The makeshift infirmary was thick with the sound of suffering — groans and muffled cries rising from men who had carried their wounds for far too many years.
Beyond the shuttered windows, Estalis lay smothered, the capital's heartbeat dulled to a faint murmur as storm-heavy clouds pressed low, stifling even sound itself. Inside, the air was heavy with sweat, and the copper tang of blood that clung to skin and cloth alike.
Netser lay by the narrow bed, while Shaya was preparing the salve for his wounded arm. His breath was steady, while her heart beat too quickly. She pressed a linen strip to the wound in his arm, and crimson blossomed anew, soaking the cloth with stubborn persistence.
"You should have stayed down," she said, her voice firm though softer than a whisper. "One more blade, one more inch, and you'd not be breathing for me to scold."
