Tala stood by the patient’s bedside, gaze clinical, detached, and not without a generous helping of disdain. Divination. The tattoos all but screamed it. Despite her general contempt for that particular branch of magic, her grandfather’s relentless drilling of Nordic runes in her childhood had ensured she could identify such markings with ease. Useful now, certainly, but still an irritation.
She glanced at the man’s followers—an unruly gaggle of panic-stricken zealots who seemed convinced they were witnessing the demise of their spiritual leader.
Rolling her eyes, Tala turned back to the floating chart in front of her. The man had clearly ingested some questionable concoction in the name of communing with the spirit plane. She would never understand the appeal. Poison yourself into oblivion and call it enlightenment.
Her patience wore thinner with every passing second as a junior healer—one greener than she cared to tolerate—struggled to corral the gaggle of zealots out of the room. One straggler lingered, dithering near the exit, and Tala’s wand flicked with the kind of precision that made amber eyes gleam with mild satisfaction. The zealot froze mid-step, teetering near the doorway.
“Daleford,” Tala snapped, gaze pinning the frazzled junior healer. “Take that one. Scan him thoroughly. I want a complete list of ingredients from whatever questionable sludge they’ve all been guzzling. Now.”
Poor startled Daleford scrambled to obey, and as the last of the devotees were herded out, Tala let out an exasperated sigh. She turned back to the patient, her eyes narrowing. She didn’t care if the man was a spiritual guru, the second coming of Merlin, or a deranged lunatic who thought he was both. If he died on her watch, the paperwork would be intolerable.
With another flick of her wand, the shimmering diagnostic charm enveloped the patient. “Damnum Invenio,” she murmured, watching as the spell began to outline his vital signs.
“Should I fetch an oxygen tank as with his breathing rate that low he might not be getting enough which can impact the mind.”
Tala’s lips twitched faintly, the closest she’d come to a smile.
“Clever thinking, Mr. Razi, but you’re at St. Mungo’s.” Tala informed, “Where, you’ll be relieved to know, we have far more civilized methods for dealing with wizards foolish enough to marinate themselves in experimental potions.”
Her tone remained dry, though she offered a brief, approving nod at his initiative. Turning her attention back to the diagnostic spell, her eyes skimmed the flickering details, and her lips pressed into a thin line.
“Metabolic suppression,” she confirmed, voice sharpening with disapproval. “The potion’s affecting both his respiratory and circulatory systems. His pulse is nearly stagnant." Tala shot the man a look of exasperated scorn. "Not only is he stranded in the so-called spirit plane, but his body’s trying to follow him there.”
She couldn’t stop the faint twitch of annoyance that crossed her face at the words spirit plane. Theatrics. She could already hear the zealots spinning this into some grand tale of martyrdom.
Tala’s eyes snapped to the intern, her tone brisk. “Respirare Oxygeni—do you know it? Perform it if you do. If not, speak now.” She didn’t linger for an answer, already turning on her heel and striding toward her workbench. “I’ll handle a warming charm and a stimulant draught,” she called over her shoulder, her voice clipped. “Let’s hope our friend here doesn’t decide to make his little jaunt to the spirit plane a permanent holiday.”
