But here, now, there's just Zoran's labored breathing. Too fast. Too shallow. Too weak.
I press my hands against the wound, feeling hot blood pulse between my fingers with each faltering heartbeat. The blade found the gap in his armor perfectly—a professional's strike, designed to kill.
"Healers!" The word rips from my throat. "Someone get the healers NOW!"
My shadows respond to the desperation, surging outward to find the nearest healer, to drag them here if necessary.
Nesilhan crashes to the floor beside me, her legs giving out completely. Her hands shake as she reaches for Zoran, grasping his hand like it's the only thing tethering her to reality.
"Zoran." Her voice breaks on his name.
“Nesilhan,I can't—I can't feel?—"
"Shh, don't talk." She's crying now, tears cutting tracks through the blood and grime coating her face. "You're going to be fine. The healers are coming. They're going to fix you. You're going to be fine."
She's babbling. I know she's babbling. But the alternative is silence, accepting the possibility of loss.
I keep pressure on the wound even though I can feel how badly it's torn—the blade didn't just puncture, it ripped. Liverdamage. Possibly kidney. Internal bleeding that no amount of external pressure will stop.
The others materialize around us as my teleportation magic brings them through one by one. Emir stumbles, catches himself against the war table. Elçin appears next, wild-eyed and breathing hard. Then Yasar, looking haggard.
They stand in a loose circle, watching, and the silence is suffocating.
The healers finally burst through the door—three of them, robes streaming behind them, hands already beginning to glow with that soft golden light.
"Massive blood loss," the lead healer mutters, her hands hovering over the wound. Her face tightens. "Punctured liver, possibly the kidney. Internal bleeding is severe."
"Can you save him?" The question comes out harsher than I intend, edged with barely controlled violence.
She doesn't answer immediately. Her magic pours into Zoran's body, golden light seeping into the wound. Sweat beads on her forehead from the effort.
"I don't know," she finally says.
Three words. Just three words.
"No." Nesilhan shakes her head violently, still gripping Zoran's hand. “You save him. You hear me? You save him."
The healer doesn't acknowledge the threat. She just works, her companions joining her, their combined magic creating a nimbus of golden light that bathes Zoran's broken body.
I step back, giving them room to work, my hands dripping with Zoran's blood. Still warm. Still fresh. Still screaming evidence of how badly we miscalculated, how thoroughly we were outmaneuvered.
This was always a trap. We just walked into it anyway.
Emir moves to my side. "How bad?" he asks quietly.
"Bad enough that three healers don't know if he'll make it."
His jaw tightens. "It was always going to be a trap. Taren wanted us out of the palace. Wanted us isolated and surrounded."
"And we gave him exactly what he wanted." The words taste bitter. "How many did we lose?"
"Unknown. We scattered during the retreat. Some made it back, some..." He trails off. Some are dead in those ruins. Some were captured. Some are fleeing with enemy forces in pursuit.
We didn't just lose this battle. We lost people. Resources. Strategic advantage.
I glance at Nesilhan, still clutching Zoran's hand, her lips moving in what might be prayer or plea or promise. I feel the maelstrom of her emotions—terror, guilt, rage, desperation.
She blames herself. Just like I blame myself for not seeing the trap sooner.
