"Why can't SCAR be patient? At least wait until the start of the damn tournament."
Zephyr muttered the words under his breath as he limped through the cracked corridor, each step jarring pain through his ribs. His destination— the school infirmary—or what was left of it. Blood soaked the right side of his uniform shirt, and though he'd managed to bind most of his wounds with torn fabric, the wooden shard still protruding from his chest remained untouched. He knew better than to remove it without medical support; the moment it came out, the wound would bleed freely—no, violently—and he had nothing on him to stop the inevitable flood.
The hall around him was barely recognizable. The usual polished stone walls were cracked, littered with debris and dust, the faint smell of antiseptic now replaced with burnt copper and something fouler—corruption. The once-sterile air had grown heavy with it.
SCAR.
