Isole had stabilized eleven students by the time the first attacker found her, working in the alcove off the main evacuation route where she'd dragged the worst of the injured, bone staff propped against the wall while her hands did the actual work.
A boy with a crushed collarbone. A girl who'd taken a stray strike to the ribs and couldn't breathe right. A younger student, maybe twelve, who'd simply fainted in the crush and needed nothing more than time and a steady hand to come back to himself. Isole moved between them with the same economy she brought to everything, gold light pooling soft and warm at her fingertips, closing what needed closing, easing what needed easing.
