Augustine's expression sobered at the sight of the wound, and he brushed a hand across the injury to be sure of its scope and shape. "What bit you?" he asked, already retrieving a vial from his coat. He'd been on watch, thankfully, and he knew better than to venture anywhere unprepared. He tipped a handful of drops of the golden contents onto Frey's stomach, and with minor smoking, the skin closed and all that remained was the smear of fresh blood.

Asbel, still tucked into Cassius's arms, tensed at the sight of the injury. When had the prince been bitten? In the tent? By what? There was nothing there that would have harmed the young man. Unless he'd been bitten in the stream after he fell in, there had really been no chance for Frey to be hurt.

Though the cause escaped him, the healing process did not: the phoenix could not mistake the work of his own feathers. How odd -- to see some part of his body do such good so quickly. No wonder the alchemists were always ravenous for more of his feathers. He squirmed in Cassius's arms, eager to be set down so he could walk of his own power (he would [i]not[/i] be a burden or a tool still), but the dragon's grasp only tightened around him.

"There was nothing in our tent," he supplied then, in case Augustine thought anything sneaking into camp was his fault. "I was awake, too, and there was nothing in the tent with us."

Augustine nodded, though his eyes did not leave his brother. "We can sort this out when we're back at camp." He half-rose, arms extended to help his younger brother up as well. "Can you stand? Can you walk?"