The moment Rhaen said, "On my terms," the tent stopped being a place for argument and became a place for motion.
No one wasted breath answering her.
Lira was already in front of her with clean bandage strips and a dark outer wrap. Her fingers moved fast, neat, and merciless, tightening cloth over Rhaen's ribs until Rhaen's jaw locked. Cerys crossed to the weapon rack, took one glance, then picked what mattered and ignored everything ornamental. A short secondary blade. A narrow oilskin packet. A coil of line. Practical things. Things for surviving ugly corners.
Mikhailis shrugged out of the heavier outer layer he had worn in the tent and pulled on a darker field cloak instead. Less royal. Less obvious. He rolled his shoulders once, flexed his fingers, then checked the straps on his gear with the same expression he used when Rodion was showing him an annoying problem that could still kill people.
