Alpheo stepped through the entrance of the large medical tent, the heavy canvas flaps parting before him as he strode inside. The air within was nose-wrenching —stale with the scent of sweat, blood, and damp cloth, mingled with the sharp bite of medicinal herbs. The flickering glow of lanterns cast long shadows against the tent walls, making the place feel smaller, more suffocating.
The moment he entered, a hush fell over the tent. All eyes—dozens of them, sunken with exhaustion, fever, or barely concealed rage—snapped toward his direction. He could feel the weight of their stares, the barely restrained venom in some, the dull, defeated recognition in others. But then, like iron shavings drawn to a lodestone, their gazes slid from him and settled upon Egil, who entered at his side.
