfon’s grating voice reminded in a gentle manner.
    With what little of himself that was dimly aware of the world, Vincent tried to make himself struggle to get up so he could greet the masters with more dignity before they left. Somehow the strength to do so just wouldn’t come; his body wouldn’t move. He heard the footsteps leaving.
    In horror, he recalled what had happened. Had it really happened? Or was this some nightmare where his worst fears simply came to pass? It certainly bore the mark of mortal terror and dire failure followed by the impending oversight by his superiors. Was he really just back in his bed inside his