Sous sat rigid on the edge of the narrow infirmary cot, one palm clamped hard against the jagged slash that carved along her left flank. Blood had crusted beneath her fingernails, but the wound still wept in slow, defiant pulses.
She would not lie down, not here. Not while her centaurs lay broken around her, some unconscious, some whimpering through cracked lips. Weakness was a luxury she had forfeited the day she took command.
She waited for the witch, one Tany suggested. It was the first witch Sous knew of besides Kara and Tany who were joining their cause. That witch could even just be Fednora but Sous and Tany had both told their daughter they wanted her to stay safe in Nadia.
Still, a second witch, stepping out of the shadows to stand openly against Apex. Sous needed to see it with her own eyes.
The tent stank of iron, sweat, and crushed herbs. Centaurs shifted restlessly on their pallets; hooves scraped canvas, tails lashed in pain. Healers moved between them like ghosts: quiet, efficient, hardened by too many nights exactly like this one.
A centaur mare with blood-spattered arms tried to coax Sous onto her back. "Commander, please. Let me at least clean it."
"I'll wait," Sous said, voice flat, final. The healer dipped her head in reluctant respect and moved on.
Minutes bled into an hour. Each time the tent flap ripped open, cool night air swept in with another wounded warrior: carried, dragged, or limping. Sous tracked every arrival without seeming to watch. Discipline, even here, was a weapon.
Finally, a young runner skidded to a halt before her, ears flicking nervously. "The witch comes, Commander. She was… delayed. More of ours were found alive farther down the ridge. She refused to leave them."
Sous gave a short nod. "Good. Tell her I'm still breathing," the Alpha said sarcastically. The colt bolted away, relieved.
She allowed herself one slow exhale, leaning forward just enough that the wound screamed in protest. Fire licked up her ribs. She welcomed it, pain kept the mind sharp.
Then the tent flap opened again and the air itself seemed to still.
She was tall, even for a witch. Robes the color of storm clouds, edged in silver runes that caught the lantern light and threw it back colder. The markings on her throat and wrists shimmered faintly, alive. Every healer in the tent straightened as if pulled by invisible strings. Conversations died mid-word.
The witch walked the aisle between the cots with the unhurried grace of someone who had never needed to prove anything to anyone. Wounded centaurs tried to salute; she acknowledged each with a touch or a murmured word, never breaking stride.
When she stopped in front of Sous, the silence was absolute.
They measured each other.
Sous did not stand, could not, not without swaying, but she lifted her chin and met the witch's gaze without flinching. Grey eyes, sharp as winter steel.
"You're late," Sous said.
"I was saving the ones who wouldn't have lasted until dawn," the witch replied, voice low, amused. "You, Commander, are stubborn enough to wait."
A faint smile ghosted across the witch's mouth as she set her satchel down. "Move your hand."
Sous obeyed. The tunic was peeled back with clinical efficiency. The witch's brows lifted fractionally at the depth of the gash. claw marks, deep, angry, already festering at the edges.
"Dragonkin?"
"Wyrm骑兵," Sous corrected. "Close enough."
The witch hummed, already laying out vials and a small silver bowl. "This will hurt before it helps. Breathe through your nose."
Sous braced herself.
Warmth bloomed above the wound, no touch, just radiant heat that sank through skin and muscle like sunlight through deep water.
Then the pressure came, bone-deep, grinding. Sous's vision flickered white at the edges. She locked her jaw so hard she tasted blood.
"Breathe," the witch reminded calmly.
Sous forced air in, out. In. Out.
Minutes stretched while the pain crested, broke, receded like a tide. Torn flesh knitted beneath unseen threads of power. When the witch finally lifted her hands, only a thin pink line remained where the laceration had been.
"You'll be stiff for a day," the witch said, wiping her palms on a cloth. "Then you'll be whole."
"Wow," Sous started. The spell was advanced, more than aqua senere.
Sous tested it: flexed, rolled her shoulder. The ache was dull now, manageable. She met the witch's eyes again. "Your name."
"You may call me Kael." A pause. "And yes, before you ask, this was the announcement. Healing you in front of your entire army. Let Apex chew on that."
Sous let out a short, surprised breath that might have been a laugh. "You could have sent a letter."
"Letters can be burned. This" Kael gestured to the watching centaurs, wide-eyed and whispering, "This they will carry in their hearts until the last star falls."
Sous studied her for a long moment. "Ypu talk weird."
A groan from two cots over, shallow, wet breathing. Sous tilted her head toward it. "Him next. He's drowning in his own blood."
Kael moved without hesitation, already murmuring diagnostic spells.
Sous watched her work. The tent no longer felt like a place of defeat; it felt like the first page of a new chapter.
When Kael returned, wiping crimson from her fingers, Sous spoke quietly. "Stay the night. They need you. I… would have you where I can see you."
Kael's smile was small, knowing. "I wasn't planning to leave, Commander."
Sous finally let herself sink back against the cot. The canvas was coarse against her shoulders, but the pain had ebbed enough that the world no longer narrowed to a single bright point of hurt.
Around her, the infirmary stirred with cautious hope. Hooves no longer scraped in restless agony. Voices carried softer, threaded with wonder.
Sous closed her eyes.
The war was far from over. Apex still held the high aeries, the deep forges...
Sous breathed in blood and herbs and distant smoke, and for the first time in months, she slept without dreaming of falling.