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“What happened?” Camden asked, already turning his attention to the injured stranger.

The remaining man hovered near the table, his face pale beneath a layer of dust and worry. His eyes darted between Camden and the unconscious figure. “We dinnae ken,” he admitted. “We found him lying just beyond the village. Alone…” he hesitated. “It looked as though he had been making his way here. To ye.”

Camden said nothing, his focus narrowing. Carefully, he cut away what remained of the man’s ruined garments. The truth revealed beneath made his jaw tighten.

Bruises—dark and swelling—marred nearly every inch of flesh. Some were already turning a sickly yellow, proof of older injuries. His face was so badly beaten that both eyes were swollen shut, and his lips were split and crusted with dried blood. One arm hung at an unnatural angle, unmistakably broken. Whoever had done this had not merely sought to harm him, they had meant to destroy him.

The two men who had carried him shifted uneasily. Their task complete, they began to retreat toward the door, though neither could hide the concern in their expressions.

“Will he survive?” the older of the two asked quietly.

Camden paused, his hand resting lightly over the stranger’s chest, feeling for the fragile rhythm of breath beneath his palm. It was weak, but present. Stubborn.

He let out a slow breath. “I will do all that I can.”

The men nodded, seeming to draw comfort from his resolve. They slipped outside and closed the door behind them, leaving Camden alone with the broken stranger.

After setting a pot of water over the hearth, Camden returned to the table and began his work. Steam had yet to rise, but he could not afford to wait. He dipped a clean rag into a basin and gently wiped away the blood that masked the man’s injuries, revealing the truth beneath in slow, dreadful detail.

The bruising told its own merciless tale.

This had not been the work of a single blow or even a brief struggle. The flesh bore layered shades of violence: deep purples and angry reds blooming across his ribs, shoulders, and chest. Whoever had attacked him had not stopped when he fell. They had continued long after he was helpless. There were distinct impressions along his side and abdomen, the unmistakable marks of boots. He had been kicked. Stomped. Left broken on the ground like something no longer worth finishing.

Camden’s jaw tightened as he worked, though his hands remained steady.

If the man lived, it would not be without cost.

His face, already swollen beyond recognition, would bear scars no healer’s skill could fully erase. And his right arm… Camden carefully touched the limb, feeling the jagged misalignment beneath the skin. The bones were shattered, not cleanly broken. Even if it mended, it would never again be as it was. The arm would remain twisted and weakened. A permanent reminder of whatever cruelty had been visited upon him.

Camden exhaled slowly, forcing aside the grim certainty pressing at his thoughts.

First, the man must live.

Fate was merciful in that the man remained unconscious while Camden saw to the injuries. Plasters were slathered on gashes and cuts, and he bandaged the broken arm. He also wrapped the man’s chest to help with his breathing as Camden was sure his ribs were either broken or badly bruised. Then he finished by washing the rest of his body in hopes of keeping the open cuts from becoming festered.

The man made a weak sound, like that of an injured animal, and Camden went to his side, speaking into his ear. “Ye are safe. In my home. I am called Camden. I am the healer in Tokavaig.”

Again the man moaned. Camden chose to believe it meant he’d understood. “Dinnae fret. Ye are safe.”

He’d mixed a strong tincture that would not only help with the pain but also bring sleep. Lifting the man’s head with care, he brought the cup to his lips and allowed the liquid to trickle into the man’s mouth. From the way he gulped at the liquid, Camden refilled the cup with water and fed it to the man.

“Rest. There is naught else to be done now but wait,” Camden explained, pulling a thick blanket over the man.

When his cousin, Beitris, entered later that afternoon, a basket looped over her arm, Camden sat beside the narrow table in the healing room, his attention fixed on the stranger. The man had stirred only once since Camden had coaxed the bitter tincture between his lips, slipping quickly back into the heavy, merciful sleep of the gravely wounded.

Beitris didnae greet Camden. Instead, she went straight to the patient, her movements purposeful, her sharp green eyes already taking in what lay before her. She leaned closer, studying the man’s battered face, her own pretty features tightening into a deep, troubled frown. Carefully, she lifted the edge of the blanket, revealing the bruised torso beneath, then lowered it again with quiet care.

“Proper beating he took,” she murmured.

“Aye,” Camden replied, leaning back in his chair, his muscles stiff from hours of stillness and strain. “Two men brought him at first light. Found him lying in the dirt just outside the village. Had the mercy to carry him here.”

Beitris turned then, her keen gaze shifting from the stranger to Camden. She assessed him in much the same way. Taking in the weariness beneath his eyes, the tension in his shoulders, the way exhaustion clung to him like a second skin. Without a word, she held out the basket and nodded toward the doorway leading to his living quarters.

“I brought ye food. Eat. Then rest. I will watch over him.”

Gratitude stirred warm in his chest.

“I appreciate ye being here,” he said quietly.