The medical wing of Reyas Academy operated at capacity that exceeded normal parameters. Elite healing specialists—hunters who'd dedicated their entire careers to regeneration magic and medical technique mastery—surrounded the isolation chamber where Riyan Descartes lay unconscious, his aged appearance creating cognitive dissonance against memories of the eighteen-year-old they'd treated for minor training injuries just weeks before.
He looked thirty-eight. Possibly forty. His face showed maturity lines that shouldn't exist on founding family heir who'd only recently completed his first semester. His hands were weathered, veins prominent beneath skin that had accumulated decades of exposure in twenty seconds of Blood Echo extraction. His hair showed substantial gray at temples and scattered through what had been uniformly dark locks.
