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The blade came down.

Ruari’s muffled scream tore through the leather and into the room. A sound that seemed to claw at Camden’s bones. Blood surged, hot and bright, as Thomas worked quickly, his hands slick and steady. The scent of iron filled the air, thick and suffocating.

Time lost its meaning.

For Ruari, it must have felt like an eternity.

Halfway through, his body finally went slack, his head rolling to the side as he slipped into unconsciousness. Mercy. At last. Camden moved in, wrapping the stump with practiced care, binding and pressing until the bleeding slowed beneath layers of cloth.

The door burst open.

Matilda rushed in, her hair loose, her face pale and stricken. Her breath hitched when she saw the blood-stained floor and the still form of her husband on the bed.

“Ruari!” she cried.

She fell to his side, gathering him into her arms as best she could, cradling his broad, battle-worn body like he was one of their children. She kissed his damp brow again and again, whispering his name, her voice trembling with prayer and love and sheer relief.

Thomas stepped closer and rested a hand on her shoulder. “His leg—”

“I dinnae care about his leg,” Matilda cut in fiercely, lifting her tear-filled eyes. “Will he live?”

Thomas hesitated, then nodded. “He is strong. The pain will be great. The days ahead will be hard. But he will live.”

Matilda let out a shaky breath that sounded like a sob and a laugh tangled together. “Thank ye,” she whispered. “Thank ye for saving our bairns’ father.”

Ruari stirred, his eyes fluttering open, unfocused but searching. Matilda leaned down, pressing her forehead to his.

“I’m here,” she murmured. “I’ve got ye. Always.”

Camden felt something twist unexpectedly in his chest. It was sharp, uninvited, and dangerously close to envy.

Ruari lay broken and bloodied, yet he had a wife’s arms around him, a voice promising he would never face the dark alone. Camden turned away, unsettled by the realization that what he envied most was not the warrior’s strength or courage, but the simple, fierce certainty of being loved, and having someone waiting for him at the end of every battle.

“Can ye set that man’s bone?” Thomas asked, motioning to a man holding his arm, face pale from the pain. The healer’s voice sounded hoarse with exhaustion as he wiped his hands on a blood-stained cloth. Waiting for Camden’s reply, Thomas’s shoulders sagged, the lines of the long day carved deep into his face. “I must seek something to eat, and perhaps a bit of rest before ye head back.”

Camden shook his head. “Go and eat, then sleep.” His gaze swept the room, taking in the groans, the bandaged limbs, the smells of sweat and iron from spilled blood interwoven with the scents of crushed herbs. “I will stay as long as I am needed. Unless I send for ye, dinnae return until the morn.”

Thomas hesitated, studying him for a moment, then relief spread on his face. He nodded and walked out of the infirmary.

The man with the broken arm watched Camden warily as he approached, his good hand clenching the injured arm across his chest. “What did ye say to Ruari?” he asked, his voice low, untrusting.

Camden paused, then answered truthfully. “I gave him two choices and promised to follow through to ensure his wish was done. He had to choose to either live without the use of one leg. Or to cease living at all.”

The warrior held his gaze, searching his face as if trying to measure the weight of such words. After a long moment, he nodded once, slow and solemn, and said nothing more. He accepted the tincture he was given along with a deep swig of whiskey.

It was not easy to set the bone. The warrior did his best to keep his composure, but in the end he cried out in pain as Camden set the arm.

A young lad, who was Thomas’s apprentice, brought poultice and sticks to set the arm, then together he and Camden wrapped it, using great care not to jostle it more than required. By the time all was done, the injured warrior was barely able to keep his eyes open, the mixture of the tincture of herbs and whiskey taking effect. Camden inspected the bandaging around the splint before straightening and going to the next cot.

After rinsing his hands, Camden checked a man with the deep wound to his midsection, pressing gently around the bandages, frowning at the heat of the man’s skin and the sheen of fever on his brow. He murmured instructions for cool cloths and small sips of water to the apprentice.

The next two men were not happy to be there, and they grumbled loudly, insisting their injuries were nothing more than scratches and bruises, yet the layers of bloodied wrappings told a different story. Both of them had been cut deep, and the wounds had begun to smell. “If yer wounds fester, ye can die. We will cleanse them. Just another night should be long enough to ensure ye will be well,” Camden said to them. Both seemed mollified and were silent.

Then he came to the last bed.

The archer lay unnervingly still. He was called Wallace. His chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven breaths, each one a fragile thing that looked as though it might be his last. His skin was pale beneath the grime and dried blood, his lips tinged with a faint, worrying blue. The noise and movement of the infirmary seemed not to reach him at all, as if he were already halfway gone from this world.

Something in Camden’s chest tightened. He lowered down to his haunches, beside the bed. The young man’s face was drawn, sharper than he remembered, stripped of the easy grin and quick humor that usually clung to him like a second skin. Camden reached out without thinking, brushing his fingers lightly against Wallace’s wrist, searching for the faint, stubborn pulse beneath.