Disoriented from the fall, the only thing Lambert can hear right now is the pounding of blood in his own ears and Vesemir’s voice in his head.

Get up. It’s annoying, how effective that memory still is — so long ago he might as well have made it up for all he knows, or something that’s happened so many times they’ve started to run together — at making him bristle, ten years old and muscles still aching from holding a sword too heavy for him. You think monsters will wait for you while you catch your breath? You stop moving when you’re dead. Get up.

“I know how to do my job, old man,” he mutters into the concrete, hopefully obscured by the crackle of magic. “You trained me yourself.”

A twitch of his fingers brings the sword scraping across the roof towards him, but rather than using it as a weapon, he uses it to force himself up to a knee, panting as it makes his side light up with agony. He’s had worse, physically, but it’s the out of control magic in the air that’s so opposed to his own that’s making it feel particularly sickening. Blood’s running down freely from his temple and his side, but if anything’s damaged internally, it’s yet to be realized, and that’s all he can do for now.