Back in the fortress, the accounting began.
Not the official one—casualty tallies and repositioning orders that Evan mentioned briefly as we cleared the gate. The other kind. The one that happened in small rooms between people who had shared a specific day.
Victor’s ankle was handled in the infirmary forty minutes after we returned. Not because he agreed exactly, more because Evan positioned it in front of him as a logistical necessity rather than a personal concession.
Victor was already in the chair when I arrived.
“It’s going to hurt,” I said.
“I’m aware of what healing feels like.” His voice carried tiredness in the slight shortening of consonants, sentences clipped shorter than usual.
I sat across from him and found the ankle by feel. Torn armor removed. Wound expose
