The healing tents buzzed with frantic, unrelenting activity as the first grey light of false dawn touched the river plains. Stretchers carried a steady stream of wounded wolves and a handful of brave human servants into the canvas shelters. Groans of pain mingled with the sharp, earthy scent of crushed healing herbs, the metallic bite of fresh blood, and the acrid smoke drifting from distant signal fires. The air was thick, heavy, and alive with urgency.
Marina moved among the injured with quiet, unshakable authority. Her hands, worn from years of mixing remedies and tending the sick in the palace servant quarters, remained steady despite the surrounding chaos of war. She worked methodically, cleaning wounds, stitching gashes, setting broken bones, and applying poultices to slow bleeding and fight infection. Her voice stayed calm and clear as she gave instructions, a steady anchor in the storm.
