Chapter 1
For over a decade, the village hadn't seen men like that. Men who rode in lines so sharp it made your eyes hurt. Their golden orange and blue flag, held high, towered over the village. Even the goats stopped chewing when they arrived.
Genevieve had just begun to untie her shawl when a distant commotion broke out. A shout, then another, sharper, desperate. The kind that did not belong in a peaceful place.
Her head lifted.
Down in the square, torches flared again. The soldiers were gathering fast. At the center, General Alfred was on the ground, his men crouched around him. Even from her door, Genevieve could see the dark stain spreading across his armor.
The wound gaped from his shoulders down his arm, edges blackened and slick with dark, clotted blood. A sour, coppery stench curled into the air, making the skin crawl. Flies hovered lazily, drawn to the heat and rot.
"Get a healer!" Warin's voice cut through the air like steel. "Now!"
Villagers rushed from their huts, faces pale, unsure whether to help or hide.
"The healer's gone!" someone cried. "He left for Greylin this morning!"
Warin turned sharply. "Then call for one of his apprentice?"
A few uneasy glances traded through the crowd before someone whispered, "Genevieve."
"Then fetch her!" Warin snapped. "Or must I stitch the man myself with horse thread?"
Before anyone could move, Marcus, the wealthiest farmer in the village, waddled forward. His voice oozed calm, but his eyes gleamed with calculation.
"Sir, there is no need for shouting. We are peaceful folk here."
Warin looked him up and down. "Are you a healer?"
Marcus blinked. "No, but—"
"Then you are not needed. Send for the girl."
Marcus straightened, forcing a smile that did not quite reach his eyes. "Of course. I only wish to keep good peace."
"Then do as you are told."
Marcus's most trusted aide, Roldfus, was sent running to her hut, calling her name over and over until his voice reached her door.
"Genevieve! The General is hurt! Warin says you must come!"
Genevieve stood slowly. She looked toward the square, where the torches burned like anxious stars. Her father was not yet home but she couldn't wait for permission. Time was of the essence, especially for an infected wound.
"I'm on my way, let me gather medicine..."
On Genevieve's arrival, a flustered young girl, Brana, quickly announced: "Here, here, come the apothecary... apprentice."
Warin hissed, his eyes deadly, forcing the maid to leave quickly. He turned to the General. "Bloodline, should we not seek treatment elsewhere? A sheep village is hardly..."
Alfred muttered, "It will do, let's wait for the healer."
Moments later, Genevieve entered, carrying a heavy physician's satchel.
"I am Genevieve."
"My father is Tristan. Do not mistake my presence for acceptance of your stay, Lord, but I will not let a man die of a soiled wound on my doorstep. Show me your arm."
Alfred scoffed. "You? I need a surgeon. Send me a man with a steady hand and true knowledge."
Genevieve placed her satchel on a crate. "You are infected. Your flesh is turning black."
"Are you deaf, woman?"
Genevieve hissed, folding her arms. "If you waste time insulting me, you may lose the use of your hand, perhaps your life. So both of you sit now!"
