The infirmary was chaos.
Medics moved in sharp, practiced patterns—tourniquets, pressure bandages, soul force stabilization, emergency amputation sealing. The smell of blood and bitter herbs hung thick in the air.
Maren lay on a surgical table, face pale as death, breath shallow.
Her left arm—or what remained of it—had been wrapped, cauterized, treated with every healing technique Vester's medical corps possessed.
It wasn't enough.
She was stable.
But she would never hold a blade with both hands again.
Atheon stood in the corner, back pressed against the wall, knuckles bloody, eyes hollow.
He hadn't moved in twenty minutes.
Hadn't spoken.
Hadn't blinked.
He just stared at the stump where Maren's arm used to be, watching the medics work with mechanical detachment.
Valen entered quietly, stopping a few feet away.
"Captain," he said softly.
Atheon didn't respond.
"Captain," Valen repeated, louder this time.
Atheon's eyes shifted—just barely—toward him.
