The medic presses a stabilizer against my side, and pain lances up my spine.
“Delay them,” Rethan says sharply. “He requires recovery.”
Vorthan’s eyes narrow. “Recovery implies weakness.”
I straighten despite the burn in my side.
“Set the ritual,” I say.
The medic freezes.
“Captain—”
“Set it,” I repeat, my voice low and steady.
“When?” Serekh asks.
“As soon as we reenter Badlands core space,” I answer.
“Blood will still be fresh,” Vorthan says, almost approvingly.
“It will,” I agree.
The channels close one by one.
Rethan turns toward me, anger barely contained. “You cannot fight in this condition.”
“I cannot refuse,” I reply.
“You’ll tear the wound open.”
“Then it will be visible,” I say.
Elara steps closer, her expression unreadable but intense. “You’re bleeding through the bandage,” she says quietly.
“I am aware.”
“This is not martyrdom,” she says.
“No,” I reply. “It is mathematics.”
She studies me for a long moment.
“They want to see you falter,” she says.
“Yes.”
“And you won’t.”
“No.”
The medics finish stabilizing the worst of the damage, binding my torso tight enough that breathing becomes a conscious act.
“You are cleared for limited mobility,” the chief medic says reluctantly. “But no strain.”
I almost laugh.
“Prepare the ritual arena,” I tell Rethan.
