A man scorched from chest to fingertips.
A woman with her hair burned away.
A boy scarred with welts across his back.
Another woman burning with fever.
Viktor’s throat tightened—a child.
A beautiful little girl. Her curls untouched. Her skin aflame.
From the back of the tent came a healer and two others.
She was scarcely older than a girl. The boys with her, even younger.
“I sent for ambervast an hour ago,” she hissed, her voice hoarse. “Leave it at the door.”
Her dark hair clung to her neck, sweat beading across her brow. She wore a leather apron, her instruments still bloody.
She drew a rag from the basin, draped it across the feverish woman’s head. Without looking up, she commanded, “Get out. I just got them to sleep.”
Viktor didn’t move. He stepped closer.
The boys’ eyes widened in warning.
He didn’t care.He met the healer where she stood.
“I said get out!” she snapped, voice breaking at his nearness.
“Who left you,” Viktor asked, his words edged with protective steel, “to tend to them alone?”
The girl shut her eyes, knees buckling as she fought to stand. Her hands shook against the basin.
“My master is in Rhidian,” she said. “He doesn’t even know.”
“You’ve carried more than your share.”
He took the rag from her quivering hands, his tone rough.
“Now, I command you—rest.”
“What right have you—”
“I am a Ruakite.” He looked at her. “Sent to ease your burden.”
The girl stared up at him, eyes hollowed with exhaustion.
Then her body gave way—she threw her bloodied arms around him, face pressed into his leather armor. Her tears broke free.
He slowly laid one hand against her shoulder, her body shuddering beneath his touch. What horrors had she witnessed, left to tend to the wounded alone? He whispered an Aerdanian prayer for the abandoned. For the brave.
“Tory Seraphim,” he said simply, his voice low. “And you—tell me your name.”
She looked up at him, bravely wiping her tears.
“Lyra,” she said. “And these are my brothers, Tavian and Theo.”
Viktor gave the boys a nod.
