Chapter 4
733 Words
The sun had barely risen when a furious pounding hammered against the small hut door. Tristan, who had been up all night guarding his family’s pride, yanked it open.
Warin stood there, not in polished armor but looking like a man who had not slept in days. His face was grim.
“The General has a fever,” Warin said, his voice tight. “It’s burning through him. I need the healer now.”
Tristan’s jaw dropped, his face turning into angry blotches of red.
“You! You dare come to my abode?” He snorted, glaring at the intruder. “And you dare say your great General, the Sword of the Phoenix, commands an entire company without a physician?”
Warin’s eyes hardened. “Don’t waste time, old man. Our last healer took an arrow to the chest five moons ago and died of the rot. Genevieve is all we have.”
Tristan’s eyes widened, not with anger but sudden, cold fear.
“Then let him die! I warned you. She is not going back to those sheds! You will not drag my daughter into your war!”
Tristan began to shut the door, but Warin jammed his gauntleted hand into the frame, forcing it back open.
“She is a sworn healer, isn’t she? You can’t be so selfish as to let a man die of a soiled wound now!”
Genevieve emerged from the shadows of the room, already pulling her heavy physician’s satchel over her shoulder. She walked past her father and stood facing Warin.
“It is my oath to save lives, Father,” she said, her voice quiet but firm, overriding the years of fear he had instilled. “I will not let him die from my neglect.”
“Genevieve, please,” her father pleaded, grabbing her wrist. “You saw what he is! Remember the soldiers in the next two towns across that came five seasons ago? How they stole both grain and women!”
“Those were rebels, not soldiers,” Warin roared.
“Same thing, you ruffian!” Tristan spat back.
Genevieve gently pulled her hand free. “If he dies, Father, his entire company becomes our problem. If I save him, they leave.”
She gave him a look of resolute defiance. “I am going.”
Warin did not spare a glance for the distraught father. He simply turned and strode toward the village square.
“Hurry up, Healer,” he called back. “The fever has already begun to claim him.”
Tristan stood trembling in the doorway, unable to stop her. He turned and stumbled toward the back room.
“Avana! Go fetch Harrald! Tell him he must come immediately!”
His eldest daughter, Avana, rushed to his side, her face creased with worry. “Father, what is it? The General is wounded, but—”
“Go!” Tristan gripped his chest tightly. “People are talking, Avana! Even Silas the scholar is whispering about an unmarried girl alone with a virile soldier.”
He coughed and spluttered as if he would collapse at any moment, but he continued, soul-eating fear in his eyes.
“What if he touches her, Avana? Harrald must marry her now! For the sake of your sister’s reputation, go tell Harrald to hurry with the wedding!”
Avana stepped closer, worry tightening her face. “You’re coughing again. Let me bring some water.”
“No!” he barked, cutting her off with a sharp wave of his hand. “Forget the water. Go find Harrald. Now.”
Her eyes widened. “But you need to rest.”
“I said go!” he snapped, his breath breaking into another fit of coughs. “Don’t argue with me, girl. Fetch Harrald!”
Avana hesitated only a moment before spinning around and sprinting off, her slippers scraping against the dirt as she disappeared down the path.
She returned minutes later, pale and tearful. “Father, he refuses. He says he needs the full dowry before they wed. He won’t move the date.”
Tristan reeled back as if struck, the air leaving his lungs. He felt the ruin settling over them, heavy and cold.
“He refuses,” Tristan whispered. The final safety net was gone. He pressed his knuckles into his eyes and pushed Avana away, needing to be alone with his despair.
- Writer
