Basil scrambled back to get out of the way of a nurse whose arms were overflowing with a mountain of sodden, crimson bandages. In his haste, his hip clipped the edge of a frame, and he stumbled, his weight falling directly onto the bandaged leg of a wounded man.
The soldier let out a moaned whimper.
"I'm sorry! By the Gods, I'm so sorry!" Basil stammered, his face burning. He stepped back again, only to land squarely on the foot of a passing medic. The man didn't even acknowledge the Prince's heir, probably he hadn't seen him; he simply shoved past with a grunt of annoyance, his mind occupied elsewhere.
Basil stood frozen in the narrow aisle, suddenly and painfully aware of the audience he had gathered. Men rose on their elbows, stretching their necks to get a glimpse of the spectacle. He could feel the weight of their stares, hard, judging, and weary. He felt like a stray dog that had wandered into a temple, clumsy and unwelcomed.
