A/N: Firstly, I would like to apologise for the super long wait :( School got majorly in the way (just started final year!) so I couldn't get the chapter written. Then came the beginning of the holidays. I wrote this chapter and tried to upload it the morning I left for Florida, but of course, my laptop decides to take a hissy fit. So sorry! But as they say, better late than never, right? :) Before we begin, some replies to reviews!:

Rilawa: I agree, it is more Harry Potter-ish, but hey, you never know, there could be such a thing in BMT world! Also, I was planning on not having Sonea pregnant, but there is still room for adaptations, so again, you never know! For now, let's ignore the revelation of Sonea's pregnancy in the book. Thanks for the review :)

Astrasia: Thankyou! I'm glad you think so!

Thankyou also to all those who have Favourited/Alerted and Reviewed. It means a lot to me :)

And so now, on with the story! I'm not as pleased with this chapter, but regardless, please do enjoy!

Chapter Three: Survivor

Dorrien heaved a sigh whilst standing in the middle of the remains of one of the noblest houses in the city. Its glass windows had fractured and shattered leaving shards strewn across the ruined lawn and out into the street. Dust hung heavy in the air, clogging the throats of those carefully moving around the debris in an attempt to find items that could be salvaged from underneath the tonnes of stone. Thankfully, there were no bodies to be found in this wreckage; the occupants had wisely evacuated the city when every other noble left. Many magicians were already leaning on still standing buildings for support in an attempt to refrain from being sick with all the images of the dead still fresh in their minds. Dorrien himself had seen enough broken limbed, gashed skin corpses to last two lifetimes.

They will not be pleased to come back to this, Dorrien thought with slight agitation. The Houses were unlikely to understand just how terrible the battle had been. They were expecting to return to their luxurious lifestyle and forget about the past few days. Dorrien snorted. No-one will ever forget the past few days.

One of the younger novices approached Dorrien slightly hunched from weariness carrying a small wooden box under his arm.

"My Lord, I think this is the last of what can be saved."

Dorrien nodded and turned to look at the meagre pile of items behind him. There were a couple of ornate-looking chairs that could have been part of dining room furniture – Dorrien could imagine a long room, with a long dining table and many velvety-backed chairs surrounding it. Portraits had also been stacked against what was left of the wall, the outermost showing an elderly man sitting in a high-backed armchair, a stern frown on his face and dressed in very traditional robes, hinting at his Head of House status. Dorrien felt a slight twinge of nervousness from looking at the portrait. It made him feel people were already angry at him, blaming him for failing to repair their house. He wasn't looking forward to the return of the citizens.

Dorrien turned around to the street. The magicians helping him had gathered again and were quietly speaking between themselves while they waited for Dorrien's signal to move on.

"Listen," Dorrien called out and silence fell. "The next building is in the Inner Circle on the Northside facing the Palace – a second property to one of the wealthiest houses. Please, as always, do all you can to salvage their possessions."

No one was fooled by his reminder, they all knew what he was thinking, and that they were thinking the same – they had no wish to deal with the evacuees when they returned, and especially had no wish to face their anger, or their wives' despair, at the revelation some of them had literally no home to return to. They were all hoping what they managed to save would be some sort of consolation.

The group of magicians all began to move towards the end of the street, and would eventually traverse another five streets before reaching the apothecary and the next destroyed house. Dorrien hung behind and made sure that the items they had found were safely stored on the wagon that would return them to the Guild where they would be dusted down, repaired, polished – whatever it took to return them to their former glory. He nodded once to the driver who tipped his cap in return, whipped the horses at the front of the wagon, and it trundled away in the opposite direction.

Dorrien began after the other magicians. They had moved out of sight, most likely already a few streets down from where Dorrien was. As he walked, he was unable to keep the day's earlier events slipping into the forefront of his mind. With each step, his features gradually changed into one of menace. Gritting his teeth he tried to stop the thoughts in his head, a grimace forming on his mouth. His breathing became laboured; in harshly through the nose and expelled in a hiss through his teeth. His nose twitched and screwed up, his eyes seemed to darken. By the end of the first street, Dorrien's hands were curled into fists and he was striding down the path.

How DARE he? He thought. That criminal! How can they just let him carry on! He has abused the trust of the Guild, the King. He has abused the trust of Sonea! He will not get away with this! I'll be damned if he does!

Again attempting to end his trail of thoughts before he lost control, Dorrien took notice of his surroundings. He was now just out of sight of the house he directed the other magicians towards. He forced himself to slow his footsteps before coming to a complete standstill outside an expensive restaurant, still out of view of the other magicians. Dorrien took a deep breath, the tangy odour of Bol originating from a suspicious alleyway obscuring his sense of smell. He cajoled his hands into loosening and licked his lips to stop himself gritting his teeth. His nose followed suit and uncreased itself. Finally, he felt calm enough to face the group, and took easy-paced steps around the corner and into plain sight.

As he neared the magicians, a rumble of tense conversation reached Dorrien's ears. Confusion settled on his face.

Surely there cannot be much left of the wreckage? I wonder what has got them so riled.

The novice from before spotted Dorrien and broke away from the group.

"My Lord, my Lord!" he exclaimed, drawing the attention of the other magicians.

"What is going on, Lukian?"

"My Lord, there is someone trapped under the rubble! He is alive, for now. We must hurry!"

Dorrien's eyes widened and he quickly turned to the others as his mind took in the information and geared itself to formulate a plan.

"Those physically strongest, please meet at the very front of the wreckage. Those weaker please wait behind that group, your help may still be needed! All Healers, gather near me – I may need extra help in tending to any injuries he may have. Move, now!"

'Yes, My Lord' echoed throughout the group and as one they all began to move into their positions. Dorrien himself was fairly strong, and a path opened in front of him through the bodies as he walked towards the front. He allowed two minutes for everyone to get into position. A burly magician directed him through the remainder of a doorway to the site of the casualty. A beam from the roof obscured half of the man's body, whereas parts of the ceiling and dust lay half-hazard over the rest of him. It was a miracle the man was breathing.

Dorrien directed the group of men – seven in total – to stand around the beam. He selected a couple more from the other magicians to also gather at the bottom end to provide more power in swivelling the beam off of the man.

"On the count of three, everyone lift and move the beam to my left." Dorrien indicated to the southern wall. "Those at the bottom focus on swivelling and stopping the beam from slipping along the floor. Is everyone ready?"

The men got into position and answered with 'yes'. Dorrien took up his place, ready to help push and then instantly tend to the man.

"Alright, on the count of three. ONE, TWO, THREE!"

Grunts resounded as the men all took on part of the weight of the beam. Their boots scuffed across the floor, kicking any debris out of the way. Ten seconds later and Dorrien was kneeling next to the man, checking his vital signs as the beam was let down with a boom. Dorrien sent a small burst of Healing energy to his vital organs, ensuring he was in working order. The man's breathing was in short gasps. Dorrien moved his hands to the man's face and head, magically sewing his head would together again.

"Sir, we're here." Dorrien said in a smooth voice, one that he used to calm panicked patients. "Sir, I am Dorrien, Healer in the Magician's Guild. Please listen. Try take a deep breath and slow your breathing for me."

The man seemed to be listening as he did exactly as Dorrien asked, although almost had a coughing fit due to the sheer amount of dust that covered him. Gently, Dorrien ran his hands over the man's body, checking for broken limbs. As he did so, some of the dust was swiped off, leaving peeks of a rich blue material showing through.

He must be a noble! Dorrien thought in surprise. No other could afford such exquisite robes. But I thought they had all left!

Dorrien resumed his inspection, this time allowing his senses to seek into the man's body for internal damage. Astoundingly, the man had no other injuries bar the excessive inhalation of dust and his wounded head.

Dorrien moved his attention back to his head and wiped away the dust from the man's mouth and nose to make it easier for him to breathe. The man licked his lips, denying them of moisture no longer. Dorrien continued wiping the dust from the man's face and robes. Once he had done all he can he looked at the man fully and felt himself freeze up.

No… no, it can't be.

But it was. The man slowly blinked open his eyes and they settled on Dorrien. He tried to talk but his throat was so dry it was impossible.

How can he be alive? He died! Dorrien's mind was swirling, making him dizzy. Akkarin said he died… No! He is a friend of Akkarin's! The realization made his blood run cold. This meant that no matter what opposition arose before Akkarin, he would still have a high-ranking ally to defend him. Defend him of all the crimes he had committed. A strong sense of unjust and anger flushed through Dorrien's veins. He forced himself out of his shock and masked his emotions before suspicions of his behaviour arose. Lowering himself closer to the man, Dorrien spoke the name of Akkarin's most loyal friend.

"Lorlen?"

A/N: Loved it? Loathed it? Liked it? Review it :)