The incessant buzz of the medical tent had finally slowed to a manageable hum as I finished bandaging the last patient of the night. My shoulders ached from hunching over wounds for hours, my brain foggy from the constant need to reassure terrified refugees while maintaining my professional demeanor.
"Dr. Daniels, I think we're finally clear for the night," one of the volunteer nurses said, her own exhaustion evident in the deep circles under her eyes.
I nodded, forcing a smile. "Thank you, Maya. Get some rest. Tomorrow will probably bring another wave."
As she left, I collapsed onto the nearest stool, allowing myself a moment of vulnerability now that I was alone. Silverholm's medical facilities were decent by wilderness standards, but nothing could have prepared us for the influx of wounded shifters fleeing Valerius's forces. Burns, slashes, gunshot wounds—each told the story of a civilization at war with itself.
