The shepherd's hut proves to be exactly as described—a stone structure built into the mountainside with the kind of practical architecture that prioritizes function over form. Its roof is partially collapsed, victim to decades of weather and neglect, but its walls remain intact and more importantly, it's completely hidden from the main trail by an outcropping of granite that provides natural camouflage.
The location offers other advantages as well: access to a spring that provides fresh water, natural windbreaks that will contain smoke from cooking fires, and sight lines that allow sentries to watch all approaches without being seen themselves.
"Secure the perimeter," Harwick orders his men as they dismount with the careful movements of people whose muscles have beenpushed beyond endurance. "I want sentries posted on all approaches with signal horns ready. Horses get rubbed down and watered, but keep them saddled and ready to move at a moment's notice."
"Sir," one of the Mirn sergeants approaches. "Should we send scouts back along our trail? If there is pursuit, advance warning could make the difference."
"Good thinking. Take two men and position yourself where you can see the main pass. Any sign of organized movement, you fall back here immediately." Harwick pauses, then adds, "And Sergeant? Don't try to be heroes. Information is more valuable than body count right now."
Ivah helps Bellamy down from his horse, noting how the prince leans into his strength without complaint. Up close, in the gray afternoon light that filters through the mountain mists, the extent of his injuries becomes more apparent than it had been during their hurried escape from Drakemoor.
The shadows under his eyes have deepened into the kind of exhaustion that sleep alone won't cure. The careful way he breathes suggests damaged ribs that make each inhalation an effort. His hands, revealed when he removes his riding gloves, show the raw wounds of shackles and rope, some of them already showing signs of infection despite Ivah's field treatment.
"Come on," Ivah says gently, guiding Bellamy toward the hut's interior with one arm around his waist. "Let me look at those wounds properly. Away from prying eyes."
The inside of the structure is sparse but functional, with enough room for several people to rest comfortably. Someone—probably previous travelers seeking shelter—has built a fire pit from localstones, and there's even a crude hearth carved into the back wall that will contain smoke and provide warmth without advertising their presence to anyone watching from the surrounding peaks.
Afternoon light filters through gaps in the roof, and the spring Harwick mentioned bubbles up from between rocks in one corner, providing both water and a gentle sound that will mask conversations. It's not luxury, but after days of riding and the horror of Drakemoor's dungeons, it feels almost palatial.
Ivah spreads his travel blankets on the cleanest section of floor and helps Bellamy settle onto the makeshift bedding. The prince moves with the careful deliberation of someone managing significant pain, each motion calculated to minimize discomfort.
"I need to see what they did to you," Ivah says quietly, his hands moving to the ties of Bellamy's rough prison garb with the gentle precision of someone who's tended battlefield wounds before. "All of it."
Bellamy nods silently, his green eyes meeting Ivah's with the kind of trust that comes from absolute faith in another person's intentions. He raises his arms to help with the removal of the coarse fabric, wincing as the movement pulls at injured muscles and abraded skin.
When the shirt falls away, revealing the full extent of the damage, Ivah has to bite back a sound of fury that would have alarmed their entire camp.
The bruising is extensive and systematic—not just the expected marks from restraints and casual violence, but patterns that speak of deliberate, calculated abuse. Finger-shaped bruises circle Bellamy's throat in a perfect handprint, the kind that comes from sustained pressure rather than momentary violence. Rope burns raw and redaround his wrists and ankles tell the story of prolonged restraint, while darker contusions across his ribs and back map out a geography of cruelty.
But it's the smaller details that make Ivah's vision go red at the edges: the split lip that's partially healed but still tender, the bruise along his jaw that matches the pattern of a backhanded slap, the way certain areas of discoloration suggest kicks delivered with calculated precision to cause maximum pain without permanent damage.
"Bastards," Ivah breathes, his hands clenching into fists before he forces them to relax through sheer effort of will. “Would that I could kill them again.”
"Ivah." Bellamy's voice is steady despite the obvious pain he's experiencing, carrying the kind of calm that comes from having already processed the worst of what happened to him. "I'm alive. I'm here with you. That's what matters now."
From his travel pack, Ivah produces a comprehensive field medicine kit—not just the basic supplies that any warrior carries, but the kind of equipment that speaks to years of experience treating serious battlefield injuries. Small jars of healing salve, strips of clean linen in various widths, a selection of herbal remedies for different types of wounds, even a small bottle of concentrated spirits for sterilization.
His hands are infinitely gentle as he begins cleaning the worst of the wounds, but he can't hide the rage that builds with each new injury he discovers. Every rope burn, every bruise, every sign of systematic cruelty feeds the cold fury that has been burning in his chest since the moment he found Bellamy chained in that dungeon cell.
Bellamy winces as the cleaning solution touches raw flesh, a sharp intake of breath that he tries to suppress. When Ivah's ministrationsreach the rope burns around his wrists—wounds that go deep enough to have damaged muscle and tendon—he hisses softly in pain but doesn't pull away.
"I'm sorry," Ivah murmurs, his touch growing even more careful as he works to clean debris from the wounds. "I know this hurts."
"It's fine," Bellamy manages through gritted teeth, his voice tight with controlled pain. "I've endured worse."
The casual way he says it, as if comparing different varieties of suffering has become routine, makes Ivah's hands shake with barely suppressed violence. That Bellamy has been forced to develop tolerance for systematic pain, that anyone would dare to hurt him methodically enough that he can rank different kinds of agony—it's almost more than Ivah can bear.
His hands shake slightly as he applies healing salve to the worst of the wounds, the familiar ritual of field medicine helping him channel his fury into something productive. He has to stop twice to regain his composure when the full extent of the damage becomes clear—once when he discovers what looks like a burn mark on Bellamy's shoulder, and again when he finds evidence of systematic beating across the prince's back and ribs.
"Some of these are going to scar," he says eventually.
"Scars fade," Bellamy says simply. "And even if they don't, they're just reminders that I survived. That you came for me."
The matter-of-fact way he accepts permanent disfigurement, as if it's a reasonable price for freedom, makes Ivah's chest tight with admiration and grief in equal measure.
"I should have come sooner," he says as he begins wrapping clean bandages around the worst of the wounds with the practiced efficiencyof someone who's done this countless times. "I knew something was wrong when you didn't appear at our meeting. I should have started searching immediately instead of waiting for Harwick to find me."
Bellamy reaches out with one newly bandaged hand to touch Ivah's knee, his green eyes serious and full of understanding that seems older than his years. "How could you have known what happened to me? You weren't there when they took me. There was no way to know I'd been captured, no way to know where to search or even where to begin looking."
