"Take him to the healers. Treat him, and all the severely wounded. Be quick about it," Richard commanded.
"At once, Sir Richard," the knight replied, lifting the battered boy and carrying him toward the makeshift tent.
Inside, knights trained in healing worked with mechanical precision. White light spread from their open palms, flowing into torn flesh and knitting it closed. It wasn't perfect, but it stopped the bleeding and made travel possible.
The knight approached a recently vacated cot and laid the boy down. The child clung reverently to the swaddle of rags.
"Sir Richard said to heal him," the knight told a healer.
"He's not that badly injured. He can manage without," the healer replied indifferently.
"It's an order from Sir Richard. You'd do well to follow it," the knight snapped.
"Why the special treatment, William? We barely have enough energy for the truly wounded," the healer grumbled, but placed a glowing palm over the boy anyway.
Light spread across the boy's body—but did nothing to him. Instead, it flowed into the bundle of rags he clutched.
The rags twitched. A high-pitched cry pierced the tent.
"There's a baby hidden in these rags," the healer murmured, eyes widening.
The knight tried to pry the bundle free, but the boy held on with surprising strength.
"Leave him," said a deep baritone voice from behind.
"Sir Richard!" Both the healer and the knight straightened, saluting.
"That kid's strong for his size," Richard observed, frowning.
"W-what do we do about the baby?" the healer asked hesitantly.
"Leave it. We're moving out. Pack up," Richard ordered, turning and exiting the tent.
---
Minutes later, the knights marched, encircling the survivors as they left the ruined village behind.
Their pace was slow. The knights reined in their horses to match the weary, limping steps of the refugees.
"At this pace, it'll take hours to reach Camp Zag," one knight muttered.
"Nothing we can do about it," came a woman's voice from behind.
"Ain't that right, Jasmine," William—the knight who'd carried the boy—said, trying for casual conversation.
Jasmine was tall and broad-shouldered, clad in dark, fitted armor. A longsword was strapped to her back; two pitch-black daggers hung at her waist.
"William. I didn't know you were part of this expedition," she replied coldly. "How… unfortunate."
William scowled atop his horse, his face tightening.
"Mind your mouth, wench, before I give you something to really scream about," he growled.
"Hah! You think I'm like those poor girls you bully in the brothels?" Jasmine shot back, voice sharp as a blade.
She met his eyes without blinking. Her light-amber gaze seemed to glow with challenge.
"Watch your tongue if you want to keep it," she added, lips curling into a predatory smile.
"Just you wait, Jasmine," William snarled, leaning forward. "Soon I'll have you under me, moaning like the bitch you are."
Tension rippled through the column as both knights reached for their weapons—William's massive blood-red axe glinting ominously.
"That's enough!" Richard's voice boomed like thunder, slicing through the mounting chaos.
"We're in hostile territory, and you two idiots are bickering like children. Clearly your training wasn't enough. From now on, you'll both be doing double what everyone else does. GOT IT?"
Their faces drained of color. Mouths opened and closed uselessly.
"GOT IT?" Richard barked again.
"Yes, Commander," they finally chorused, voices subdued.
The horses snorted and shifted nervously, hooves scraping at the ground.
"We're being hunted," William muttered grimly.
"No shit, genius," Jasmine replied, voice dripping with sarcasm.