The fortress infirmary smelled sharply of antiseptic herbs and dried blood, a familiar, sterile scent that warred with the residual ozone and chemical smoke clinging to Ronan and Lyra’s clothes. Ronan gently laid the unconscious Beta Darius on a cot, and a team of healers, led by the formidable elder, Dr. Elara, swarmed the injured man.
Elara’s eyes, ancient and unforgiving, immediately focused on the black paste caked into Leon’s deep forearm incision.
“What in the Ancestors’ name is this?” Elara snapped, her voice low with professional outrage. “Nightshade? Water-hemlock? Who administered these toxins?”
Lyra stepped forward, her voice surprisingly steady despite the exhaustion and fear shaking her frame. “I did. The assassin’s blade was poisoned, something fast-acting. I used a crude
