Chapter Text
Information trickles slowly through his foggy senses as his consciousness becomes vaguely aware of waking up. Fabric sticking uncomfortably to his skin. The glow of the sun through his eyelids. He tries to swallow and drives himself into a painfully dry cough instead.
Cyno purses his cracked lips, unsurprised to find that the desert wind had done him no favors. The walls of his throat feel like sandpaper. His tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth. Dehydration, he knows all too well, is a killer in the desert, and as much as he would prefer to slip back into blissful unconsciousness, there was always the risk he would never wake up again.
Reluctantly, he cracks his eyes open, blinking hard against the blinding sun, and quickly catches sight of a glass of water on the bedside table. Despite his thirst, he makes sure to take controlled sips, properly wetting his mouth and lips.
The cool liquid feels heavenly against his parched throat, and soon, Cyno sets down an empty glass.
He feels much more alert now, senses sharpening as most of the grogginess falls away. He takes in his surroundings with narrowed eyes.
It seems like a standard desert house. Big enough for an extended family, with dusty carpets laid over stone-brick floors. The sunlight streams in through a window in the wall across from him, casting a square of light onto the patchwork sheets. The rest of the room is fairly empty, likely a guest-room-turned-makeshift-infirmary, based on the medical supplies he can see scattered about its bare drawers.
Nothing dangerous appears at first glance, but it is still an unfamiliar place with unknown occupants, and Cyno hasn’t survived this long by trusting so easily.
He moves to push himself upright, intending to inspect the room more closely, but his right arm quickly gives out with a sharp bolt of pain, drawing a startled hiss from between his teeth.
Ah, an infirmary, he registers belatedly. Of course, he was the patient.
Carefully, he levels his left arm under him instead, testing its strength before awkwardly pushing himself into a sitting position. His muscles seem reluctant to obey him, protesting with a dull ache whenever he tries to move.
Vertigo seizes him briefly as he sits up, and he shakes his head to clear it, frustrated with the fog in his head that refuses to dissipate. His body feels unusually heavy, taking far too much effort to operate. The effects of the paralysis still linger, much to his irritation.
He flexes his right arm carefully, where most of the damage would have been done. It’s noticeably weaker than his left, hardly responding to precise commands and spasming when he exerts any substantial force. He bites his lip and lets it fall back to his side.
How annoying. It would be more difficult to wield a spear with his non-dominant hand.
The wound on his palm, he notices, had also been bandaged. It throbs when he moves it, the bloodstained gauze pulled a little too tight, but the work is neat. Strangely enough, there is another bandage wrapped around his upper arm. He doesn’t remember receiving any injury to the shoulders, but the flare of pain that greets him when he presses down on the wound is very real. Perhaps the paralyzing agent had numbed him to it then. Or it occurred after he fell unconscious.
Cyno narrows his eyes, finally recalling his hazy memories of the battle.
Surely he should not have survived?
The poison was very potent, he knows, and he was shot with quite a heavy dose of it. That would require an equally heavy dose of antidote to be administered, as immediately as possible.
In the midst of the desert, rescue was a near-impossible hope. Very few ventured beyond the designated roads, even fewer survived, and almost no one could navigate the dunes with enough proficiency to find one person among the sand.
No one would have been looking for him, either. He hadn’t even shouted for help, much less done anything to maximize his chances of being located. And yet…without outside interference, he would most certainly be dead.
Someone, somehow, must have saved him, and as much as he is grateful, Cyno doesn’t particularly like the idea of being indebted to people.
The click of the doorknob draws him out of his thoughts, and he looks up as the door swings open to reveal his supposed savior.
“Oh, good. You’re finally awake.”
Cyno likes the idea of being indebted to this person even less.
“Al-Haitham,” he greets neutrally.
Al-Haitham calls something briefly over his shoulder before closing the door behind him. He makes his way to the table and takes a seat, pulling a small jar out of a drawer. “You’ve caused quite a commotion, General.”
Cyno opts not to respond, wondering what exactly that means in reference to an event that occurred miles away from any human life.
A thread of anxiety knots itself under his ribs anyway. If he had somehow jeopardized their position against the Akademiya, then he would not even attempt to defend his carelessness. Whatever words Al-Haitham had for him then would be completely justified.
“...Where are we?” Cyno asks instead.
Al-Haitham shakes the jar’s contents into his hand. A few dried herbs of some kind. “A hunter’s house in Caravan Ribet. I believe you’re familiar with them. It’s perfectly safe.
“You seem strangely confident in this stranger’s loyalty.”
Al-Haitham shrugs, counting out a few leaves and setting them on the lid of the jar. “You can take my word for it, or find out for yourself.” He sets the jar aside and pulls a roll of gauze out of the drawer instead. He holds out an expectant hand. “Give me your arm.”
Cyno raises an eyebrow. “I didn’t know you were proficient in medicine.”
“I’ve studied it in passing. You have Candace to thank for the rest.”
Having no real reason to refuse, Cyno holds out his right arm.
Al-Haitham unwraps the soiled bandages from around his hand and drops them in a basket below the table. He clicks his tongue in dissatisfaction.
Cyno’s nose wrinkles at the sight. He didn’t particularly care for the pain, the wound itself was simply unpleasant. The clean cut had been split open by the researcher’s heel, the edges of the flesh torn from the harsh treatment. A deep bruise covers the wound with mottled purple-blues, spanning the entire center of his palm.
The worst of it is that Cyno recognizes signs of infection starting to make themselves known. Slight swelling surrounds the jagged edges of the wound, and the exposed flesh is a raw, angry red. Al-Haitham prods it carefully, eliciting a sharp inhale from Cyno as the bolt of pain takes him by surprise.
“There’s some discharge too,” Al-Haitham notes grimly, “I suppose it was to be expected, from the sand and the…whatever else they did.”
Cyno makes a vague noise of agreement, tensing to suppress a flinch as Al-Haitham re-cleans the wound and begins to bandage it again. “This’ll have to hold for now, until we can call Tighnari back for antibiotics.”
“Tighnari…” Cyno frowns, “why is he involved?”
“I said you caused a commotion. Plenty of people have gotten involved.” He cuts the gauze and reaches forward to unwrap the other bandage.
Dread trickles into the pit of his stomach. If even Tighnari had to step in…had there been true repercussions to his actions? Surely the Akademiya would not move against him when they still thought he was under their thumb.
He cuts himself off with a low hiss of pain as Al-Haitham bumps against the newly exposed wound. To his surprise, Al-Haitham slows at the sound, unwrapping the rest of the bandages more cautiously.
Cyno inspects his injured arm. Angry red lines starburst out from a circular puncture wound just below his shoulder, snaking across the length of his upper arm like vines. It feels remarkably like a burn, but unlike any injury he’s ever seen or had before.
“What is this from?” He asks Al-Haitham, “I don’t remember.”
“As expected. It was inflicted after you passed out” Cyno tenses as his shoulder flares painfully at contact with the saline wipe. He waits for Al-Haitham to continue, but he seems to be finished.
He hadn’t thought too much of the circumstances of his rescue after waking up. It had been more important to him that the criminal was dealt with and he lived to fight another day, but…Al-Haitham’s reluctance to discuss it was only piquing his interest.
“I presume it was you that saved me then,” Cyno starts slowly, “and given the circumstances, I don’t think my curiosity is uncalled for.”
Al-Haitham huffs, tying off the bandage and releasing his arm. “Fine. What do you want to know?”
“Everything. What became of the target, how you cleared the poison, why you were there.” Cyno frowns. “Where we are,” he repeats as an afterthought.
Al-Haitham leans back in his chair, shifting his weight. He is silent for a long moment. “This is a family house in Caravan Riven, like I mentioned,” he says at last. “The man told me they’re a small hunting group that lives here on the border between the forest and desert, making a living by selling food to travelers and eremites.” His voice is perfectly matter-of-fact, as though reporting information Cyno should already have guessed.
“I happened to encounter them in Caravan Riven on my own business, and they mentioned a perplexing issue they’ve run into recently, that forest animals kept turning up dead by a strange poison, always accompanied by signs of human activity.” Alhaitham shrugs. “I’m sure you know that, though.”
He does, Cyno realizes slowly. He had run into the very same hunters a few days ago.
They were kind enough to grant him shelter and told him of their troubles. Their hopes were that the troublemaker would just eventually move far enough away from their hunting grounds to avoid affecting their business, but he hadn’t been particularly busy at that moment, and he figured their kindness deserved to be repaid with justice.
He had been able to track the rogue researcher into the desert, but he carelessly misjudged the scholar’s audacity and the nature of the poison.
Al-Haitham must see the confirmation on his face. He shakes his head. “You know what they also told me? That a strange young man with red eyes and an intimidating air had taken up residence with them for one night and then disappeared before the next morning. They sent me after you with this.” Al-Haitham holds up a small, empty syringe, hairline fractures decorating one side of the smooth glass.
“That’s…”
Al-Haitham pockets it carefully. “An antidote. They must have been worried you’d do something reckless. Long story short, you’re lucky I made it in time.”
Cyno frowns.
On the surface, Al-Haitham’s story made sense…but some things about it still rubbed him the wrong way. He had a feeling there were still details being withheld.
“I didn’t know they already had an antidote,” he says slowly.
“You left too quickly. They were going to give it to you in the morning.” Al-Haitham huffs. “You would do well to gather more information before undertaking a mission on your lonesome.”
“I was careful not to overstay my welcome,” Cyno retorts, “Courtesy brought by intimidation is not a dismissal of fear.”
“And you presume to know their feelings so easily?”
“It is not a presumption, it is a caution taken for the sake of their comfort.”
“So you say,” Al-Haitham replies with an edge of sarcasm. Cyno’s hackles rise at that, prepared to challenge his confidence in how his own job should be done.
“Wait,” he frowns, something suddenly occurring to him. “You said they sent you after me?”
“That’s right.”
“...Why would they do that?” Cyno asks, “they don’t know me. They don’t know you. It would be ridiculous of them to request something so dangerous of a random customer.”
Al-Haitham pauses. “Who knows?” he says curtly, “some people are just kind to the point of ridicule.”
Electricity sparks faintly between Cyno’s fingers. “I don’t like being lied to, Al-Haitham.”
Al-Haitham crosses his arms almost defensively. “You are so adamant about denying the possibility of a concerned stranger,” he mutters. Cyno opens his mouth to point out that what he was suggesting went far beyond plausible kindness, but Al-Haitham cuts him off. “Very well,” he says, louder, “I will be honest, then.”
“In the interest of not,” he begins, “prematurely losing an ally, I decided to take the matter into my own hands. It would have dealt quite a hard blow to our operation if we lost one of our key members to a reckless side quest. However,” he adds pointedly, “they did mention their intention to give you the antidote in the morning. That is the only reason I was able to acquire it. That was the truth.”
Cyno takes a few seconds to digest this.
He will admit Al-Haitham’s reasoning is sound, at least from an outsider’s point of view. He couldn’t know how thoroughly absurd it would have seemed to him that an ordinary mission would be dangerous. Monotony was a strong sedative. Especially when matters like these hardly ever posed a threat worth his adrenaline.
“...I see,” Cyno replies at last. “I suppose I owe you, then, for your time and consideration.”
“Don’t bother,” Al-Haitham sighs. He unfolds his arms, shoulders lowering. “It has nothing to do with you. I simply refuse to tolerate any more risk to our operation than necessary.”
“Mm.” Cyno picks absently at the bandages on his palm, earning him a sharp look. He folds his hands. “And the wound on my shoulder?”
Al-Haitham blinks, caught off guard. “What?”
“You never answered my original question,” Cyno says, narrowing his eyes. “It was a good diversion, but I’m not so easily misled. Why are you so insistent on avoiding this topic?”
Al-Haitham mutters something under his breath. Louder, he says, “There was simply no reason to bring it up.”
“I asked,” Cyno deadpans.
“It must have slipped my mind.”
“Stop it,” Cyno scowls. “The harder you try, the more suspicious you appear. Talk. I’ll judge your actions for myself.”
Al-Haitham’s lips tighten. “Honestly, you speak as though I committed some sort of crime.”
Cyno opens his mouth, tempted to jab back with something unpleasant, but then closes it again, refusing to rise to the bait. “The syringe you showed me,” he says instead. “Is far too small an amount of antidote to neutralize the amount of poison I was shot with.”
Al-Haitham lets out a short laugh, “and I suppose you’re an expert in toxicology?”
“One side of it was cracked.” Cyno ignores him. “Glass equipment is valuable in the desert. Our people know better than to treat it so carelessly, which means it must have been your doing.”
Al-Haitham lifts a hand to rub his temple, seeming to realize this wasn’t a battle he would win. “Fine, I understand,” he sighs, raising his hands in defeat. Cyno sits back, taking some satisfaction in his victory.
Al-Haitham folds his arms again, discomfort apparent in the curve of his shoulders, even as his words are flippant. “Don’t complain to me when it’s just as underwhelming as I told you it would be.”
His feet hit the ground in a spray of sand. The eremite splutters, raising their arm instinctively to shield their eyes. Al-Haitham grabs it and yanks them forward, off balance. The dart gun falls into the sand.
“What the f- '' The eremite cuts off in a strangled gasp as Al-Haitham kicks them hard in the gut, stumbling back. Al-Haitham’s next blow meets the flat of a metal blade, and the eremite’s furious eyes meet his own.
“Who the hell are you?” they growl, “this ain’t none of your business to go barging into.”
Al-Haitham’s throat burns with barely contained fury, itching to flay the eremite alive with his tongue if not his fists.
Then his gaze is drawn back to Cyno’s body, motionless in the bloodstained sand, and he swallows hard, feeling like hot coals were slipping down his throat. Every second he wasted on this scum could be Cyno’s last, Al-Haitham reminds himself firmly. No amount of righteous fury would fix that .
“You don’t need to know.” He spits the words like venom. “And this is just as much my business as it is yours.” In a blinding flash of dendro, he whips his swords from the air, bringing them down towards the eremite’s neck in one smooth, vicious movement.
They bite into nothing. Al-Haitham reacts quickly, twisting on his heel and narrowly avoiding a swipe of steel. He drops smoothly below the next strike and sweeps one foot out towards the eremite’s ankles. They jump back to avoid him, and Al-Haitham makes his move.
Slamming one hand to the ground, he urges his vision to life. Dendro erupts at the Eremite’s back, vines wrapping around their limbs before their feet can touch the ground. They spit out a curse, struggling desperately as the ivy twists the sword out of their hands, letting it fall with a soft thmp to the sand.
Al-Haitham knocks them out with a crack , the hilt of his sword connecting with his temple. He feels a sick kind of satisfaction from the way his body crumples to the ground, letting the dendro constructs wither away in the sweltering desert heat.
Unwilling to waste even another second, he doesn’t bother to restrain him. Al-Haitham leaves the man in the sand and runs, swords vanishing from his grasp as he drops to his knees before Cyno’s body, seizing him by the shoulders.
His chest is barely rising with each labored breath, eyelids fluttering weakly, leaving only a slit of red iris visible through his lashes.
“Hey! Don’t you dare-” His voice breaks on the panic rising in his throat. He swallows hard. Get a hold of yourself. “Cyno! Do not pass out on me! I can’t believe-”
Cyno’s eyes slip shut, and his chest falls still. Al-Haitham’s next words wither on his tongue, blood turning to ice in his veins, freezing him in time for a long, long second.
His heart drops to his stomach. “...Fuck,” Al-Haitham breathes.
Frantically, he fumbles for the antidote at his belt. His fingers slip on the smooth glass as his mind races to recall the proper medical procedures for injection- and then promptly discards each one for taking too much time.
Trying to steady his hands, Al-Haitham sweeps the sand off Cyno’s upper arm. A million warning bells sound in his head, screaming infection risk and sanitization hazards and amputation percentages and blood poisoning and-
And that there’s just too much poison.
He drives the needle down, pressing the plunger as steadily as he can.
Al-Haitham is a scholar, yes. He knows all of this down to the citations. The numbers don’t work, no matter how many times he runs them. Even to the very edges of the margin of error, there is no possible way such a small dose of antidote can neutralize so many grams of poison. There is no possible way to save him.
But…that is what people always think about the impossible, and scholars are, above all else, notorious for their stubbornness.
Al-Haitham’s vision glows.
Vibrant green energy surges through his fingertips, infusing the antidote with new vitality. He can feel it swell in Cyno’s bloodstream, rushing through his body in waves. The veins around the entry wound pulse in soft green light. Al-Haitham desperately hopes that’s a good sign.
Vision use in medicine produces volatile results. The sweetest hydro can suffocate its patient. The wildest pyro can burn away deadly illnesses. Miracles and catastrophes occur intermittently. The blind can see. The healthy drop dead. There is so, so little information on the reactions of elemental energy within the human body, and study after study has been dropped on account of it being impossible, that the visions simply do not produce consistent results, as though they threw all the statistics into a jar and shook them up. It’s a scientist’s worst nightmare- something that relies only on emotion. Something that defies all reason.
That is exactly why it’s Al-Haitham’s last hope.
Dendro is the energy of life, isn't it? It energizes. It revitalizes. In theory, then, it can amplify the effects of the antidote a hundred times over, if it was powerful enough. It can fuse with the bloodstream and revive the heart from the inside out. It can produce any number of wild effects, of which perhaps one, just one, can somehow, miraculously, be life-saving. He can only pray.
Then, something crackles.
Al-Haitham recoils from a violent burst of energy, coughing as the sand clears from the air. Dread pools in his stomach as he hastily waves the dust away, expecting to see the worst possible outcome.
Cyno’s body convulses, lightning dancing across his skin, sending green and purple sparks flying. The veins around his injection site become electrified, pulsing a brilliant fluorescent yellow. His circulatory system seems to light up under his skin, energy washing over it in rapid, pulsing waves. He can see his heart rate accelerating, the blood flow quickening, dendro colliding with electro in a great elemental reaction.
For a split second, Al-Haitham thinks he sees the image of a jackal appear above him, electricity weaving through its fur. Its blood-red eyes flash once. Then it vanishes.
Cyno inhales with a gasp.
His chest heaves. Once. Twice. The lightning dies, leaving angry red marks spiraling out from the injection site, tracing burst and strained veins. Cyno keeps breathing, steady and shallow. Al-Haitham barely dares to believe it.
He feels almost lightheaded, sucking in a shaky inhale of his own. He runs a hand through his hair, slicking it back with sweat, relief crashing over him like a tsunami. It worked. It really truly worked.
He sits back in the sand and allows himself three seconds to gather his composure, calm his racing heart.
He got lucky, but they weren’t out of the woods just yet.
As an afterthought, he snaps his fingers and two vines wrap around the dart gun lying in the sand, crushing it with much more force than necessary. A second cluster springs from the ground to bind the scholar’s arms and legs, who yelps as he falls face-first into the sand, tumbling down the sand dune where he had tried to flee. He flails helplessly at its base, much like a fish out of water.
Al-Haitham glares daggers at him from the corner of his eye. These were the worst kinds of scholars, cowards high on delusions of grandeur. He would love to teach him a lesson, but…
He looks up, raising a hand to shield his eyes from the sun. It was almost afternoon now, when the desert would be getting the hottest. He can already feel the exhaustion setting in, and he isn’t particularly interested in dying from dehydration after the ordeal he just went through.
A little shakily, he heaves himself up from the sand, shaking his legs out to get the blood flowing again.
He had a long trek ahead of him, after all.
“I infused the antidote with dendro energy in the hopes that it would amplify its effects. When it made contact with the…spirit inside you, the electro must have triggered a Quicken reaction, which sped up the efficiency of the antidote to a degree that I can’t identify.” Al-Haitham speaks tersely. “The strain of hosting that reaction is what left that mark on your arm. Satisfied?”
“Mm.” Cyno tilts his head, considering his guarded tone and deciding not to push. He did get what he asked for. “I see…thank you for your quick thinking.”
Al-Haitham averts his eyes. “I had little choice.”
“Well,” Cyno offers, “you could have left me to my own devices.”
“And risk the fate of our entire operation? I think not.”
He shrugs. “Whatever the case…I am indebted to you,” he admits reluctantly, “if not for your concern, I would be in a much worse position.”
“Save your breath,” Al-Haitham says stiffly, “I simply don’t have any interest in sacrificing my own plans for your stupidity.”
Suddenly, a new voice chimes in. “You keep repeating yourself, Mister Scribe,”
They both look up to meet Candace’s amused gaze.
She stands in the doorway with a water jug under one arm, steam rising slowly from its mouth. “You were the one to suggest we contact Tighnari.” She remarks, striding into the room and setting the jug down on the table. “A very nice friend you have there, by the way,” she adds, turning to Cyno, “he was very kind and helpful. Tell him he can always come to me if he needs anything from the desert.”
“....I will,” Cyno agrees, a little confusedly.
Candace smiles, patting the side of the jug and turning to address Al-Haitham. “Here’s the hot water you ordered. And…” She pulls something out of her inventory. “A mug.”
Oh, Cyno realizes, that must be what the leaves were for. He wonders if that was also Tighnari’s doing.
Al-Haitham stands up abruptly, stretching his arms above his head and turning on his heel. “Well, I’ll leave that to you then, Candace.” He takes a step towards the door, only to be stopped by a firm hand on his shoulder.
“Oh no you don’t,” Candace says warningly, “I have to return to Aaru village. This is your charge, so don’t think I’m going to let you walk out on him.”
Al-Haitham eyes her hand in displeasure but seems to know better than to shake it off. “I don’t think,” he says slowly, “I’m going to be of any help. Really.”
Candace ignores him, much to Cyno’s amusement, and yanks him back down into the chair in one swift movement. Al-Haitham crosses his arms in annoyance, but he doesn’t move.
“I’m glad you’re okay, Cyno,” Candace says with a smile, setting the mug on the table. “It's been a hectic few days.”
Ah. That sounded familiar. “...Al-Haitham told me there was a commotion,” Cyno says, some of his apprehension bleeding into his voice, “did anything happen?”
Candace regards him with a blank look. “Um? You turned up in Caravan Riben, half dead…?”
“No, I mean with…” he hesitates, trying to decide what was safe to say. “...with the Lesser Lord. Or the Akademiya.”
For a few moments, Candace just stares at him in confusion. He’s just starting to wonder if he said something wrong when she turns around to face Al-Haitham. “What exactly did you tell him?” She asks incredulously.
Al-Haitham puts his hands up, exasperated. “Nothing that wasn’t true. Any conclusions he jumped to were purely his own.”
“You could stand to start saying what you mean, you know,” Candace scolds him, shaking her head. “People are going to think you don’t care.”
“That is none of my concern.”
“So you say.” Candace hefts the water jug under one arm, supporting it with her other. Steam wafts faintly from its lip as she pours hot water into the mug. She sets the jug back down with a thunk .
“Cyno,” she says gently, “he meant that your condition caused quite a panic among our friends. Al-Haitham’s quick thinking saved your life, but you weren’t quite stable. We scrambled for a while to find someone who could treat you properly.”
She holds a hand out behind her. “The tea leaves, please.” Al-Haitham puts them in her palm, and she drops them into the mug. “Our position hasn’t changed at all,” she continues, “the Akademiya has been silent. There is no need to worry.”
“Yet,” Al-Haitham adds. Candace shushes him.
Cyno tilts his head, slowly reevaluating the situation. “...So you were worried.”
“Yes.” Al-Haitham says curtly, “you’re a key member in our resistance effort. We can’t afford to lose your capabilities.”
“And what you referred to as a commotion was…” Cyno taps a finger against his knee. “Contacting Tighnari. Contacting Candace. Struggling to produce the optimal treatment.”
Candace nods, producing a thin wooden stick from her inventory and starting to stir the tea. “We owe the family that owns this house a large debt as well, for lending a room to so many panicked strangers. It must have been very chaotic for them.”
“I see.” Cyno exhales slowly, letting the tension drain out of his body. As unlikely as it surely was in the first place, it is a relief to hear that their operation was not jeopardized. He would have never forgiven himself for that. “Sorry for all the trouble, then.”
Candace waves him off. “Don’t even think about it. We’re all just glad you’re okay.” She offers him the mug. “Make sure you rest up. We’ll need you at your best for the moment of truth.”
He takes it carefully, wary of the tremors in his right hand. The tea smells vaguely of lotus. Definitely Tighnari’s. “Thank you, Candace.”
He tilts his head, remembering suddenly that no one had told Al-Haitham to go after him. How peculiar, then, for him to move so hastily. “and you, Al-Haitham.”
Al-Haitham crosses his arms, averting his eyes to stare intently at the window. “Again, it was a matter of logistics. However…” His fingers tighten almost imperceptibly. “...Don’t be so reckless in the future,” he says at last, “at the very least…let one of us know, so we accompany you, or plan accordingly.”
Cyno blinks slowly, the suddenly solemn tone taking him by surprise. “I…will. You have my word.”
Al-Haitham relaxes, eyes falling closed for a brief moment. “Good,” he breathes, “you better keep it.”
Candace huffs. “An improvement. You can do even better though.”
“What-” Al-Haitham starts as Candace slips a hand into his coat pocket, ignoring him and pulling out the syringe in one smooth movement.
She holds it up to the light, inspecting the cracks. Al-Haitham opens his mouth, presumably to explain himself, but he doesn’t get the chance. “Mmm the damage isn’t too bad. I’ll have someone bring it into the city for repairs.” Candace smiles slightly, sending Al-Haitham a strange look. “You got lucky, Akademiya boy.”
Cyno takes a sip of his tea, feeling vaguely as though she was talking about more than just the cracks in the glass.
Al-Haitham narrows his eyes, looking as close to uncomfortable as Cyno would ever call it. “Whatever you say, I would do it again.”
Candace hums, pocketing the syringe herself. “And let’s hope you won't ever have to. Hm?”
“...No,” Al-Haitham agrees, touching his vision absentmindedly, “let’s hope not.”