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Someone peels his eyelid open and shines a speck of light into it. Geralt flinches a little, too exhausted to do much else about it even though it stings. “Tapetum lucidum is already fully formed,” says a voice he recognizes as Reidrich. “Color’s good. He’ll make it.”
Geralt swallows an awful noise that sits on his tongue. His dry throat clicks.
“Put money on it, then. I’ve got thirty on the Kaedweni one at the end of the row.”
“More the fool you,” says Reidrich, and he releases Geralt’s eyelid. He blinks in a haze. The ceiling above whirls and doubles. The shadows in the room seem sharp enough to cut himself on. “He’s going to rupture something, his blood pressure’s too high.”
A mumbled curse. “Brats let me down every season. I haven’t bet on a survivor in half a decade.”
To Geralt’s left, someone’s heaving gasps turn into a wet gurgle of an airway filling with blood. Mikel, he thinks.
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