The potion slid down his throat like smoke made of light and lodged in his lungs like a new rhythm. For an instant nothing happened except the taste of copper on his tongue and the small, awful memory of his fall. Then heat fanned through his spine; it felt like sun reaching a buried coals. The bandages at his sides hummed against his skin. Pins of sensation popped along his arms, small blooms like stings. He realized the pins were not pain but paths being cleared — blocked nodes opening like buds.
Vaidya watched his face closely. "Breathe slow," he murmured. "Draw in for the channel. Let it spread."
Solis followed as an obedient patient: in for four, hold for two, out for six. The breath became a metronome and something within him unlatched. He felt threads tuning; his chest filled with a pressure that was not burning but bright — like lighting a lamp in his sternum. Aura flickered at the edges, clearer than before, easier to channel. He could feel the reservoir below his ribs that Devon had pointed out to him days ago — not the brittle thing it had been, but a small cistern that could be opened and closed.
For a beat he felt whole. The world tightened to a fine, terrible focus. He could hear, absurdly, the birds in the near hedgerow and the distant clank of a smith's hammer in Mailie; he could sense, like a tide, the faint magnetic hum of the guarded gatewatch. Vaidya's presence was a steadying pulse at his side.
Then came a small retching cough; the potion worked its cost. Solis felt the aftershock crawl along the back of his skull, a nausea that was part hollow and part re-tuning. Vaidya clapped a hand on his shoulder.
"It will be a minute," Vaidya said, voice gentle. "Wait for it. Don't push. We will move when your legs don't twitch."
Solis breathed. The ache, the stolen months, the bitter taste of battle, rolled like winter for a moment. But a thread of determination lit the dark. He sat up on a low stone and flexed his fingers. The aura presence under his skin answered with a tiny note of brightening.
"What if it draws the dragon spirit sword's attention?" he asked, half-jesting, half-afraid.
"It might," Vaidya said honestly. "Power makes its own echoes. Keep the sword out of your mind unless you have to. Think of Ada's laugh instead. Think of small things. The potion helps you keep control when the sword calls, but it doesn't mute it."
Solis nodded and rose. The bandages pinched but his legs did not collapse. He felt steadier. It was not a miracle. There was a dull, simmering price waiting at the edges — a fatigue like winter after a day of sun — but the immediate need had been met.
They packed light: a spare shirt for Solis, a small whetstone, a water skin, a piece of cheese wrapped in waxcloth, Vaidya's maps folded small, a black hooded cloak that Tedric had once given Solis at training (for "bad weather, or worse"), and a thin rope. Vaidya slung the potion pack into his satchel and tucked in a small notebook with arrows and names. He wore a narrow blade at his side — more symbol than weapon — but he had a short, brass-hilt dagger he could use in a pinch.
"How do we go?" Solis asked quietly as they circled the town and kept to the hedgerows.
"Avoid the main road," Vaidya said. "We will take the old shepherd routes east. They are narrow and twisty and Kreg's people wouldn't think to look there; their patrols follow the main arteries. We'll cross the river at the old ford where the bridge collapsed years ago. There, the watchers are thin because the waters are dangerous. From there we head for the low ridge and then climb the first spurs toward Epac Town. It's three days on foot if nothing goes wrong. Two and a half if you move fast. Better aim for three days."
Solis swallowed a lump of combined fear and resolve. "And if we meet patrols?"
"Backtrack," Vaidya said, as if it were a simple lesson. "Hide. Don't fight unless we must. For now we are ghosts not warriors. If we must go loud, we go where we cannot be followed. Remember—" he paused and his eyes were suddenly very young and very brave, "—remember that you are not alone in this mess. We both are."
They moved before the sun stood clean and strong. Mailie breathed out a last sleeping sigh behind them and then, for the first time in months, Solis walked away from the infirmary with more than a ghost of purpose in his stride. The potion keyed his lungs; the air tasted sharper and his steps came more certain. Vaidya's maps were a small whisper of paper, turned in his hand like a promise.
They traced the rutted shepherd way, the grass prickling at their ankles, the hedgerows breathing with very small life. The town shrank behind them like a bruise fading in memory. Ahead were the ridge-lines and the mountain path and whatever waits in the world between a wounded boy and the city where the sword might be held.
Solis felt the potion alive inside him — a measured warmth, a clarity, and a tiny, dangerous hum. He felt closer to the world than he had the night he first drew the blade, and farther from peace than he had been in his dreams. But he was moving. That, for now, would have to be enough.