Chapter 705

Chapter 705

Supplies from Milezcia’s medical wing were brought forth. The stock had belonged to a person who was now among the deceased. To some, these items might have felt like sacred relics of the departed, heavy with mourning, but there was no space for sentimentality in this moment. Tributes for the fallen would have to wait until the dust settled. Hoarding vital tools during a catastrophe was the height of stupidity. A portion of the flora had been ruined by the soaking rain, while other bunches had been preserved within oil-skinned wraps to ward off the moisture. Enkrid could only identify three varieties at most. This was despite his history of picking up field surgery and first aid during his travels. It was a predictable gap in knowledge; much of the “medicine” practiced by sellswords and infantry was rooted in old wives’ tales and lacked any empirical backing. Recollections of superstitions like “coating a wound in saliva to prevent decay” surfaced—nonsense masquerading as healing arts. He saw plants that looked familiar but whose names escaped him, and others so waterlogged they were beyond recognition. “Set it all here.” Anne ascended the steps and spread the botanical haul across the floor of the hallway. She dropped her kit beside her and began the process of categorization. Her movements were devoid of doubt. She recognized every leaf and root instantly, working with practiced speed. Ragna stood like a statue behind her. The entire assembly, including the Patriarch, watched Anne’s dexterity in total silence. While a few may have betrayed a hint of nervousness, the collective mood was one of grim endurance. This was partly due to the fact that those sworn to Zaun possessed hearts of iron, and even more so because of the unshakable poise shown by the man at the center of it all: the Patriarch. With complete indifference, he pulled a seat over, sat down, brushed the filth from his footwear with a casual hand, and turned his gaze toward the storm outside. Swooooosh! CRACK! Amidst the howling gale and the crash of lightning, the rhythmic sounds of tapping, grinding, and snapping began to harmonize. Anne was busy pulverizing flora in a stone bowl, emulsifying them with various tinctures. Before the onlookers could even process it, she had moved from sorting to synthesis. Anahera then entered, supporting Grida, and assisted her to a resting spot in the corner. She hadn’t been hauled in like a corpse; though pale from the drain of her life force, Grida’s eyes remained bright with resolve. Even as she was lowered, not a single whimper escaped her. She suffered through the agony in quietude. “I’m counting on you.” The massive warrior spoke, and Anne, without pausing her work, gave a distracted reply. “Sure, fine.” The tone was dismissive, yet no one took offense. Anne immediately produced a blade and slid it beneath the linen binding Grida’s midsection. She pulled, severing the fabric with a precision that rivaled Ragna’s swordsmanship. After inspecting the gash, she poured a solution over it. The liquid, kept in a steel canteen, washed over Grida’s bared torso. Bubblblblbl— White froth erupted from the laceration, and Grida’s frame spasmed. Several onlookers leaned in, concerned. Is that supposed to happen? Uncertainty likely flickered in their minds. Anne ignored them. Once the reaction subsided, she took another vial and held it out to Ragna. “Douse my hands,” she commanded. Ragna complied, wetting her skin with the fluid. Anne, her hands now sterilized by the wash, reached for a needle and thread. The solution evaporated rapidly, vanishing into the air the moment it touched the skin. She threaded the eye and began the grim work of closing the wound. This was Enkrid’s first time witnessing such a medical procedure, and his first time seeing Anne’s fingers move with such surgical grace. The needle bit into the meat. Was this pain truly lesser than that of a blade’s edge? The reports said Heskal had run her through. That would have been a traumatic, sudden shock. Now, however, she had to watch the steel enter her skin repeatedly. A sword’s bite was over in a heartbeat—this was a slow, agonizing crawl. By any logic, this had to be more taxing. Yet Grida held firm. Her brow pinched with every pass of the thread, but she remained silent. When she finally spoke, her resentment was aimed at the betrayal rather than the physical trauma. “So… it wasn’t the Old Man. I guess I should be happy about that. Dammit… but I still feel like I’ve been played.” She spoke from her position on the floor. Some leaned in to hear; others ignored the grumbling. “You never had an inkling about Heskal?” The Patriarch, who had been focused on the exterior deluge, glanced back at her briefly before returning his attention to the window. Enkrid was becoming accustomed to the Patriarch’s ways. He could even deduce why the man was so fixated on the view outside. Nearby, Alexandra was relaying intelligence to Schmidt, and the more he absorbed, the darker his countenance became. “I had my suspicions. I took measures. He still got through.” Grida was blunt. She had her pride, but the immediate crisis outweighed her ego—it was the future that mattered. The Protectors of Zaun were always looking toward the horizon. Enkrid was finally grasping what it meant to be a Protector. Which was precisely why Heskal’s betrayal was so incomprehensible. Grida was acting as a Protector should. But Heskal? He had spent decades in that role. Why throw it all away now? “Not my business to solve.” Enkrid was a warrior, not a detective. His function was straightforward. If you desire to know a man’s heart, ask him when your blade is pressed against his windpipe. “Is there a more efficient way?” No. And if they refused to speak even then? Then nothing else would have broken them anyway. Certainly, one could use psychological gambits—feints and pressure—to extract a confession. But was the juice worth the squeeze? The crime was committed. The “why” was secondary to the “how we survive.” Enkrid’s attention shifted to the limping fencer—the son of the traitor. In terms of raw talent, Riley Zaun was comparable to a rising knight. His greatest ambition was to one day walk without a cane. Legwork was the soul of the sword. Without it, one was crippled in more ways than one. Thus, Riley had perfected a style built on a single, overwhelming strike. He had also mastered the art of repositioning on a lone leg. All of this had been taught to him by Heskal. If anyone was desperate to understand Heskal’s logic, it was Riley Zaun. Yet even he was in the dark. The slight tremor in his expression and the way he bit his lip told the story. “Can he truly hold the line in that state?” If the mind wavers, the edge dulls. Had the Patriarch already devised a use for Riley? “Perhaps as a distraction—to unbalance Heskal?” A child raised for years crying out: “Father! Why have you done this!?” Would Heskal hesitate? It was a gamble. Would it even be worth it if Riley turned out to be a sleeper agent for his father? Unlikely. Enkrid walked over to the Patriarch, who remained anchored to the window. “It wasn’t that I was failing. Heskal was masking his true capacity. He was formidable, Father.” The Patriarch gave a slight, wordless nod. His face remained a mask of stone. “Spot anything?” Enkrid asked, taking a position at his side. The Patriarch was monitoring the window because he knew Heskal wasn’t working in a vacuum. He sensed a puppeteer in the shadows and kept his guard up. Others—those with sharp instincts—began to copy the Patriarch’s focus. Some shut their eyes completely, like a smith tempering steel—gathering their inner strength. Alexandra was doing exactly that. Having finished her report to Schmidt, she leaned against the masonry, eyes closed, regulating her pulse. She looked like a naked blade—too sharp for a scabbard—ready to strike at a moment’s notice. “Nothing yet.” The Patriarch’s response was clipped. Enkrid was truly starting to understand the man. “Ignore his moods. Just watch what he does.” Through that perspective, the man was easy to read. It wasn’t that he never used his stoicism to his benefit—he masked his intentions, letting others trip over their own assumptions. He was a strategist at heart. And for a man of his standing, such maneuvering was expected. Seen in this light, Zaun wasn’t just a clan—it was a sovereign state. And the Patriarch? Its sovereign. Heskal was the insurgent. Many, including Lynox, were eavesdropping on the conversation, but Enkrid saw no point in hiding the truth anymore. The people of Zaun weren’t the sort to flee just because the odds were stacked. They needed the truth to fuel their fighting spirit. The Patriarch likely knew this; it was all a matter of orchestration. Perhaps Enkrid could facilitate that. “Where is Odinkar?” “I gave him a reason to stay out of sight.” The instant reply confirmed the Patriarch had already accounted for him. He was beginning to filter the necessary information to the group, clearing away the fog of war. For a real fight, clarity was paramount. Some might have guessed the truth, but others were still reeling from the shock. Heskal’s treachery required a firm hand. “And Magrun?” “He’s in a bad way. I tucked him away with Milezcia. Even I’m not sure of the exact location.” Swooooosh. The downpour had transitioned into a drizzle. The gale, which had threatened to uproot the very landscape, was losing its teeth. Rattle-rattle. The wind still worried at the casements, however. Enkrid returned to the point Lynox had raised earlier. “Why were Jerry, Even, Royst, and Pail the targets?” The answer was what he suspected. “All four were veterans of war.” Heskal was a thinking man. He wouldn’t strike without a purpose. If he moved despite the risk of exposure, it was calculated. They all had history in the legions. Enkrid scanned the room. From the Patriarch and Lynox to Alexandra—the chamber was packed with elite talent. Any one of them could have been a legend on the mainland. Even Riley Zaun—despite the heartbreak of his father’s sins—had a level of skill few could hope to match in a duel. But they lacked the cohesion of a military unit. “Are the hell-spawn involved?” Despite their lack of coordination, they were powerful. There were over five master-level combatants here. Anyone trying to take this room would need a small army. That was the core of his inquiry. “Unknown.” “How can you be unsure?” “I’ve seen the footprints of the one who brought the plague—but our paths have never crossed. I’ve been hunting this ghost for two decades.” “They claim the Hunters’ Village has turned. What’s the primary threat?” “We are pinned down. They’ve turned the perimeter into a death trap.” The Patriarch spoke clearly, ensuring everyone heard. So—they were besieged. The sickness had been a slow-burn for years. And somewhere in the dark, a malevolent caster was orchestrating the end. And the tactical leaders had been surgically removed. Anne continued her work, blending herbs and treating the wounded. But the reality was—everyone was compromised by the blight. Motivation? Once again—it didn’t matter. The warriors of Zaun could feel the noose tightening. That was why the voices started to rise: “Fine—if they want a fight, we’ll give them a massacre, right?” Lynox the Destroyer grinned, showing no fear. He was a man of shifting loyalties, but today—his home was the target. He would not hold back. Most of the survivors echoed that heat. That was the goal of the dialogue—to stoke the furnace. “If they come through that door, they die in pieces.” “Is it finally time for a real war? My blade has been restless for weeks—finally, a reason to use it.” “They laid a hand on Grida? They’re already dead.” No one’s spirit faltered. In the face of ruin, their resolve only hardened. Granted, a few of them were crazy enough to think their steel was talking to them—but at least they weren’t broken. “Knowledge is the ultimate weapon.” Lua Gharne had drummed that into him. Her mind for strategy was superior even to the veterans of the Mad Platoon. Enkrid had inherited that philosophy. In any conflict, intelligence gathering was the highest priority. That was what Enkrid had just accomplished. He knew the enemy’s goal. He knew the internal risks. Now that the board was clear— “Well,” —The situation didn’t seem quite so hopeless anymore.