The six gave their names. Injuries were worse than they first appeared but not catastrophic. The boy with the bleeding head had a shallow cut and dizziness. The girl with the arm injury had a deep slash across her forearm, bleeding enough that Mela frowned. Another had burned through too much Myst and looked unsteady on his feet. The rest were shaken, scraped, and tired.
When they returned to the main group, the numbers changed.
Seventeen became twenty-three.
That number carried weight. Chris felt it the moment the larger formation gathered beneath the trees. More students meant more noise, more difficulty, and more responsibility, but it also meant influence. Twenty-three second-years moving under his command before Veyrhold. Twenty-three who had seen him act, decide, and rescue others from a threat the guide had barely prepared them to face. The rescued students looked at him differently now. Respect, relief, dependence. Not all loyalty, not yet, but the beginning of it.
