Octavia's Point of View
Eli and I weave our way through the camp, following the sound of muffled groans and the thick, metallic tang of blood that hangs in the air. My stomach knots tighter with every step. Finally the healers’ tent comes into view, it is larger than the others, the canvas walls sagging from overuse, shadows of bodies moving frantically inside.
When we duck through the flap, the air is warm and suffocating. The smell of herbs, crushed sage, wolfsbane antidotes, salves, does little to mask the copper sharpness of blood. Cots line the space, filled with pack members in varying states of injury. Some are bandaged and still, others tossing weakly in their fevered sleep.
A healer spots us immediately, a woman with silver streaking her dark braid, her hands already slick with
