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Keir, Beitris’ brother, reined in his horse and swung down, urgency written in every sharp line of his face. “I have been searching for ye. There are several injured men at the keep. Our healer requires help.”

Camden’s thoughts leapt instantly to bandages, salves, and the herbs he’d left behind. “What happened?”

Keir’s gaze flicked to Brae, then to the dog slung across his back, his brow furrowing. “Why are ye out here? Do ye nae have someone to gather herbs or such?” He nodded toward them. “What in the name of the fates happened to him, and the hound?”

Camden opened his mouth, but Keir cut him off with an impatient wave. “Never mind. We must hurry.”

A saddled horse was brought forward. Camden mounted, casting one last look at Brae. “Go straight to the apothecary,” he said quietly. “Ensure to continue to give the dog the herbs in water for another day or two. And let Beitris know what’s occurred.”

Brae eyed the horses. “I will.”

As they turned their horses toward the keep, Keir glanced sidelong at him. Before the question could come, Camden spoke.

“Brae was beaten by his own kin. Has been staying with me for almost a sennight,” he said, the bitterness still fresh on his tongue. “We found the dog last night. Injured. Likely attacked by a wild beast.”

Keir grunted, his jaw tightening. Though only four-and-thirty, his cousin carried himself like a man who had seen too many battles and too much blood spilled in the name of clan and duty. Red hair and beard marked him as Camden’s mirror, so alike they could have been brothers rather than cousins. Both carved from the same somber stone. Prone to overthinking. To weigh every choice until the weight of it bowed their shoulders.

The keep lay a couple of hours away at an easy pace, but ease was a luxury they didnae have. Keir spurred his horse, and Camden followed. The world blurred into rushing wind and pounding hooves. The gallop suited him. At that speed, with the burn in his lungs and the thunder in his ears, there was no room for questions. No space for Keir to ask what he had truly been doing in the forest. And no time for Camden to continue brooding.

*

Camden followed the sound of screams down the stone corridor, the echoes ricocheting off the walls like a wounded animal’s cry. The air grew thick with the metallic tang of blood before he even reached the infirmary.

Inside, chaos reigned.

The healer called Thomas, and three other men were struggling to hold a warrior flat against the narrow bed. Blood pooled beneath him, seeping across the cold stone floor in dark, creeping rivulets. His leg, what remained of it, was a mangled ruin of torn flesh and shattered bone. The cloth wrapped around it was already soaked through, dripping steadily onto the stone floor.

“I will nae allow ye to take my leg!” the man roared, thrashing with desperate strength. “Nooooo!”

Camden shoved past one of the men and planted himself at the bedside. The room seemed to still at his presence. The warrior’s wild, panicked gaze snapped to him, eyes glassy with pain and fear.

Camden set a firm hand on the man’s shoulder, grounding him. He leaned close, lowering his voice until it was meant for the warrior alone.

“Look at me, Rauri,” he murmured. “By the state of yer leg, ye have a choice to make. Not a fair one. Not a kind one. But it must be yers.”

Ruari’s breath came in ragged gasps, his chest heaving as his eyes flicked from Camden to Thomas. The older healer blew out a sharp breath, frustration etched deep into the lines of his face as he glanced at the widening pool of blood on the floor.

“It must be decided now,” Thomas snapped. “Every heartbeat is costing him more blood.”

Camden didn’t break eye contact with Ruari. “Ye can choose to lose yer leg. From the knee down,” he paused, letting the words settle like a blade. “Ye can still ride. Still walk, in time.”

Ruari swallowed hard.

“Or,” Camden continued softly, “ye can choose to die. It will be quick and less painful.” His gaze dropped briefly to the blood slicking the sheets. “All this fighting is draining ye dry.”

Ruari turned his head toward Thomas, searching his face like a man clinging to the last scrap of hope. “What if… What if ye leave it on?”

Thomas didn’t soften the truth. “The flesh is already dead,” he said quietly. “If we do nothing, ye will be gone before the sun sets.”

Something in Ruari broke. His shoulders sagged into the mattress, the fight draining out of him as tears spilled from the corners of his eyes, tracking down into his beard and across his temples. His voice, when it came, was no more than a whisper.

“I dinnae wish to die today.” He swallowed hard. “I have bairns. Three of them. They need me. Somehow… I will find a way to feed them.”

Camden felt the words land like a stone in his chest. He knew Ruari. A fierce warrior, yes, but also a devoted husband, who brought home scraps of ribbon for his wife, Matilda’s, hair. A loving father who carried his youngest on his shoulders through the village and carved wooden toys for his children himself.

This time, when the men moved in to hold him steady, Ruari didn’t resist.

A flask of whiskey was brought to his lips, and he took deep, burning gulps until it spilled down his chin. Then he accepted the strip of leather and bit down hard, his jaw tightening, eyes squeezed shut in grim resolve.