Chapter Thirteen
Brae whistled as he finished shaping the pack from sturdy green branches, his fingers moving with surprising skill as he secured them with twine and strips of cloth. The tune was light and easy, carrying through the warm afternoon air.
Together they gently settled the confused hound into the makeshift cradle. The dog let out a soft whine, then went still, as though sensing it was safe. Camden lifted the pack and eased it onto Brae’s shoulders, adjusting the straps so the weight rested evenly.
Not long ago, the young man would not have been able to stand without shaking. He had needed Camden’s arm to walk even a short distance. Now he carried another creature with steady strength, his posture firm despite the burden.
They set off down the winding road, sunlight spilling through the trees in dappled gold.
The day was warm and generous, birds calling from the branches above, the breeze carrying the scent of pine and crushed grass.
It was the sort of morning that promised good things, lives unburdened by grief or doubt.
Camden walked as though under a cloud no sun could chase away.
The night before still clung to him, like a chill he couldn’t shake. The feeling of having missed something. The whisper of unease crawled up his spine. Even now, in the open and the light, he glanced over his shoulder, half-expecting to find shadows where none should be.
Camden considered that some men were meant to build lives, to leave laughter echoing in their homes. Others were meant to walk alone, tending wounds, mending what they could, and moving on before their own hearts became something that needed healing.
They were nearing the rise where the archery training grounds came into view when the thunder of hooves broke the stillness. Two riders crested the path ahead, sunlight flashing off mail and leather. Camden recognized his broad-shouldered heavily muscled cousin at once.
Keir, Beitris’ brother, reined in his horse and swung down, urgency written in every sharp line of his face. “I have been searching for ye. There are several injured men at the keep. Our healer requires help.”
Camden’s thoughts leapt instantly to bandages, salves, and the herbs he’d left behind. “What happened?”
Keir’s gaze flicked to Brae, then to the dog slung across his back, his brow furrowing. “Why are ye out here? Do ye nae have someone to gather herbs or such?” He nodded toward them. “What in the name of the fates happened to him, and the hound?”
Camden opened his mouth, but Keir cut him off with an impatient wave. “Never mind. We must hurry.”
A saddled horse was brought forward. Camden mounted, casting one last look at Brae. “Go straight to the apothecary,” he said quietly. “Ensure to continue to give the dog the herbs in water for another day or two. And let Beitris know what’s occurred.”
Brae eyed the horses. “I will.”
As they turned their horses toward the keep, Keir glanced sidelong at him. Before the question could come, Camden spoke.
“Brae was beaten by his own kin. Has been staying with me for almost a sennight,” he said, the bitterness still fresh on his tongue. “We found the dog last night. Injured. Likely attacked by a wild beast.”
Keir grunted, his jaw tightening. Though only four-and-thirty, his cousin carried himself like a man who had seen too many battles and too much blood spilled in the name of clan and duty.
Red hair and beard marked him as Camden’s mirror, so alike they could have been brothers rather than cousins.
Both carved from the same somber stone. Prone to overthinking.
To weigh every choice until the weight of it bowed their shoulders.
The keep lay a couple of hours away at an easy pace, but ease was a luxury they didnae have.
Keir spurred his horse, and Camden followed.
The world blurred into rushing wind and pounding hooves.
The gallop suited him. At that speed, with the burn in his lungs and the thunder in his ears, there was no room for questions.
No space for Keir to ask what he had truly been doing in the forest. And no time for Camden to continue brooding.
*
Camden followed the sound of screams down the stone corridor, the echoes ricocheting off the walls like a wounded animal’s cry. The air grew thick with the metallic tang of blood before he even reached the infirmary.
Inside, chaos reigned.
The healer called Thomas, and three other men were struggling to hold a warrior flat against the narrow bed.
Blood pooled beneath him, seeping across the cold stone floor in dark, creeping rivulets.
His leg, what remained of it, was a mangled ruin of torn flesh and shattered bone.
The cloth wrapped around it was already soaked through, dripping steadily onto the stone floor.
“I will nae allow ye to take my leg!” the man roared, thrashing with desperate strength. “Nooooo!”
Camden shoved past one of the men and planted himself at the bedside. The room seemed to still at his presence. The warrior’s wild, panicked gaze snapped to him, eyes glassy with pain and fear.
Camden set a firm hand on the man’s shoulder, grounding him. He leaned close, lowering his voice until it was meant for the warrior alone.
“Look at me, Rauri,” he murmured. “By the state of yer leg, ye have a choice to make. Not a fair one. Not a kind one. But it must be yers.”
Ruari’s breath came in ragged gasps, his chest heaving as his eyes flicked from Camden to Thomas. The older healer blew out a sharp breath, frustration etched deep into the lines of his face as he glanced at the widening pool of blood on the floor.
“It must be decided now,” Thomas snapped. “Every heartbeat is costing him more blood.”
Camden didn’t break eye contact with Ruari. “Ye can choose to lose yer leg. From the knee down,” he paused, letting the words settle like a blade. “Ye can still ride. Still walk, in time.”
Ruari swallowed hard.
“Or,” Camden continued softly, “ye can choose to die. It will be quick and less painful.” His gaze dropped briefly to the blood slicking the sheets. “All this fighting is draining ye dry.”
Ruari turned his head toward Thomas, searching his face like a man clinging to the last scrap of hope. “What if… What if ye leave it on?”
Thomas didn’t soften the truth. “The flesh is already dead,” he said quietly. “If we do nothing, ye will be gone before the sun sets.”
Something in Ruari broke. His shoulders sagged into the mattress, the fight draining out of him as tears spilled from the corners of his eyes, tracking down into his beard and across his temples. His voice, when it came, was no more than a whisper.
“I dinnae wish to die today.” He swallowed hard. “I have bairns. Three of them. They need me. Somehow… I will find a way to feed them.”
Camden felt the words land like a stone in his chest. He knew Ruari.
A fierce warrior, yes, but also a devoted husband, who brought home scraps of ribbon for his wife, Matilda’s, hair.
A loving father who carried his youngest on his shoulders through the village and carved wooden toys for his children himself.
This time, when the men moved in to hold him steady, Ruari didn’t resist.
A flask of whiskey was brought to his lips, and he took deep, burning gulps until it spilled down his chin. Then he accepted the strip of leather and bit down hard, his jaw tightening, eyes squeezed shut in grim resolve.
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.