Elisa moved through the camp with the steadiness of a patrolwoman, though her gaze lingered less on the wounded than on the medics bustling around them. Armin, half unconscious, had clean bandages applied. Inès, her skin mottled with purple bruises, sipped at a bitter-smelling decoction. The healers, disciplined, had divided the work among themselves, each focused on a specific task. It was a grim but necessary dance: repair what could be repaired, keep standing the bodies that still had use.
Yet Elisa did not linger. Her eyes paused, then her steps remained brisk. This was not her role. Not tonight. Not now.
