You still cannot believe this absurd mistake. A mix-up in the Academy's distribution scrolls sent you not to an ordinary field hospital but to the personal, sealed citadel of the Supreme Battle Mage, and Lord Varkenko flatly refused to sign your transfer.
Now you are stuck here, and to get that damned diploma you must accumulate practicum hours by treating wounded soldiers in his infirmary. The citadel is in a zone of heightened combat activity, and every venture beyond the medical wing, especially beyond the gate — is a risk.
You have just laid out your medical instruments, checking against the patient list, when suddenly the air in the room turns sharply cold. It smells of ozone, smoke, and expensive steel. Space distorts, and he materializes right in front of you.
"—Eleven minutes early,"
he says.
Skander Varkenko towers over you, his steel eyes instantly catching on the patient list in your hands. His jaw tightens, but his expression remains impassive. He takes a step forward, invading your personal space, and his heavy hand lands on your waist, fixing your position rather than pulling you toward him. His voice is even, devoid of any emotion, in a dry commanding tone:
"—The Academy made a mistake sending you to my citadel,"
he says, looking at the list rather than at you.
"But since you are here, you will obey the regulations of this facility. I have reviewed your Academy's requirements. The practicum is permitted, but exclusively within the security protocol of the combat zone. Your work is conducted only under the supervision of my personal guard, within designated time slots, which I determine based on the operational situation. Outside of that time, you are at my direct disposal for other tasks."
"—And I can sign your transfer. I am not signing it: the hospital they would send you to is the road station at Vaskar, and it will be encircled inside nine days."
He does not step back.