Alastair.
The packhouse was alive with a sense of urgency, but the air inside the healer's wing felt strangely calm—strange because of what had transpired outside, because of everything that had been lost. The room smelled faintly of herbs, of something soothing yet sharp. The scent of fear, sweat, and blood lingered in the air, mingling with the quiet, steady rhythm of healing that now defined the space.
I paced back and forth, my boots soft against the floor, but the tension in the room was palpable. The sounds of the wounded being treated filled the space—the low murmur of healers, the clinking of medical tools, the occasional gasp of pain as someone was attended to. But through it all, there was a sense of order, a sense of purpose that I had never seen before in such chaos.
But none of that mattered now. What mattered was Elsbeth.
I had never seen her so broken.
