Even in victory, shadows lingered.
The medical tent smelled like antiseptic and blood. Darius lay on the treatment table, the medical team working efficiently—cleaning wounds, assessing damage, their professional competence masking concern.
I sat nearby, my own injuries already treated. Shoulder bandaged. Ribs wrapped. Leg stitched. Painful but manageable. Not life-threatening. Not requiring evacuation.
Unlike Darius's. The strike he'd intercepted had been meant to kill. It had done serious damage even deflected—internal injuries, possible organ trauma, significant blood loss.
"He'll recover," the lead medic said, reading my expression. "With rest, treatment, time. But he pushed past safe limits reaching you. His body paid the price."
Through the bond, I felt his consciousness—weak, exhausted, but present. Still there. Still connected despite the injury.
"I need to survey the battlefield," I said. "Need to assess the damage. Understand what we're facing."
