[Rynthall Infirmary]
The scent of antiseptic and dried blood clung heavily to the air, thick as smoke. Moonlight filtered through the tall glass windows of the Rynthall infirmary, casting elongated shadows on the walls. At the center of it all, on a wide cushioned bed stained with sweat and pain, lay a woman.
She was deathly pale, her skin like parchment stretched too thin. Her long black hair was matted against her clammy forehead, her body trembling under the weight of agony. A faint breath rattled past her cracked lips.
She was still conscious—barely.
Silas stood by her bedside, his crimson gaze hard, jaw tight as he took in the sight before him.
"She's lost a lot of blood," he said at last, voice low, almost a growl. "Too much."
Elize, standing at the foot of the bed, nodded grimly. "We were lucky," she said, her usually calm tone laced with urgency. "If the scout had arrived even an hour later… she would've ended up like the others. Slaughtered."
