Mahala slipped through several memories. Helping Sister Zvie prune the garden, fumbling on the same arpeggio on her first piano, playing dress up with Adelei, holding her father’s hand through the Suffrage Day parade, watching fireworks with Luck… then a memory she couldn’t place.

A dry cot, in an antiseptic room cluttered with drawers and vials. The windows wide open, embracing a clear blue sky but she felt no breeze on her face. In fact, she could not feel her face at all.

Her hands discovered thick gauze wrapped all around her head and her greasy hair.

“Tohlel! You’re up so soon!”

She turned to the voice. Hacksaw heaved through the door, arms full of linens, and even darker circles under his eyes.

“What happened?” her words came out muffled

Hacksaw dumped the linens on the nearest surface and closed the windows. He then cautiously approached her cot.

“I stitched up your face and put you to bed. It’s only been a few hours,” he explained. “I’m going to check how you’re healing.”

He reached for her bandages but she slapped his hands away. She remembered now. 

“Merciful Nothos, my face…” she whispered.

“Please just let me look,” said Hacksaw, rubbing his hand.

“N-No, I can’t. I can’t let anyone see me like this…”

Hacksaw sighed. “I’ve already seen your injuries. If you want it to heal properly, I will need to check my work.”

This time when he reached his hand out, she didn’t lash out, simply watching his hand move. The repetitive motion soothed her like sandpaper taped over her bleeding heart, but she had no tears left. Everytime he unwound a layer from her head, her heart ticked faster, like her wyrm was shifting and resettling.

The bandages and bloody gauze fell onto her lap. 

Hacksaw stared.

“Well?” she snapped.

“Well,” he repeated. “I think I can remove your stitches.”

“What?”

That was all she got. In no time, Hacksaw teased out the sutures with boiled tweezers and scissors. He continued to mutter ‘tohlel’ under his breath, even after he dabbed her face clean with a cloth. 

He brought her to a wall mirror so she could see the results. All that remained were red welts and stitch marks that decorated her cheek. It still felt numb but she could flex her mouth without any problems. It still looked and felt ugly and swollen, but her face could be saved with enough cosmetics.

“Isn’t it remarkable? This should’ve taken weeks to get to this stage,” Hacksaw breathed.

Mahala didn’t know how long it took the wyrm to heal the sword injury to her chest, she guessed it might’ve not taken too long either. She checked on the wyrm, but it stirred with only light twitches. The nails were still embedded around it.

“That all happened last night?” she asked.

“Last night, early morning, just before dawn,” Hacksaw said, making a so-so gesture. “The point is, even with your wyrm’s abilities suppressed, your recovery was swift.”

“Where am I?” She noted the lack of manacles and bars.

“My clinic, still in the Highlands,” he said with a sweeping gesture. “Your inability to fight back with your wyrm assured Nevermind that you are harmless enough with the nails.”

Mahala glowered at him as she covered herself.

Hacksaw shrugged and started scribbling into a tattered notebook next to her cot. “Until the Yarths hear back from their Shiran contact, you are under my care. Not even cautious Nevermind has your new muzzle ready yet. Let’s pretend you are still too sick to get out of bed.”

“And the man who attacked me?”

Hacksaw paused. “Ahh. Wail. He’s sleeping off his hangover, and his new injuries, courtesy of Nevermind.”

“Hangover? He was drunk?”

He met Mahala’s confused expression. “Makjohng. Right. No sane man would present himself drunk in front of the Lady. First time seeing the effects of inebriation?”

“No wonder father enforced the sobriety laws,” Mahala muttered, hand curling on her welts. “Alcohol truly does turn men into monsters.”

“No one needs alcohol to impersonate a monster,” Hacksaw snorted.

Mahala hugged her arms. “I need to leave this place, before these people kill me.”

“They won’t. Nevermind wants you alive and well. What Wail did was out of liquid stupidity.” 

“You’re not the one who got their face stabbed!” Mahala hissed. “How do you expect me to wait here until I’m sold like cattle?!” Her wyrm stuttered awake, her blood teeming. “If you’re too much of a coward to go to the constabulary, I’ll go myself! What direction are they?!”

“The constabulary here is bought off by the Yarths,” Hacksaw said dryly. “If you go to them, they’ll deliver you back here. Besides, there are Yarths stationed outside my clinic. There are Yarths stationed outside this village. They have crossbows, rifles, and mountain artillery. You won’t make it two minutes.”

“But… this… what…” Mahala fumed so hard she fumbled to find the words. “That makes no sense! How the hell did a place like this get overlooked by your city council?!”

“We’re halfway up the Bankalz, in a village of hardly 300 people. The aldermen aren’t bothering with us unless the entire mountain range is on fire,” sighed Hacksaw. “I told you, this is Yarth territory.”

Mahala collapsed back into her cot.

Her mind whirled empty. “What am I going to do?” 

Hacksaw finished his writing. He closed the notepad and turned to face Mahala properly.

“You’ve lowered their guard enough that you are here with me. Let’s see if you can lower it some more.”