Page 38 of The Guardian

The healer spoke without looking up. “It will have to be stitched closed.”

“I’ll do it,” Ailith said, her voice soft but firm as she stepped forward.

She stood beside him, reaching for clean cloths and thread. The wound was angry and red, but thankfully not too deep.

At the sound of her voice, Hendry opened his eyes.

Their gazes met.

And her heart dropped.

There was no recognition. No warmth. No anger. Not even indifference. Just… emptiness.

It was like he looked at a stranger.

Her hands faltered, just for a moment. She’d imagined him angry with her, perhaps even resentful. She’d even dared to hope for forgiveness, for some soft echo of what once lingered between them. But this…this utter absence was worse than any fury.

It was final.

Her throat tightened as she forced herself continue cleaning the wound, her hands steady even as her heart cracked apart. She had finally done it, pushed him far enough that there was nothing left. No anger. No affection. No trace that she’d ever meant anything to him at all.

Just…disregard.

Complete and utter disregard.

Ailith worked swiftly, her hands practiced, though her heart trembled with every stitch she placed in Hendry’s shoulder. She focused on the wound, not the silence that circled them, tangible in the air.

He never once looked at her.

Not during the stitching. Not when she awkwardly asked him to lift his arm to bind the bandage in place. His eyes stared ahead, vacant and unblinking, as if she weren’t there at all. As if no one was.

When she finished, he rose without a word, tugged his tunic on over the dressing with a wince, and turned away. His steps were uneven, staggering slightly as he moved across the courtyard, headed toward the practice field like a man summoned by ghosts.

She hesitated, then followed. Something was wrong, more than the pain of his injury, more than exhaustion. There was something broken in him now, something splintered so deeply it showed in every faltering step.

He wasn’t the only one.

Other warriors emerged from the shadows of the keep, drifting across the yard like sleepwalkers. No one spoke. No nods of greeting. Just grim faces and hollow eyes. One man dragged his foot behind him, limping so severely Ailith considered rushing to help him, but instinct told her not to. They didn’t want sympathy. They didn’t want to be touched.

Then she saw it.

Her breath caught, hands flying to her mouth to stifle the gasp.

The practice field was no longer a place for drills or sport.

It had become a graveyard.

Bodies lay upon the cold earth, each one shrouded in linen. Some were stained dark with blood, telling silent tales of where the blade had entered, where life had spilled away.

Ailith didn’t count them. She couldn’t. Even one was too many.

Just yesterday, these men had laughed and broken bread together. They’d tended horses, kissed their wives, lifted their children. Now they lay still and silent beneath the morning sky.

People were already there, each drawn toward a familiar form. Some knelt. Others pressed shaking hands against covered chests. A few broke down entirely.

Hendry moved among them, purposeful but unsteady, until he reached one lone body at the end of a row.

He dropped to his knees, then collapsed forward, pulling back the linen with trembling hands. He stared at the face beneath, a guttural sound escaping his throat. Then he lowered his head onto the man’s chest, shoulders quaking with silent sobs.

It undid her.

Tears spilled freely down Ailith’s cheeks, hot and blinding. Around the field, men mourned their fallen brothers in arms, not as warriors, but as family. These weren’t just soldiers bound by loyalty. They were brothers. They’d stood side by side, shield to shield.

She thought of Brant, of the bitter accusations she’d hurled in her grief, how she’d called the men who returned selfish, uncaring. Now she wondered how many of them had wept over her husband, whispered the last words he’d heard and laid hands on his heart as it stilled.

“It’s best we leave them their privacy,” Ainslie said quietly, her eyes fixed on her own husband, who knelt with his hand clenched around a fallen comrade’s shoulder, the other covering his face as if to hold in the grief.

Ailith nodded, turning back toward the keep, her feet heavy, her soul heavier. She wiped at her face with the edge of her apron, but it did little to hide the tears.

“It’s all so senseless,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “Why? Why would anyone do this? What good comes of all this death?”

Ainslie’s reply was tired, resolute. “Because some men want more and more power. With failure comes the need for vengeance. And so it happens… again and again.”

They walked in silence for a moment before she added, “It will take days, weeks, for the warriors to recover. Some never will. All we can do now is to be there, to listen when they’re ready. To soothe when they’ll allow it. And sometimes… to walk away and let them grieve in their own way.”

She reached up to brush away her own tears. Then she exhaled and straightened her shoulders.

“Come Ailith. We have wounded to tend to.”