“Head Healer said lateral ankle sprain, grade two,” Astrid says, with the sort of enunciation which says she’s parroting back words that don’t really mean anything to her, but it’s a passable impression of that American doctor in their group and his verdict on her injury.

While the other Riftwatcher melts away, she gratefully takes Lazar’s arm instead. He’s big. Sturdy. The type of solid where she doesn’t mind leaning more of her full weight on him, rather than the more polite hop-skip-limping she’d been doing with the other colleague.

“Apparently gonna be a few weeks, and— the fuck you looking at, mate,” and that’s directed to the mummy, in a huff.